Jozef Imrich, name worthy of Kafka, has his finger on the pulse of any irony of interest and shares his findings to keep you in-the-know with the savviest trend setters and infomaniacs.
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Pauline Hanson has been somewhat slow, or forgetful, in declaring the flights she has taken in the private jet belonging to Australia’s richest woman, billionaire Gina Rinehart.
In February, when Hanson was asked by reporters if she had received any free Gina-funded flights to travel to an event in Geelong, she said she couldn’t remember. That afternoon, her memory sparked, she updated her register of interests to include a Melbourne-Sydney flight on Rinehart’s dime. (Several other flights gifted by the billionaire have been declared outside the Senate’s 35-day period for disclosures.)
The uber-rich, such as Elon Musk and Gina Rinehart, can use their billions – and aircrafts – to cosy up to politicians. MONIQUE WESTERMANN
When asked about the free flights, Hanson tetchily points out that she is taking pressure off the taxpayer by having her flights paid for privately. It must require a high tolerance for cognitive dissonance – to found a movement on taking the fight to the elites, while simultaneously taking flights from elites. But like all populist movements, One Nation needs to stay within calling distance of wealthy donors.
The Trump administration has woven billionaire donors and backers into the fabric of its administration like never before in history.
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The major donor to Reform UK, the Nigel Farage vanity-vehicle that Hanson hopes to emulate, is Christopher Harborne, a Thailand-based British billionaire and cryptocurrency investor. Farage has promised that his party would turn the UK into a cryptocurrency hub, slashing capital gains tax on it. Harborne says he has not asked for anything in return for his donations.
Suddenly, the world seems to be teeming with the ultra-rich, from those who project wealth on social media, to the tech-bro billionaires who actually make wealth through social media, to the brief-but-catastrophic intrusion of Elon Musk, the world’s richest man, into the US government. And then there is, in popular culture, television shows like Succession and the new JFK Junior/Carolyn Bessette-veneration vehicle, Love Story, which throws fame on the bonfire of family money.
But it is the shudder- and rage-inducing Epstein files that offer the best possible (by which I mean the bleakest possible) illustration of the moral hazard of extreme wealth. Priapic cruelty and wealth-enabled predation were not just features of Epstein’s lifestyle, they were its defining traits.
All the people, chiefly powerful men, named in the Epstein files were drawn into his web through a system of grace-and-favour that was fundamentally transactional. Epstein offered the trappings and ineffable glamour of extreme wealth. He offered houses, rich dinners, entry into exclusive private schools and colleges, trips to his private island, yachts, luxury stays in houses abroad, and access to other powerful people. In return, he required their silence, or, as it is better termed in the world of the ultrawealthy, discretion. It was granted.
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The idea that the people who visited his house or partied on his island walked away unaware of the fundamental exploitative cruelty of his lifestyle (let alone its illegality), is thoroughly implausible.
High-powered web of grace and favour: Jeffrey Epstein with Ghislaine Maxwell.AP
Of course, not all the ultra-wealthy are paedophile pals or brats. In fact, scratch a little deeper, and you might end up feeling sorry for the private-jet set.
Its author interviewed high-net-worth individuals about how their mindsets were changed by their money. As you would expect, there is a divergence between people who made their own money, and those who inherited it (the “lucky sperm club”, as per self-made billionaire Warren Buffett).
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The latter are more likely to struggle with feelings of low self-worth and a lack of internal drive that has them drifting between jobs.
Gerry Harvey and wife Katie Page arrive at Lachlan Murdoch’s annual Christmas party last year.OSCAR COLMAN
The self-made centimillionaires and billionaires are confident they could make all the money again if they lost it. And they are paranoid about losing it.
In 2011, Australian rich-lister Gerry Harvey told TheAustralian Financial Review he has a deep terror of losing his money and having to rely on handouts like his parents did (his dad lost all his money and both parents ended up on the pension).
He also was terrified his wife would leave him. “My secret fear is that [my wife] will leave me when I get really old,” he told the Financial Review. “When I’ve got dementia, and I’m dribbling, she’ll put me in a home and the kids will say: ‘We don’t have to visit him again, do we?’”
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The super-wealthy who spoke to New YorkMagazine highlighted the isolation their money can bring; how it cuts them off from us “normies”, who cannot sympathise with their problems.
If you do continue to hang out with normal (or less rich) people, there is the restaurant bill problem – when it is set down on the table after a meal with friends of lesser means, should you split it, or pay it? If you pay, your pals might think you’re trying to be a big shot, but if you don’t, you might look cheap.
If you’re a sensitive person who doesn’t want other people to feel indebted to you, you start to worry that your friends only hang out with you because you pay. In the case of many ultra-wealthy, this must be often true.
The comfort that wealth brings also serves to cut you off from others.
“When you get a bigger house, your neighbours are further away. In a nice hotel, the people that service you are going to be more polite and less personal,” said one European entrepreneur. “And you don’t meet anyone in a private jet.”
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The wealthy also discussed the problem of hedonic adaptation – where the fancy purchases and experiences that once gave you pleasure lose their allure on repetition.
In 2011, Boston College’s Centre on Wealth and Philanthropy released a study of the super-rich (quaintly, back then, that meant anyone with $25 million or more). The survey respondents worried their children would become brats, but struggled to impose any normal values on them.
Robert A. Kenny, a psychologist who helped design the study, ended up feeling quite sorry for some of its respondents, who, he said, were just as likely as the rest of us to be good people searching for meaning.
Speaking to The Atlantic about the study, he said that “sometimes I think that the only people in this country who worry more about money than the poor are the very wealthy”.
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Kenny’s observations of the super-wealthy forced him to conclude that wealth “isn’t always worthy of envy” and was not worth sacrificing your life to attain.
Along with the moral hazard of ultra-wealth, comes the moral hazard of envying or resenting ultra-wealth, which, ironically, is the basic instinct that energises the populist parties that seem to love billionaires so much.
It’s worth reminding ourselves of that, even as we suffer in cattle class and take our budget holidays, safe in the knowledge that, happily, no one loves us for our money.
For a few glorious months, Alex Bilmes was a tall person. Then it all came crashing down
What’s in an inch? Last June, on assignment for this magazine at a health clinic by the shores of Lake Geneva, I had my height measured: “183 centimetres,” the nurse murmured to herself as she noted it down. “What’s that in feet and inches?” I asked, bending to slip my trainers back on. She tapped my question into her phone. “Six feet exactly,” she said. As I ascended to my full height – now medically certified as “impressive” – I fancy I glowed a little with unearned pride. Six feet exactly!
This was welcome news indeed. Because until that precise moment, for all my adult life I’d thought I was just under6ft tall. Specifically, an inch under. And, as such, like my fellow 5ft 11in titches Brad Pitt and David Beckham, I was, or believed myself to be, tantalisingly short of what is generally acknowledged as the desirable starting height for a man of my age, nationality, ethnicity.
That word “short”, here, means “less than” – literally and figuratively. If there is a status attached to height – and there is – then 5ft 11in doesn’t quite measure up. Six foot is manly, commanding. Five-11 is acceptable, unremarkable. But a near-miss. It’s the upper end of almost. It’s the missing inch that might as well be a foot.
But what did I care about that now? A qualified healthcare professional at a renowned facility had measured me, and 183cm was the height she had recorded. It was there in my medical file, and subsequently it was printed in the Financial Times – a newspaper with a head for figures. It was official. I was 6ft. By no means a giant. But on another level from those short-arse losers Brad and Becks.
“Wait till I tell Oscar,” I thought – Oscar being my son, and also (unsurprisingly) his mother’s son, and since she comes from a family of unreasonably tall people, a beanpole well on his way, at the age of 13, to overtaking his old man, and not afraid to point this out with wearying frequency. So what if he will soon tower over me, the lanky git? I’m 6ft. Any taller than that is showing off.
Six months after my encounter with the Swiss nurse – an Edenic interlude, I now realise – in January of this year, I was measured again, also for HTSI, at another clinic, this one in Mayfair: “181 centimetres,” said the nurse. “What’s that in feet and inches?” I asked, although I think I already knew. “Five-11,” she said, and I shrank a little – literally, figuratively, statistically. My six months as a six-footer had been snatched from me. I’d been reduced, belittled, taken down a peg. On no account, I decided, must Oscar find out.
Most men reach full height between the ages of 16 and 18; women around 14 or 15. The average height for men worldwide is around 5ft 7.5in (Elton John). For women it’s around 5ft 3in (Drew Barrymore). In the UK and the US, the average height for a man is around 175cm or 5ft 9in (Johnny Depp), and for a woman, 163cm or just under 5ft 4in (Madonna). Dutch men are the tallest at 6ft (Tom Hanks). Central American and south-east Asian men are the shortest, at around 5ft 4in (Michael J Fox).
My source for all these famous feet and inches is celebheights.com – a site unknown to me until I started researching this piece, but now I can’t imagine how I lived without it. Because size matters. Perhaps it shouldn’t but it does, and anyone who suggests this is not the case is deluded – or, you know, short.
Size matters for women too. But possibly in slightly different ways. All short people are at times overlooked, again literally and figuratively. But while smallness can be a source of shame for a man – find me a man who wants to be referred to as “petite” – it’s perhaps less defining for women. Very short men can be funny, or angry, or energetic, or all three, but less often are they seen as sex symbols. (The priapic pop genius Prince, at 5ft 2in, is the obvious exception here.)
If a famous man is short, he’s famously short. If a famous woman is short, that is a minor detail. No one claims that the singer Sabrina Carpenter (4ft 11in) or climate activist Greta Thunberg (4ft 10.5in) or gymnast Simone Biles (4ft 8in) were motivated to succeed principally by the desire to overcome a height disadvantage. Which is not the case with Tom Cruise (5ft 7in), Bono (5ft 6in) or Mark Zuckerberg (5ft 7in).
“It was the short men that caused all the trouble in the world,” wrote Ian Fleming – who was 6ft, the same height as his creation James Bond, the enduring symbol of swaggering masculine potency. Fleming’s is the familiar sizeist line on short men, that they overcompensate by being aggressive, domineering – even psychotic. Napoleon Bonaparte is the totemic sufferer of Short Man Syndrome. He gives his name to an alternative name for the condition: the Napoleon complex. The only undermining factor here is that the bellicose Corsican wasn’t short. He was 5ft 6in, which was well above the average height for the time.
Megalomaniacs come in all shapes and sizes. For every Putin (disputed, but 5ft 7in), there’s a Saddam Hussein (6ft 2in), and for every Stalin (5ft 5in), there’s a Gaddafi (6ft). Hitler, at 5ft 8in, was neither especially tall nor short. Of his enemies, Churchill, at 5ft 6in, was on the smaller side, but de Gaulle, at 6ft 5in, was énorme. At military school he was known as the Great Asparagus. What do we learn from this? Not sure. Except the French could try harder at nicknames.
In recent years, the idea that power-craziness arises from a position close to the ground has been conclusively disproven by the incumbent American president – who is 6ft 3in according to him, and 6ft 2in according to everyone else, including the unimpeachable (I use the word advisedly) celebheights.com. Imagine falsely inflating your height by an inch! Surely only a stinker like Trump would even conceive of such low-down skullduggery?
Given the evidence, why do we persist in assigning positive associations to the tall and negative to the small? Why was I so pleased to be 6ft tall and then so crestfallen to discover that, actually, I’m not? Does it all, ultimately, come down to sex appeal? (I can answer that: yes.)
Small consolation (very small) for the vertically challenged: while the science is not conclusive, numerous studies suggest that short people live longer. In 1992, a World Health Organisation investigation indicated that men of 5ft 7in or shorter lived about 7.46 years longer than those of 6ft or taller. Which gives them even more time to shrink further.
One of the indignities of ageing – the subject of the story that took me to Switzerland, and my inaccurate measurement, in the first place – is that in most cases the older we get, the shorter we become. And while it’s unlikely that last summer, at age 52, I was 6ft tall, and now, at 53, the decrepitude is kicking in and I have already shrunk by 2cm, the fact is that at some point, most likely in my 70s, if I’m lucky enough to live that long, I might be a diddy 5ft 9in (Slash). Or even 5ft 8in (Keir Starmer). I don’t imagine I’ll mind too much by then. After all, unlike those half-pints, I’ll always have those six months in 2025 when I was 6ft tall – and a copy of HTSI to hand to prove it.
The former PwC and Carlton chief has been a victim of cosmic coincidence.
Mark Di
Mar 29, 2026
A lesser remarked fact about the nation’s most infamous cock shot is that it was directed at someone.
The junk mail was posted to then-Carlton president Luke Sayers′ social media account last year and tagged a blonde female executive from Bupa. It wasn’t a stray dick-on-the-timeline. It was an alert for a senior employee who worked for one of the AFL club’s commercial sponsors.
Sayers waiting for an Uber in Melbourne.
Last Thursday afternoon, the former PwC chief executive was seen by one of our spies in Melbourne’s CBD. It is not unusual for him to be wandering around the city he once lorded over, but he was caught looking like a stunned mullet outside the corporate offices of Bupa.
And sure, there are a multitude of reasons Sayers could be there during daylight hours. Perhaps an in-person apology to the woman who was cyber-flashed? The office building is also the Melbourne base for Scyne, the struggling consultancy firm that is the life raft for the consultants whose careers were ruined by the PwC’s tax leaks scandal. Maybe a double in-person apology?
Or maybe Sayers getting clocked outside Bupa is just one of those unfortunate cosmic things. Like seeing OJ Simpson glove shopping. Or Andrew Mountbatten-Windsor picking out an antiperspirant deodorant. Suss? Oh sure.
Apparently, he was there waiting for an Uber.
Sayers Special
A day after the Yarra walk the lawyers for Sayers’ estranged wife, Cate, were back in the Federal Court. Cate’s defamation suit against Luke continues to reach into some uncomfortable places. Like Luke’s defence that his wife took the selfie of his member a decade earlier for “medical reasons”, as revealed by this column. Cate’s lawyers say she didn’t take the photo and have asked for proof that Luke ever sent it to a medical practitioner.
But if this thing keeps rolling, Luke’s reputation isn’t the only matter on trial. It’ll be a millstone around some very weak necks at the AFL. That the game’s integrity investigation would take Luke’s statutory declaration pinning it on his wife, alleging she was certifiably nuts (with drive-by accusations involving medical and sexual history), and then close the case continues to beggar belief.
Because when an AFL player slings a homophobic remark, or some antisemitic furore erupts, the AFL suddenly goes Benoit Blanc-mode. The next 20-something who gets caught adjacent to a plate of white powder should ask the integrity unit for the Sayers special. They can even talk to the game’s new head of corporate affairs, Sharon McCrohan, on how to get it.
It seems like the game’s administration lost its investigative rigour at the exact moment one of their own was caught with their pants down. Imagine these footy brains talking to each other: well, poor Luke, he’s resigned; not sitting with us during finals, that is indignity enough. Not that the Blues ever play them.
The last line of Cate’s recent legal filing said the lawyers aim to submit more material to the court after discovery and subpoenas. How has this thing not settled yet?
Arnold Bloch Liebler partner and Sayers’ lawyer Leon Zwier’s office is only one tram stop down from Bupa’s HQ. Another reason he could have been spotted in the vicinity.
The Ukrainian director’s ‘Two Prosecutors’ depicts a 1937 fight for justice but, he says, its relevance to today is all too clear
Sergei Loznitsa’s new film Two Prosecutors took him only a month to write, he says, but two years to finance. “People asked me, ‘Why do you want to make a film about Stalinist times? That’s far back in the past, it’s no longer interesting.’” The Ukrainian director gives a little ironic chuckle at the thought of financiers not getting why a film about social control and the repression of truth would be relevant today — not just in a Russian but in a global context.
In 2018, Loznitsa made a documentary, The Trial, using archive footage from the USSR’s 1930s show trials — propaganda spectacles that saw countless defendants, invariably devoted Communist party members, eagerly accusing themselves of imaginary crimes against the nation. Now Two Prosecutors gives a fictional account of the state machinery behind such confessions. Set in 1937, it follows Kornyev, an idealistic young state prosecutor who meets a prisoner who’s lodged a complaint against his detention; believing the man has been the victim of counter-revolutionary forces, Kornyev takes the case to the higher authorities, whose justice and wisdom he utterly believes in. It proves a reckless decision.
On a visit to London, speaking in Russian via an interpreter, Loznitsa, 61, explains the background to his film. Two Prosecutors is based on a story written in 1969 by Georgi Demidov, a Russian physicist who was arrested in Kharkiv in 1938 and spent 14 years as a prisoner in the gulag system. “Demidov’s daughter obtained these manuscripts from the KGB archives in the early 1990s, and she had great difficulty getting them,” Loznitsa says. “I’m convinced that those archives contain many, many great works of literature that we have no idea about. And I’m sure they have a film archive as well, containing amazing stuff that we can’t get our hands on.”
Alexander Kuznetsov as Kornyev in ‘Two Prosecutors’
He explains what drew him to Demidov. “The reason why I chose him, rather than other authors that wrote about their experience of the gulag, is that he actually tried to construct a model — to describe the whole repressive system. His three stories about the year 1937 [including ‘Two Prosecutors’] contain descriptions of the mistakes people made that led to them ending up in the gulag.”
By “mistakes”, Loznitsa means not real transgressions against the state, but the unconscious errors involved in crossing some intangible line that they could never have suspected was there. “The greatest mistake people made,” he says, “was believing that the Soviet system was correct and just. Most people who knew they had committed no crime were convinced that they had been arrested by mistake and would be freed after a few days. They never expected that they would be beaten and tortured, that prosecutors would demand confessions. They had no idea what country they were living in.”
The merciless realism of Two Prosecutors comes partly from the fact that much of it was shot in the claustrophobic confines of a real prison in Riga, Latvia — built in 1905 and only shut down earlier this century for not meeting present-day humanitarian standards. The idea of the prison as a maze — one not bounded by its literal walls, but extending throughout Russian society — is a familiar Loznitsa theme. He previously explored it in 2017’s A Gentle Creature, about a woman in present-day Russia trying to visit her interned husband and finding that a prison actually begins well outside its gates.
Loznitsa has a theory about the legacy of the Stalin era. “Millions of people passed through the gulag system and emerged knowing criminal laws, the criminal lexicon and criminal behaviour. So prison culture extended to the whole of society. Nowadays Russia is a country dominated by the culture of criminals.”
Is that an accidental effect of history, or does Loznitsa see such a “criminalising” of society as something used by the state as a means of control? Absolutely the latter, he says. “It is the simplest form of social control, but also the least efficient in terms of people’s wellbeing. Look what it led to. Such a society is not able to create anything, to build anything that is complex. This enormous country that used to be able to build rockets and Sputniks is not able to build a normal plane.”
From the start of this century, Loznitsa has been an exhaustive investigator of Russian and Soviet history, and the 20th century more broadly. His five fiction films include the haunting second world war drama In the Fog(2012) and Donbass (2018), an abrasive, panoramic black comedy about the conflicts preceding Putin’s full-scale assault on Ukraine. He is also an indefatigable documentarist, whether filming events himself (Maidan, on the Kyiv protests of 2013-14) or in complex assemblages of archive footage, including accounts of the Allied bombing of Germany and the Babi Yar massacre of 1941. He is currently making another archive film, a picture of the early 1970s Soviet Union, from material shot at the time by Italian filmmakers. “The archive called me and said, ‘Sergei, we only know one person who could make a film from 65 hours of Super-16 footage.’”
Born in Belarus in 1964 but raised in Kyiv, Loznitsa studied mathematics and engineering, then worked as a scientist in cybernetics before he turned to film. From his youth in the Soviet era, he remembers growing up in an atmosphere of cautious folk wisdom, and people telling him, “‘If you know a lot, you will become an old person very soon.’ I understand that the adults who knew where they were living were protecting me from too much knowledge.”
Those people certainly did not impede Loznitsa’s acquisition of learning. At moments, our interview has touches of the seminar, as he discourses on the early days of the Bolsheviks, or cites assorted historians, neuroscientists and zoologists. When I ask about the brilliant lead of Two Prosecutors, Alexander Kuznetsov, he quotes Dostoevsky. The young Crimean-born actor is known for playing action-man or tearaway roles, notably in the Russian black comedy hit Why Don’t You Just Die!What made Loznitsa think of casting him as a gentle, thoughtful, serious-minded innocent? He replies by slightly altering a line from The Brothers Karamazov: “‘The Russian man is very broad. It wouldn’t hurt to narrow him down a bit.’” He laughs. “So I narrowed him down. It’s a fantastic performance.”
These days based in Berlin and Vilnius, Loznitsa has been a controversial figure in Ukraine since the invasion began. The Ukrainian Film Academy expelled him in part for opposing a boycott of Russian films; he argued that would silence filmmakers opposed to Putin. He has not been in Ukraine since 2021: he explains that, as a holder of a Ukrainian passport, he would not be allowed to leave the country if he entered.
His films sometimes contain material that might not be popular with Ukrainian viewers. In 2024, he made The Invasion, a documentary depicting everyday life in that country since the start of the war (by necessity, filmed in his absence). It contains a sequence showing the pulping of books in the Russian language, Dostoevsky included; there is no overt commentary, but the sequence is implicitly critical of such actions. The film, he notes, has never been shown in Ukraine. “I’m not the person they want to see on the front of their newspaper.” But, he adds, “I don’t have any issues with Ukrainian actors or filmmakers.”
Loznitsa’s public pronouncements, in interviews and lectures, have tended to be pessimistic, but he still believes in the possibility of culture making a difference to the state of the world. “Culture always works to subdue aggression. I believe that the current war can be stopped. But our consciousness always lags behind — we only understand things with hindsight.”
‘Two Prosecutors’ is in UK cinemas from March 27
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