March 6, 2025   6 mins

Ensuring that lawmakers are “on-message” — dutifully singing from the same hymn-sheet in the daily round of briefings and interviews — has long been key to political communications. In the Nineties, when New Labour began its rise to power, MPs were famously issued with vibrating pagers to ensure they were apprised of the current “line” at all times.

In the UK the received wisdom, long after the pager disappeared, remains that success is defined by the clarity and unity of the message. The imminent electoral failure for any party is invariably signalled by the spectacle of MPs and ministers going off on constituency-courting sprees of their own. Yet new incumbents in Downing Street, buoyed by a fresh mandate, still understand coherence as the route to public respect.

Across the Atlantic, however, Donald Trump has now smashed the tried-and-tested delivery system. In its place comes something much more complex, apparently chaotic and instinctively manipulative: the “multi-message”. In place of details he generates “vibes” and his message is spread by a broad cast of actors, only some of whom have formal political roles or are even nominally accountable to the American public.

All the while, unelected figures from Elon Musk to Joe Rogan keep alive a bubbling, rolling dialogue on X and YouTube, setting the tone for the Trumpian take on any given topic, even before the President himself has officially adopted it. Trump himself is adept at sending out multiple signals, often shifting position or contradicting himself. The perpetual uncertainty generated by this approach, accelerated by its rapid delivery on social media, has a destabilising, mesmerising effect on domestic opponents and potential foreign allies alike.

Individual members of Trump’s entourage, particularly Musk, are effectively licensed to crash through all previously accepted boundaries of political protocol and veracity. In January, for instance, the technocrat’s relentless and baseless online attacks on Keir Starmer’s history as director of public prosecutions represented outrageous libels that 10 or even five years ago would have placed the accuser beyond the pale.

“Trump’s entourage crashes through all previously accepted boundaries of political protocol and veracity.”

Musk — despite wild attacks on friendly heads of state, his energetic support of the far-Right AfD in Germany, or even his admission  that “some of the things I say will be incorrect” — remains Trump’s most visible henchman. Yet when the President himself talked about Starmer later that same month, he was warm and emollient. “I get along with him well,” he said.  “I like him a lot. He’s liberal, which is a bit different from me, but I think he’s a very good person and he’s done a very good job so far.” In Trump’s world, such a statement is not at all incompatible with his closest political ally’s false accusation that Starmer is guilty of heinous moral crimes for which he should be literally imprisoned.

Such is the nature of the multi-message, which depends on the unbolting of speech from verifiable truth, and the unapologetic liberation of rhetoric from consistency. In America’s new sphere, with Trump at its heart, the primary function of speech is not to build a shared understanding towards a common purpose but rather to produce an effect. The intended effect of Musk’s attacks, pumped out to millions online, was to smear Starmer’s reputation and weaken his popular support. Meanwhile, Trump’s praise was aimed at peeling Starmer away from potential European allies, while dangling the hope that cultivating a warm personal relationship with the President might protect the UK from economic tariffs. While these two messages might appear contradictory, they have a unified logic: a weakened prime minister, who is nonetheless fighting to defend his country’s interests, is more liable to agree to demands which he might otherwise refuse. This logic of dual effect is why Trump never chided Musk for his intemperate comments.

For adherents of the old post-war politics, the newly fluid, multi-message order is proving disorienting. So too is its orchestration and staging. Take, for instance, the recent, acrimonious Oval Office meeting between Volodymyr Zelensky, Trump and his Vice President JD Vance. Despite what some more credulous observers may have believed, it was clearly very far from a spontaneous personality clash which erupted out of nowhere.

For months beforehand, Musk and Donald Trump Jr had laid the groundwork by assiduously promoting contempt for Zelensky online, sharing memes which mocked and belittled him. They presented him as a chancer and supplicant, the Home Alone 2 kid intent on fleecing Trump and the US taxpayer for the defence of a corrupt administration. On his podcast last November, Rogan expressed his furious impatience over Ukraine’s resistance to a Russian invasion. “Fuck you people!” he cried. “You people are about to start World War Three!” Earlier this year, meanwhile, Trump dubbed Zelensky “a dictator without elections” on Truth Social (despite the practical impossibility of holding elections in the midst of war) and suggested that Kyiv “never should have started it” (despite Russia being the invader).

A few days later, though, General Keith Kellogg, Trump’s envoy in Ukraine, met Zelensky and praised him as “the embattled and courageous leader of a nation at war” — something which may have reflected Kellogg’s genuine opinion, but also offered worried European leaders a strand of reassurance. At the same time, Musk called Zelensky “a fraud machine feeding off dead bodies of soldiers”. Yet when Trump was asked about calling Zelensky a “dictator” during Keir Starmer’s visit to the White House, he dissimulated. “Did I say that?” he asked aloud. “I can’t believe I said that.” The head-spinning, multi-message mechanism for smear, distraction and disinformation was in full swing.

It’s in this context that we come to Trump’s infamous meeting with Zelensky at the White House. It was purportedly arranged to sign a deal with Trump for the extraction of Ukrainian minerals — though, as yet, without any assurances of US protection if Putin reinvaded after a ceasefire. The descent into wider ill humour was triggered by a question over sartorial etiquette. “Why don’t you wear a suit?” one reporter suddenly asked Zelensky. “Do you own a suit?”

This strange interjection can be understood by who that journalist was. Brian Glenn works for the “Real America’s Voice” cable network, and is the partner of the far-Right Republican Congresswoman Marjorie Taylor Greene. He was a recent addition to the White House press pool after Trump banned the Associated Press, took over control of access from the White House Correspondents’ Association, and hand-picked a number of supportive outlets from outside “legacy media”. It is frankly inconceivable that Glenn would ask such an aggressive question of a foreign dignitary without prior sanction from the very top, a suspicion intensified by the wink which Trump aimed at the reporter after his question.

As JD Vance escalated the argument, accusing Zelensky of disrespect and ingratitude, Trump weighed in with the same language as Rogan: “You’re gambling with World War Three!” The US president’s subsequent remark — “this is going to be great television” — was a pat on the back for his own orchestrated reality, casting a dignified Zelensky, attempting in a second language to correct untruths, in the role of a grifting ingrate. But a staged row, followed by a peremptory dismissal, is territory in which Trump feels comfortable: his long-running role in The Apprentice was his bridge to his first successful run at the presidency.

There’s another parallel, too, with the way in which the Trump administration advances its aims: the coercive control of the domestic abuser. Such people are masters of the shifting multi-message: first charming, then cruel; gaslighting, insulting and complimenting; denying things they said, and keeping the more vulnerable person invested with promises of a future together, while chipping away at their external friendships and sense of self. This is not a comparison that should offend the administration, since members of Trump’s circle apparently helped facilitate the flight to the US from Romania of the misogynist online influencer Andrew Tate, who has often boasted about pimping and abusing women, and is being investigated in the UK for rape and human trafficking. The action has sparked outrage from the Republican governor of Florida, where Tate arrived.

An idea common to many victims of abuse, at least for a time, is that if you only play the abusers’ tightening game very carefully, you will be all right where others aren’t. Keep smiling, give him all the things he likes, speak softly, don’t wind him up. Something of this can be spotted in commentary about Zelensky: he should have humoured Trump and Vance, critics say, instead of trying to correct their false assertions. But to argue this is to miss the point. Starmer’s visit went well largely because the Trump team wanted it to, and Zelensky’s imploded for the same reason.

The supposed offence given by Zelensky will be used as an excuse to further sideline Ukraine from a future US-Russia deal. Trump’s performative exasperation — “America will not put up with it for much longer!” — has already been used to suspend US military arms to Ukraine, and to press Zelensky into a minerals deal without a security guarantee. It should not go unnoticed that Musk’s new demand is that the US should leave Nato.

There is a warning here for Britain. It is time to wake up from the last woozy traces of anaesthetic concerning the historic “special relationship” with a clear-eyed understanding of the malign profundity of the change in Washington. Even as the UK’s survival strategy is under construction, it really needs to start reading the multi-message.


Jenny McCartney is a journalist, commentator and author of the novel The Ghost Factory.

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