You could see it coming about a thousand miles off and yet, when it finally landed, it kept me thoroughly entertained for days. Trump v Musk.
The Bropocalypse! Their late-stage-capitalism buddy movie has turned from goofy comedy into a cautionary tale about men and their egos.
We are now deep into the Mutually Assured Megalomaniacs phase of their relationship.
The feud between Elon Musk and President Donald Trump had been bubbling away, but things truly blew up after Trump withdrew Jared Isaacman’s nomination to head NASA. Isaacman, an astronaut, entrepreneur and close Musk ally, had been a dream pick for Elon and SpaceX. But once Trump learned Isaacman had donated to Democrats in the past, the nomination was binned. That’s when Elon lost the run of himself on X. Trump responded on Truth Social, his ironically-titled safe space for late night presidential drivel. I had the popcorn out at that point.
And then it got spicy. There’s now open speculation that Musk, who arrived in the US in the 1990s on a student visa, allegedly may not have followed all the rules to the letter. The MAGA whisper machine has started to hint, somewhat gleefully, that if Trump really does go full tilt with immigration crackdowns, Musk himself could technically be vulnerable.
Can you imagine it? Elon Musk, creator of the Cybertruck, being frog-marched out of the country by ICE while live-streaming the whole thing on his private social network. The irony would be so dense it might collapse into a black hole of pure schadenfreude.
Meanwhile in Ireland, the fallout of Musk-fatigue is starting to show. Tesla sales fell by 82% last month compared to the same time last year. According to reports, Irish drivers have jumped ship to Chinese EV brands. Nobody seems to be asking how any of those cars are made, by the way, or why they’re so cheap. But at least they’re not Teslas.
As for Trump, he welcomed the LA riots this week like a man delighted to change the subject. We move on to the next crisis, the next breach of norms, the next exhausted sigh from the rest of us. It would be amusing if it weren’t so completely real. But when the whole world, including myself, is fixated on a bro-spat between two supercharged egos, you start to realise that - one way or another - they’re winning.
Goose may be cooked
While Elon and Don were re-enacting Succession on ketamine, Ireland was staging its own piece of economic theatre. The May tax receipts landed like another flood of good fortune. Exchequer returns showed tax receipts to the end of May were up by €3 billion (8.5%) on the same period last year.
The numbers seemed to hum with that familiar Celtic Tiger-style glow but dig a little deeper, and the story becomes more slippery. Corporation tax was actually down, hinting that the golden goose may be growing a little tired. It marked a decrease of €1.1 billion (30.2%) on the same month last year.
These figures tend to bounce around so much that it’s tempting to just brush them off. And I know my eyes glaze over at the very mention of them. But it’s certainly a cause for concern.
Ireland’s economic model has always been part miracle, part cute hoorism. Presumably the same smart people who were out in front and changing the fortunes of this country with very, very savvy policies around tax are now getting ahead of this one too. Because nobody wants another 2008.
Cork rebel resurrection
And so, to the hurling, where Cork performed an act of pure magic last weekend, which I mean in the David Copperfield sense of the word.
The Rebels won their first Munster hurling title since 2018 in a match that featured more resurrections than the Bible. We were dead. Then alive.
Then very dead. Then somehow alive again. Then, when the penalties started, we looked like we were done finally. But somehow, somehow, we overcame it all and stopped a brilliant Limerick team in their tracks. It was like watching Mike Myers from the Halloween films wielding a hurley and refusing to die, no matter how many digs he took.
Ciarán Joyce was immense. Patrick Horgan hurled like a man possessed. And the subs when they came on played like they had been waiting for the whole year to show their stuff. Every time Limerick tried to land a knockout punch, Cork staggered, spat blood, and came roaring back. We should count ourselves lucky we’ve got such skill, passion and drama on tap every summer from the men and women of our national sport.
The only down side is that the Limerick team isn’t dead yet. There will be plenty of near-deaths and resurrections to come over the summer, I’ll bet.
Anyone any sniff of a ticket for the semi?
