I am a member of the Norwegian Nobel Committee. There are five of us. Five people, appointed by a parliament most of the planet could not find on a map, who decide, once a year, which human being the world has agreed to call good. I know. I know. I think about it on the tram. We meet in a building on Henrik Ibsens gate, a street named after a man who wrote almost exclusively about people discovering they are frauds, which nobody on the committee finds funny except me. There is a room with a long table and the portraits of the dead laureates looking down, Mandela, the Dalai Lama, a great many earnest men in spectacles, and one portrait we do not discuss, which is Kissinger, 1973, awarded while the bombs were still falling, after which two of our predecessors resigned and the satirist Tom Lehrer said political satire was now obsolete. We keep him on the wall. A reminder. Every family has the uncle. It is October in Oslo, which means the sun gives up around four in the afternoon like a civil servant, and it rains the particular Norwegian rain that isn’t quite falling, just hanging there, judging you. I arrive with wet shoes. I always arrive with wet shoes. There is coffee, because this is Norway and there is always coffee, we drink more of it per person than almost anyone alive, and someone’s wife has sent kanelboller, the cinnamon buns, and we sit, five Norwegians, damp, caffeinated, sugared, and we decide the moral standing of the entire species. Let me tell you how it actually works, because the world imagines a cathedral and it is, I promise you, a book club with a mandate. 287 nominations this year. 208 people, 79 organizations. Anyone can nominate, that’s the secret nobody understands: a professor, a parliamentarian, a former laureate, so the “nominee” list is meaningless, it’s a suggestion box, and every autumn some congressman nominates his own golden retriever and the press writes “SHORTLISTED.” Nobody is shortlisted. There is no short list the public ever sees. There is us, and the coffee, and the rain, and the portraits, and a Norwegian stubbornness that is older than the prize itself. We read reports. The institute’s advisers write them, thick dull documents, and we argue. Our chairman told the BBC once that in the final meeting “there is a high temperature.” High temperature, for a Norwegian, means someone slightly raised an eyebrow and then apologized for it. We don’t do high temperature. We do a long silence, and then Kristin says “well,” and everyone knows exactly what “well” meant, and it’s settled. That’s our shouting. “Well.” You’d have to be raised here to hear the violence in it. Now. This year. I will not say the name, because we never say the name, but you know the name. A certain head of state wanted this prize the way a child wants a thing in a shop window, which is to say loudly, and in public, and with the full belief that wanting it was itself the argument. He said he deserved it. He said he’d ended eight wars, a number that grew most times he said it, like a fish. He had other heads of state phone us. Israel’s prime minister posted it on the internet, “Give him the Nobel.” The leaders of Cambodia and Pakistan announced they’d nominated him, as though announcing it were part of it, as though we tally mentions. A man flew around the globe collecting endorsements for a Norwegian committee the way you’d collect signatures for a petition to the council about a noisy dog. And here, uff da, is the detail I treasure, the one that makes me smile into my coffee. The nomination deadline is the 31st of January. He took office on the 20th. So for all the phone calls, all the posts, all the gilded lobbying, the only nominations that could possibly count for this year’s prize were filed in the first eleven days of his term, before he had, by his own arithmetic, ended a single one of the eight wars. He campaigned all year for a prize whose window had shut while he was still hanging up his coat. We didn’t have to reject him. The calendar did. We just watched. Norwegians are very good at watching. We have long winters. People think we sit there weighing his deeds. We don’t. That’s the thing I can’t make the world understand. We’re not grading his homework. We don’t owe anyone the prize for a ceasefire, however real, however loud the announcement. “He made peace” is not a sentence that ends in a medal, the way he believes it does, the way he believes every good thing ends in his name on it. The will of a dead Swede says the prize goes to whoever did the most for fraternity between nations. A dead Swede, I should add, who made his entire fortune inventing dynamite and selling arms, and spent his last years horrified at his own obituary, which called him a merchant of death, and so bought his way to immortality as a man of peace. The whole prize is one guilty arms dealer’s attempt to launder his name. We are, all of us, administering a dead man’s public relations. I find this clarifying. It keeps me humble. It should keep everyone humble, and it keeps, by my count, no one humble at all. So who did we give it to? An eighty-five-year-old woman. A judge. Born in Durban, under apartheid, granddaughter of a Tamil man who came to South Africa as indentured labor, a bus driver’s daughter from the poor Indian quarter, who became the first non-white woman to run a law practice in her province, who defended Mandela’s people when defending them was dangerous, who sat on the Rwanda tribunal and the court at the Hague, and who, at eighty-five, is right now a judge weighing whether a genocide is a genocide. When we told the world, our chairman said the rule of law “underpins the system we have set up to ensure peace,” and that “peace requires justice.” She wasn’t even in Oslo. She was in Nuremberg. In courtroom 600. The actual room where they tried the Nazis. You cannot stage that. God staged that, and God, it turns out, is a better satirist than any of us. She did not phone us. She did not post. No prime minister demanded it for her on the internet. She had, as far as our deliberations are concerned, the one qualification the loud man could never manufacture, which is that she wanted the work and not the medal. The medal finds those people. It flees the ones who chase it. This is not a rule we wrote. It’s just the only pattern the hundred-odd years of our mistakes has ever shown. The reaction from across the ocean was immediate. His spokesman posted that we “place politics over peace.” Ja. Perhaps. We’re five damp pensioners in a rainy city; of course it’s political, it was always political, it was political when we gave it to a sitting American president nine months into his first term for the promise of things he had not yet done, and we have been quietly embarrassed about that one for fifteen years, so believe me, we had a particular reason this year to prefer a woman with fifty years of verdicts behind her over a man with eight wars in front of him and a deadline already behind him. Here is what he will never understand, the thing I’d tell him on the tram if he ever took one. We are the one prize he cannot buy, cannot post his way to, cannot have a friendly dictator phone in for him. Not because we’re incorruptible, nei, we’re as vain and wrong and human as the portraits on our wall. But because the entire point of the thing, the only power a small cold country’s book club has ever held, is that it goes to the person not performing the wanting. The moment you demand it, you’ve proven you don’t understand what it’s for, and proving that is itself the disqualification. He ran the most expensive campaign in the history of the prize and the campaign was the reason. He was never losing to Navi Pillay. He was losing to the concept. It’s dark now. Four o’clock dark. The buns are gone. Kristin said “well” an hour ago and we all went home. I’m on the tram with my wet shoes, and somewhere across the water a very powerful man is explaining to a camera that the prize is rigged, that we’re corrupt, that he’ll win it next year, and he genuinely might, we’re only five idiots and we’ve been wrong before, Kissinger is still on the wall. But not this year. This year an old woman in Nuremberg, in the room where the law once stared down the exact kind of man who thinks wanting a thing loudly enough should make it his, got a phone call she didn’t ask for. That’s the job. We don’t reward the man who ends the war and announces it. We reward the woman who spent fifty years deciding what a war was. He’ll never see the difference. That’s rather the whole point of him. Takk for i dag. I have to change trams.

what in the ice cold fuck is this 🥶 x.com/wekkerstudios/status/2…

My interview with @TimesRadio this morning on the issues in Ceuta.

Don’t fall for the fake Fox/GOP outrage. Two weeks ago the House passed a bill that greenlighted the transfer of Spanish territory to Morocco. Every Republican except me voted for it, but now THEY are acting shocked at the invasion. congress.gov/119/bills/hr859… congress.gov/119/bills/hr949…

It has now been established that what happened in the Spanish enclaves of Ceuta and Melilla was a successful example of hybrid warfare orchestrated by the Moroccan government against Spain. Nearly 50,000 Moroccan nationals were transported from towns and villages across Morocco using trucks and other heavy vehicles organized by the government before being funneled into the two Spanish enclaves. The objective was to exert political pressure on the Spanish government in an effort to force concessions over Morocco's long-standing claim to Ceuta and Melilla.

😍 Teníamos muchas ganas de anunciar esto: ¡La @rfef y @PrimeVideo estrenarán una 𝗗𝗢𝗖𝗨𝗦𝗘𝗥𝗜𝗘 sobre el triunfo en la #CopaMundialFIFA! Estará 𝗱𝗶𝘀𝗽𝗼𝗻𝗶𝗯𝗹𝗲 𝗲𝗻 𝗱𝗶𝗰𝗶𝗲𝗺𝗯𝗿𝗲 y contará con cuatro capítulos. 🔗 rfef.es/es/noticias/la-rfef-… #VamosEspaña

Lo mejor que vas a ver hoy. Qué maravilla.

The End of the World Cup

Setting a new @FIFAWorldCup record! 🙌 Spain's Unai Simón kept seven clean sheets at FIFA World Cup 2026 - the highest number of clean sheets by a goalkeeper at a single edition of the FIFA World Cup. 🇪🇸

🇪🇸 After the final whistle, Unai Simón was spotted introducing himself to the Argentina squad. It was the first time they'd seen him in 120 minutes.

Amazing support all across the country during the final of the #WorldCup ¡Muchas gracias! We love you

Pau Cubarsi 19 years old Defended against: Ronaldo - Goal scored - 0 ✅ Mbappé - Goal scored - 0 ✅ Messi - Goal scored - 0 ✅

⭐️⭐️ 𝗙𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗱𝗹𝘆 𝗿𝗲𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿 😜 #VamosEspaña | #CopaMundialFIFA

⭐️⭐️ ¡¡𝗦𝗢𝗠𝗢𝗦 𝗕𝗜𝗖𝗔𝗠𝗣𝗘𝗢𝗡𝗘𝗦 𝗗𝗘𝗟 𝗠𝗨𝗡𝗗𝗢!! #VamosEspaña | #CopaMundialFIFA

France vs England was like...

🚨 ¡NECESITO AYUDA @realDonaldTrump ! 🙏 Me acaban de decir que no puedo viajar a la final con mis hijos porque me han denegado el ESTA 😭 ¿Alguien me puede ayudar con esto? No sabéis la ilusión que me hacía poder estar allí con todos mis compañeros de 2010 y con este equipo para animarles. No me puedo creer que no me permitan entrar en USA... y perderme un momento así con mis hijos que tanto amamos el fútbol... 😔 @educaciongob Si alguien sabe cómo solucionarlo, os lo agradeceré en el alma de por vida.

This should be time for reflection for England, so for what is worth let me share with you a take from someone who is not English but knows English football culture perfectly having played many years in the Premier League You might agree or disagree, but it links to what Tuchel said about the team being passive. And if there is a hint of truth in it, maybe responsability should be taken beyond the coach, and even beyond the changing room (maybe the excess of confidence entering the game, the difficulty to see problems when victories come, the abusive search for culprits, all those things that we have seen in the past are also partly to blame) Here it goes: "Guillem, I can't help repeating something I've told you before: England can never truly function as a team because they don't understand the word "solidarity" or the concept of collective football. They always freeze when the decisive moment comes. They go out of every major tournament (World Cup or Euros) in the same way: not just losing, but making a mess of it. They always freeze when the decisive moment comes. There's a historical pattern. At some point in the game they abandon each other. Every player starts looking after himself, trying to save his own skin. Today they left the goalkeeper completely exposed. They all disappeared from the game, almost as if they were trying to avoid being singled out. Can you say who was at fault for the goals? Exactly. The best thing for them is that no individual gets blamed. Collectively, they were responsible. Everyone goes home relieved that it won't all fall on John or James. That it will all fall on Tuchel. Meanwhile, Messi can hardly run, yet he spent the entire second half happily playing on the edge of the box. Enzo, too, kept finding space to shoot from the edge of the area — his trademark — until one finally went in. An absolute disaster." Should we discuss?

Buenos días.

.@FIFAWorldCup Spanish water break! @SEFutbol Spanish Tortilla was better than French Omelette after all! 😇

At the Moulin Rouge, The Dance, by Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, 1890