There’s a peculiar affliction that’s gripped the Western commentariat for decades now. I first diagnosed it in June 2015 and gave it a name: Russophrenia. The tell-tale sign? That deep-set conviction that Russia’s about to keel over economically—then somehow rise from the wreckage to take Brussels by breakfast. In those ten years, the condition’s only become more widespread—like a political variant of Covid, except there’s no PCR tests, and the worst sufferers have column inches....






















