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Category: Chairman’s Desk

For both Carney and Poilievre, success has nothing to do with their strengths and everything to do with their weaknesses

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As a young boy, I reserved a special place in hell for whichever ad executive decided it was time to launch the “back to school” marketing blitz in the midst of my carefree late summer.

The reminder was, in a word, unwelcome.

So, at the risk of being “that guy” for Canada’s Members of Parliament and their hardworking staff, let me join the “back to Parliament” commentary train for Ottawa’s upcoming fall session, which kicks off Sept. 15.

But this is no preview.

It’s a definitive position: that success for Mark Carney and Pierre Poilievre will have absolutely nothing to do with their strengths — and everything to do with how they choose to address their weaknesses.

The strengths of both leaders are as familiar as they are formidable.

For Poilievre, it’s the simple fact that — after his recent byelection victory — he’s back on familiar territory. A consummate parliamentarian, the House of Commons has been his proving ground since he was barely old enough to rent a car. For Carney, it’s technocratic competence. A globally respected economist and former central banker, he exudes credibility. His reputation precedes him.

But these strengths are not revelations. They’re priced in.

As a result, there’s precious little upside in flexing a muscle everyone already knows you have. Public opinion won’t swing wildly when Poilievre delivers another biting performance in the House of Commons. No pundit will be floored by reports that Carney walks into a policy briefing and knows more than the people doing the briefing.

These aren’t plot twists. The characters are fully formed. The narrative is already established.

All of which only serves to underline where real ground is to be gained — and therefore where the battle is to be won: in addressing their weaknesses.

And that is not simply because these flaws exist. It’s because politics ensures they will be hunted, highlighted, and hung around your neck. It’s not personal or especially malicious. It’s the job.

Carney’s Weakness

Following an election, particularly when it comes to attacking a newly formed government, there’s a ritualistic quality to the Opposition’s work. It thrives on the power of contrast — between what was promised in lofty campaign speeches and what actually materializes in the stark realities of government.

And, for most new prime ministers, it’s this spectre of specific unkept promise that poses the greatest vulnerability.

Not for this one.

Mark Carney wasn’t elected on specific promises from a detailed policy menu. He was elected on a generic promise. To turn the page — decisively — from the Trudeau era. Where Justin  Trudeau offered idealism and improvisation, Carney promised seriousness and stability. Where Trudeau was all gesture, Carney would be all execution.

But the problem with running on competence is that you have to deliver it — fast. And competence, by definition, is measurable. It invites hard benchmarks: economic performance, public service efficiency, international credibility, and fiscal stewardship.

Unfortunately, Carney has inherited a country with falling GDP per capita, mounting fiscal pressure, and a possibly soon-to-be-torn-up CUSMA deal. Not to mention: a youth employment crisis and a public sector facing deep cuts.

The problem isn’t just that these expectations will go unmet. It’s that the expectations were abstract — and the disappointments will be concrete.

Inaction or incrementalism will feel like betrayal. And that gap could prove devastating if he doesn’t find a way to fill it quickly.

Poilievre’s Weakness

Poilievre’s weakness is the one shared by most Opposition leaders: the perception they’re simply not ready to be prime minister.

But in his case, the challenge is more specific — and more challenging. Poilievre was chosen by his party for a very specific task: defeat Justin Trudeau. But that job changed. Therefore, he must evolve to effectively fill it.

This is where opposition leadership becomes harder. It’s about tone, not volume. He must begin to sound like a prime minister. And that requires an entirely new approach.

A Conservative leadership review in January will bookend this upcoming parliamentary session.

Between now and then, Poilievre doesn’t just need the party to get a bump in the polls — he needs to start winning on personal leadership metrics: favourability, temperament, and trust.

Ultimately, success for either leader won’t hinge on flexing the strengths everyone already knows. It will depend on how effectively they recognize — and improve upon — their weaknesses.

That’s where the real contest lies. And that’s what this Parliament will test.

Canada must redouble efforts to secure trade agreements with China and India in response to escalating U.S. tariffs

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Ottawa’s new trade minister, Maninder Sidhu, recently told The Canadian Press his phone has been ringing off the hook with opportunities.

He shared that he’s looking to strike new deals in South America, Southeast Asia, Africa and beyond.

He added that he plans to visit Brazil to revive trade talks there.

He noted that Canada is considering “sector-specific agreements” with other countries — instead of broad, catch-all trade deals that span multiple industries — and, in his words: “We are getting very creative in how we can open up more doors.”

You can’t fault the ambition because it follows the watchword that’s been on the lips of every political talking head and economist since before Donald Trump was reinaugurated this past January: diversification.

There’s just one problem.

The entire GDP of the countries — and even continents — Sidhu is focused on barely register compared to the market gravity of the true economic superpowers: India, China, and the United States.

This isn’t to say the strategy is misguided or unworthy. And it’s not to suggest Sidhu is neglecting the bigger players — India and China are clearly on his radar (Canada-U. S. trade falls under Dominic LeBlanc’s file).

But it is to say we cannot afford to fixate on the margins while the main event goes ignored.

What most commentators have missed in the endless autopsy of Canada’s stalled negotiations with the U.S. is this: the reason the talks are incomplete is because Donald Trump is still busy with China and India.

And there’s a reason he’s handling those first.

They are the high-stakes tables. The upside is bigger. The downside is riskier. And in any negotiation, you deal with the main course before you turn to the side dishes.

Of course, Canada can’t pretend to be the entrée. We don’t have the same leverage or flexibility as the U.S. when it comes to sequencing trade priorities. But that doesn’t mean we get to ignore the fundamentals either.

We must prioritize re-engagement with China and India — not only because of their scale, but because they are the key counterweights to the American market.

While we’ve made meaningful diplomatic and economic strides with Europe, we’ve placed far too little strategic focus on the two economies that matter enormously to our long-term diversification.

With China, we remain locked in a tit-for-tat trade war. In March, Beijing retaliated against Canadian tariffs on electric vehicles, steel, and aluminum by slapping new duties on our agricultural exports.

With India, we remain in diplomatic purgatory following the fallout from an alleged assassination on Canadian soil. Yes, security talks have restarted. Yes, Modi accepted Mark Carney’s invitation to the G7 in Alberta. Yes, the ice is thawing — but the waters are still far too cold.

But now we share something in common. Thanks to India’s deepening trade with Russia, they too have landed in Trump’s crosshairs — facing a 50 per cent tariff on Indian goods. And last month, despite years of diplomatic overtures to position India as a strategic counterweight to China, Trump dismissed their economy as “dead.”

In other words, opportunity knocks.

So, the bottom line is this: Canada simply cannot afford to be out of sync with the world’s largest trading powers.

No trade trip to South America — valuable though it may be — can come anywhere close to filling that gap.

Let me be clear: this is not a dismissal of South America or the Global South. Those relationships matter. Sector-specific agreements in emerging markets are worthwhile and necessary. Nor is it to suggest we can take our eye off the United States — our largest trading partner and the bedrock of our integrated economy. With CUSMA up for review in 2026, every step we take now must be calculated to ensure Canada heads into those negotiations from a position of strength.

But if we’re going to “get creative” about opening doors, let’s start with the ones that matter most.

Because no matter how many side doors we manage to pry open, if the front gates to the likes of Beijing and New Delhi remain closed — our economy will miss out on the growth and scale only those markets can offer.

Those who think the Epstein files will sink Trump are missing a key truth about the president and conspiracy theories

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Donald Trump is reportedly in the Epstein files.

To anyone paying attention, it’s less a revelation than a grim confirmation. And now — the big question: is this the beginning of the end of Donald Trump’s political career?

It all started after Attorney General Pam Bondi came up empty-handed following the long-hyped release of the Epstein files, the promised reckoning fell flat. For all the buildup, the documents were scant. The smoking gun absent. And the ensuing reaction had all the hallmarks of a terminally splintering movement.

The podcast bros in the manosphere turned sour.

Photographs and video footage of Donald Trump and Jeffrey Epstein standing and laughing together looped on TV like it was the moon landing.

And all Trump could manage, in the initial phase of the scandal, was the feeblest and most suspect of responses: “Are you still talking about Jeffrey Epstein? This guy’s been talked about for years … Are people still talking about this guy?”

They were. In fact, it was all anyone in the MAGA world could talk about.

And who could blame them? Not only was their movement engulfed in the moral contradiction of President Trump, but their entire belief system had been turned inside out. Because the man they sent to fix the rot at the heart of American democracy was seated beneath it the whole time.

Given this moral whiplash and cognitive dissonance, people believed it was the death knell.

They were incorrect.

Don’t get me wrong — Trump is thoroughly bruised from this. But he is far from beaten.

There’s no question this scandal and the lurid facts still buried in the Epstein files, will continue to dog him. That doesn’t necessarily mean he’s committed a crime, but it is certainly an unmitigated political disaster, if true.

But the more important takeaway — the one that will shape how this all plays out — has less to do with the scandal itself and everything to do with the nature of Trump’s response. It underscores a deeper truth about the MAGA political machine: it isn’t vulnerable to conspiracy — it is built on it. And therefore, Trump is always playing with a loaded deck.

When the Wall Street Journal reported last week that Trump had sent Epstein a birthday letter allegedly featuring a “bawdy” sketch of a naked woman, Trump didn’t go quiet. He went nuclear — suing the Journal for $10 billion.

It was textbook Trump: when under siege, go on the attack. Distract. Flood the zone. And so, his response followed a familiar pattern — reframe damning news not as fact, but as partisan sabotage. It energizes the base. It forces a test of loyalty: “Believe me, or believe them.”

The result? Legal peril becomes persecution. Indictments become proof he’s feared by the elite and therefore generate political capital. And even criticism from ideological allies becomes ammunition in his insurgent identity.

Trump knows how to alchemize scandal into grievance — and grievance into power.

But those are just the tactics. The more revealing question is: why do they work?

The answer is that conspiracy is no longer a fringe impulse in American politics — it’s foundational. According to polling, over 50 per cent of American adults believe in at least one conspiracy theory. And Trump understands that better than anyone.

The most durable trait of conspiracy thinking is its elasticity. It adapts. It never stops moving. The target shifts. The logic recalibrates.

If the messiah doesn’t show up in a spacecraft on the day of the rapture, it’s not because the prophecy was false. It’s because she changed her mind at the last minute.

Trump doesn’t just exploit this tendency — he embodies it. He is its avatar.

And so, if you believed there was a deep-state cabal orchestrated by Epstein, or that the CIA was gathering kompromat on the powerful, it’s not a stretch to believe Trump’s association with Epstein could be nothing more than a frame job. That he was the dupe. Or even the decoy.

Because the belief isn’t just in a conspiracy — it’s in conspiracy itself. An omnipresent, unknowable force is always working in shadows. And within that framework, Trump isn’t a hypocrite. He’s a martyr.

Even his latest attack at President Obama — amplifying a debunked claim about a coup in the wake of the 2016 campaign — points to the same playbook: inject doubt, deepen paranoia, expand the conspiracy.

Distraction is the game. Division is the strategy. And Trump is still playing from the same old loaded deck.

Mark Carney needs to explain to Canadians how we’re going to pay for our national defence

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It wasn’t so long ago that Canada perennially cashed in on its so-called “peace dividend.” The logic went like this: while our tanks might rust, the salaries of our Armed Forces members stagnate, and our ammunition stockpiles dwindle, the government could reallocate military spending toward areas of more immediate concern — entitlement programs, infrastructure and other “flavours of the day.”

Point to whichever geopolitical disaster from recent history you like, one thing is painfully clear: the dividend has been spent. But the problem isn’t just that our leaders have been slow to acknowledge this new reality — it’s that they’ve been even slower to act on its implications. Because the inverse logic now applies: in a more volatile world, there is a crisis fee to pay. A big one.

At last, we appear to have a government willing to foot the bill. In real terms: a staggering $150 billion annually on defence within the decade — amounting to five per cent of our GDP.

Unsurprisingly, there’s no shortage of speculation on how to raise this money. Perhaps we bring back victory bonds. Hike the GST. Cut spending in other federal programs and redirect to military funding. Tax more efficiently. Find lost revenue.

Everything is on the table because the current fiscal status quo doesn’t come remotely close to covering the new defence spend. A recent C.D. Howe report estimates the federal government would run a $311-billion cumulative deficit over four years if it follows through on its promise without raising the money.

But while solving the “how” is essential to pulling our weight globally, it’s overshadowed by a deeper political question. What’s missing in all of these proposals is an honest reckoning with who will bear the cost. Because one way or another, Canadians will — whether through higher taxes, reduced services, or both.

And that’s why this moment is so fraught.

There’s a reason past governments punted this issue: defence costs don’t show up for the public at the gas pump or grocery store. And asking Canadians to pay more while they are barely hanging on is a hard sell.

Which brings us to the defining challenge of this early era of the Carney government: not how much financial capital the government needs to fund its ambitions, but how much political capital it is willing to spend — and when — to make that happen. In this sense, the defence spending debate is not just a policy test, it’s the canary in the coal mine for Mark Carney’s entire premiership.

It’s hackneyed to say a politician is a product of their timing. Everyone is. But some politicians make that truth more visible than others, and Carney’s political fortunes are a monument to the importance of timing.

It’s no exaggeration to say the prime minister rode into office on a wave of ideal campaign conditions: a new Donald Trump presidency, a reawakening of Canadian nationalism in response, a country newly hungry for experienced global leadership.

And now, good timing has rolled into even better timing. Instead of a baptism by fire in the House of Commons or daily media maulings, Carney gets a summer to plan, build, and breathe. His chief opponent doesn’t even have a seat. The honeymoon isn’t just intact — it’s enchanted.

But all that only underlines that Carney’s biggest opponent isn’t a rival party, but two dangerous instincts.

First, to rest. After two hard fought campaigns (first a leadership, then a general election) the Carney camp could be forgiven for thinking this is the time for a well-deserved break. Second, and more consequentially, the advice — especially from unpracticed strategists — to hoard political capital rather than spend it, to not exhaust one unnecessary dime in order to maintain popularity.

Both sentiments are dead wrong. Not simply because of the truism that honeymoons eventually expire and that the warm, fuzzy feelings of unity will fade. It’s the more enduring political truth: you must make the hard choices early, while the wind is at your back, before moving on to anything more aspirational.

And there is no choice more consequential — or more defining — than deciding how much political capital to spend and when.

Because this isn’t just a question of budgets or trade-offs. It’s a question of leadership. Whether Carney will be remembered as a product of fortunate timing — or as a prime minister who recognized that when fortune came knocking, he didn’t wait — he moved.

Now is that moment. The moment to spend political capital boldly, and to speak plainly with Canadians about how we will pay for our national defence. Before fair winds give way to storms.

Two crises. One message. Only one rang true. In crisis management words matter — but only if they are conveyed with passion and concern

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Earlier this month, after the tragic crash of flight AI171 in Ahmedabad, India, en route to London, Gatwick, Air India CEO Campbell Wilson said what needed to be said.

He “first and most importantly” expressed “deep sorrow,” stated that the airline would be “focused entirely on the needs of our passengers, crew members, their families and loved ones,” and calmly relayed all the known facts available at that early stage.

The remarks should have elicited no reaction beyond solemn respect. At that moment, attention should have been squarely fixed on the devastation facing the families and the urgent investigation into what could have caused such a tragedy.

But many observers noticed Wilson’s words sounded familiar. Too familiar.

In fact, they were nearly identical to those delivered by American Airlines CEO Robert Isom just five months earlier — after the collision of Flight AE5342 with a U.S. military helicopter over the Potomac River. Strip away the specific details of each incident, and what remains is a speech duplicated line for line. Wilson’s remarks weren’t just reminiscent of Isom’s — they were a carbon copy. In short: they were stolen.

For such a blatant, unforced error, for such a galling lapse in judgment, one might have expected heads to roll or, at the very least, a formal apology to be issued.

But nothing of the sort transpired. Wilson wasn’t fired. The airline didn’t face a media firestorm. Public reaction was relatively muted. The story barely registered outside the echo chamber of PR professionals and a handful of journalists.

And that’s what makes this episode so revealing: crisis communication — and communications more broadly — is being reshaped.

We are witnessing an uptick in copycat messaging from business and political leaders. Just last week, Hill Times reporter Stuart Benson highlighted that Prime Minister Mark Carney’s statement responding to U.S. military strikes on Iranian nuclear sites bore an uncanny resemblance to the one released hours earlier by British Prime Minister Keir Starmer. Maybe it’s a case of shared perspective. But the alignment in tone, cadence, and structure stretched the limits of coincidence.

Yet again, like Wilson, Carney didn’t pay a heavy reputational price.

Why? Because audience expectations have shifted.

In an age where AI tools can churn out polished boilerplate in seconds, we’ve grown more tolerant of prepackaged language. We’ve started to accept a kind of functional blandness. As long as the boxes are ticked, no one’s — seemingly — overly concerned about whether the words were borrowed. Originality is overrated.

But that’s precisely why the Air India case matters.

Because plagiarism wasn’t the CEO’s only problem. As many on social media noted, the CEO’s tone was flat, detached, robotic. And that’s what made it stand out in the first place. When you watch the side-by-side video comparisons of the two men delivering virtually the same message, a study in language theft turns out to also be a study in the importance of delivery.

One CEO conveys passion and concern. The other looked like he was reading terms and conditions. You can hear and feel the difference.

And that’s the lesson.

In a crisis, words matter — but only if they’re felt.

The public doesn’t just want a response; they want a response that feels worthy of the moment. That means sincerity, presence, and emotional intelligence.

Because crises are always human. They involve human failure, human suffering, and human stakes. And that means the response must do more than tick the boxes. It has to sound like it comes from a human, too.

There is a reason we reach for those hallmark cards. While the prefabricated message inside is tender and invariably clichéd, it says, again, what needs to be said. And yet, the card means almost nothing unless the handwritten note inside delivers a more genuine, personalized sentiment.

Unless the pre-written message serves only as inspiration for the real thing.

Originality may be overrated in everyday communication. But in those high-stakes moments when trust is tested and emotions are raw — it matters more than ever. A crisis is one of those moments. And leaders would do well to remember: people don’t just want to hear the right words. They want to know you mean them.