There's a spectre hanging over the world; the spectre of a terrible hairstyle.
Every populist and demagogue worth getting to sign your copy of Mein Kampf has a cloud of vanilla candy floss all up on their skulls.
Maybe they all go to the same demonic barber. Or maybe they all ask their barber for the same thing: please kill an entire family of ferrets, skin them, bleach their furs, and staple the dead rugs to my head. Oh, and a little off the sides too, please.
Donald Trump, Geert Wilders, Julian Assange, and Milo Yiannopoulos are like the Four Horsemen of the Hairpocalypse.
If this is what the future looks like – legions of smug men parading around with custard coiffures – then come friendly alopecia above my brow, it isn't fit for hairstyles now.
Can it be too long before Nigel Farage cracks open a fresh bottle of peroxide and a can of Wella mousse?