A Letts Journal Christmas Carol
As Christmas Eve approaches, Letts Journal materialises as a spectral figure with half-human, half-binder form. Its mission: to save civilisation by ending human rights in a “legally compliant way".
It’s Christmas Eve. The trains are “running a reduced service” (read: good luck with that one), your family WhatsApp is melting down over Dad’s vegan roast, and your phone is glowing like a radioactive yule log.
You’re doomscrolling. Not by choice - the Attention Economy owns your frontal lobe and doesn’t accept “boundaries” as payment. Some product manager decided your thumb should never know peace.
Then your screen flickers. Not dying, opening a portal .
THE LETTS JOURNAL: Tonight, three ghosts. Unpaid, obviously.
GHOST ONE: CHRISTMAS POLICY
A figure materialises - half human, half three-ring binder, fully convinced sub-clauses can save civilisation.
“Hello! I’m here to defeat the far-right by gently ending human rights in a legally compliant way.”
You blink. “Are you... Keir Starmer?”
“No. I’m his vibe . Head Prefect of Earnest Managerialism.” It adjusts its lanyard. “When everything’s burning - migration, geopolitics, disinformation - what people really crave is immaculate paperwork.”
Behind it, Europe hunches in its trademark diplomatic crouch while Washington either ignores it or kicks over its sandcastle for sport.
GHOST TWO: CHRISTMAS BUDGET
She arrives wearing a Treasury briefcase and the expression of someone stopping the markets from combusting.
“Welcome to the Great National Wallet Inspection.”
Your bank account appears on screen. It looks like a damp crisp.
“Stealth taxes. Frozen thresholds. Temporary measures lasting until the sun dies.” She flips through spreadsheets like a magician palming knives. Behind her, two figures stumble into frame: one ageing school bully, one well-meaning nerd trying to look cool - both somehow running the country.
“Why does Britain always feel like Year 4 with an inside joke?”
She shrugs. “Because the theatre is absurd and the numbers are grim. Now, shall we distract you with something shiny?”
Your screen pings: LIMITED EDITION COMBO DROP - one gold smartphone that doesn’t turn on, one Middle East war that won’t stop, customer experience TBD.
GHOST THREE: CHRISTMAS CONTENT
It wears gaudy gold casing like armour. “I bring you 2025’s greatest hits: wars as headlines, headlines as merch, merch as identity. Circle of life with affiliate links.”
The montage accelerates:
Gen Z stampeding for dinner at 5:45 PM, power-eating burrata before their 8 PM skincare routine
The world’s loudest grifters snorting engagement like oxygen (eyeballs = dollars, your attention = their leverage)
A corporate cemetery where mega-mergers died, and Wall Street, having destroyed $300 billion in value, suggests another merger anyway, because optimism and amnesia are basically the same drug
You feel that familiar cocktail: laughter, dread, and the urge to throw your phone in the Thames.
“Is this what 2025 was?”
The ghost smiles. “Oh honey. That was just foreplay.”
THE FUTURE
A door appears: SURVIVING: ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK
Inside, five people sit around a table. That’s the whole company.
“Welcome. We’re not a fantasy unicorn. We’re basically a dinner party with revenue.”
A whiteboard reads: FTB SCORE: FULL-TIME BOT EQUIVALENCY. GOAL: MASSIVE BUSINESS, TINY TEAM.
In the corner, a VC in Patagonia sobs. “He’s adjusting to the end of the venture capital lunch,” someone explains. “All dashboards now. No more handshakes and legendary expensive salads.”
You watch the bots work - fast, tireless, unbothered by existential questions. The logic is intoxicating: Why be slow? Why be messy? Why be human when you can be optimised?
Your phone buzzes gently, like a conscience with push notifications.
Reminder: the people yelling “STOP” are often still building the thing.
“So what’s the point?”
The founders look at each other. One says quietly: “We can build anything now . Question is whether we build things that make life better... or just make the machine hungrier.
Does that get us rich quicker?”
THE MESSAGE
The ghosts reappear, suddenly serious, the way satire gets when it’s trying to save you without sounding like HR.
Ghost of Policy: “Europe doesn’t need permission slips. It needs a spine.”
Ghost of Budget: “Britain doesn’t need distractions. It needs adults, in values, not just spreadsheets.”
Ghost of Content holds up your phone like a mirror: “You don’t need another hit of outrage. You need your life back.”
“So what’s the Christmas message?”
They lean in, conspiratorial:
This Christmas, be inconveniently human.
Give your attention to people who can’t be monetised. Give your time to things that don’t scale. Say what you mean without corporate euphemisms. Laugh at the absurdity - but don’t let it win.
And if you’re going to worship anything, don’t make it the algorithm, the stock chart, the charismatic bully, the earnest prefect, or the gold phone that doesn’t work.
Make it something radical: Decency. Courage. A spine: One Letts Journal article at a time...
Your phone dims. The room warms.
One last notification:
THE LETTS JOURNAL: Merry Christmas. Keep it short, sharp, and kind. And if the world offers you a “Santa rally” made of Bitcoin and nonsense... at least have the dignity to giggle a bit first.
You put the phone down. Not forever - you’re not a monk, it’s 2025 - but long enough to breathe and remember:
The greatest act of rebellion in the Attention Economy is choosing what you care about.
Now pass the weird vegan roast. Dad tried.
Keep up to date with The Letts Journal’s latest news stories and posts at our website and on twitter.