Uvindu Kurukulasuriya Pouring Whiskey into Ali Sabry’s Glass?
In the smoky after-hours corners of London’s Sri Lankan political salons — where whisky tumbles more freely than ideological consistency — one voice has recently emerged with the conviction of a prophet and the timing of a stand-up comedian. That voice belongs to Uvindu Kurukulasuriya, the controversial editor and political commentator who has now declared that Ali Sabry is the only man capable of rescuing Sri Lanka.
Not Anura Kumara Dissanayake.
Not Champika Ranawaka.
Not the corporate strategists, technocrats, economists, retired generals, nationalist monks, or Colombo cocktail-circuit intellectuals.
No. According to Uvindu’s latest political sermon, Sri Lanka’s salvation apparently lies in the hands of Ali Sabry.
And that has left many Sri Lankans asking a very simple question:
“Has the whisky reached the bloodstream before the political analysis?”
Because the reality is brutally uncomplicated. Ali Sabry has never won a national mandate from the people. He has never stood before the electorate and secured victory through a popular vote. He entered Parliament through the National List — the constitutional elevator through which Sri Lankan parties transport loyalists, lawyers, financiers, defeated politicians, and politically useful personalities into legislative power without troubling the voters too much.
Yet now, from the comfort of London commentary culture, Sabry is suddenly being marketed as a national saviour.
One almost imagines a scene in a Kensington apartment where political theory and imported Scotch collide violently.
“Another glass for Ali,” says the editor.
And the bottle keeps pouring.
The Ghost of Gotabaya Rajapaksa Still Haunts the Room
The difficulty with the Ali Sabry rescue narrative is not merely political. It is historical.
Sabry’s political identity remains inseparably tied to Gotabaya Rajapaksa and the disastrous Rajapaksa administration that plunged Sri Lanka into economic catastrophe, sovereign default, shortages, fuel queues, and international humiliation.
One cannot simply airbrush history because a few London-based commentators suddenly discover a fondness for polished legal English and calm television interviews.
Ali Sabry was not a distant observer during that era. He was one of its principal defenders.
Most critically, his role surrounding the controversy over Gotabaya Rajapaksa’s alleged renunciation of U.S. citizenship continues to linger like an unresolved legal footnote in Sri Lankan political memory. Questions over documentation, legal procedure, timing, and transparency became part of the wider political storm surrounding Gotabaya’s presidential candidacy.
For many Sri Lankans, that episode symbolised something larger: a political class that believed technical manoeuvres mattered more than democratic trust.
And now, years later, the same political ecosystem wishes to present one of its surviving legal architects as the nation’s future?
That is not political reinvention. That is political recycling.
The Cambridge Problem
Then comes the Cambridge issue.
Sabry’s visit to University of Cambridge has itself become politically controversial, with questions reportedly raised over whether the trip was official, private, academic, diplomatic, or somewhere in the mysterious Sri Lankan grey zone where public office and personal prestige often overlap.
Sri Lankan politics has long suffered from a culture in which foreign photographs become domestic propaganda. A politician standing near an Oxford building suddenly becomes “globally respected.” A panel discussion abroad transforms into “international recognition.” A handshake with a foreign academic becomes proof of statesmanship.
The public, however, is increasingly sceptical.
Who paid?
What was the purpose?
Who authorised it?
What public benefit emerged from it?
These questions are no longer dismissed as opposition attacks. They are now part of a wider demand for accountability in a bankrupt republic.
And this is where Uvindu’s enthusiastic endorsement becomes curious. One would imagine that an editor claiming intellectual independence would interrogate such matters aggressively rather than romantically.
Instead, the tone increasingly resembles political bartending: topping up the glass whenever criticism appears.
Nepotism Never Dies in Colombo
Then there is the petroleum controversy.
Critics have repeatedly pointed toward allegations surrounding the appointment of Sabry’s brother to a senior role connected to the Ceylon Petroleum Corporation. The accusation is politically damaging because it strikes at the oldest disease in Sri Lankan governance: patronage.
Sri Lanka’s ruling culture has long operated like an elite family business masquerading as democracy. Brothers appoint brothers. Friends appoint classmates. School networks become state networks. Loyalty outranks merit.
The public has heard this story too many times.
So when ordinary Sri Lankans struggle with inflation, taxes, unemployment, and collapsing public services, hearing that another politically connected relative allegedly received preferential treatment produces exactly the kind of fury one would expect.
This is the baggage now attached to Ali Sabry’s public image.
Not necessarily criminal baggage.
But political baggage.
Perception baggage.
Trust baggage.
And in politics, perception often weighs more heavily than legal technicalities.
London’s Sri Lankan Political Theatre
The more fascinating aspect of this entire saga is not Ali Sabry himself. It is the psychology of sections of the Sri Lankan diaspora commentariat.
London has become a strange secondary parliament for Sri Lankan politics — a place where exiles, activists, journalists, former officials, business operators, YouTube revolutionaries, and self-appointed geopolitical strategists gather to diagnose Colombo while safely insulated from Colombo’s consequences.
Inside this ecosystem, political reputations are manufactured over dinner tables, YouTube interviews, WhatsApp groups, and whisky sessions.
One week a politician is corrupt.
The next week he is Churchill.
One month a leader is a dictator.
The next month he is “the only statesman left.”
Consistency is often sacrificed at the altar of access.
And that is why Uvindu’s latest enthusiasm has triggered ridicule across political circles. Because many are asking whether this is genuine ideological conviction or simply another episode of Sri Lanka’s elite rehabilitation industry.
After all, Sri Lankan politics specialises in resurrection.
Every failed politician eventually finds a columnist.
Every disgraced administration eventually finds an intellectual defender.
Every national disaster eventually acquires a public relations campaign.
Pouring the Next Glass
None of this means Ali Sabry lacks intelligence. Even critics concede he is articulate, legally trained, internationally presentable, and calmer than many of Sri Lanka’s traditional political firebrands.
But intelligence alone does not create democratic legitimacy.
And that is the central flaw in the narrative now being pushed by London’s political romantics.
Sri Lanka’s future cannot be built merely on polished speeches, elite networks, legal sophistication, or television-friendly moderation. The country’s crisis emerged precisely because too many unelected operators exercised enormous influence without meaningful public accountability.
That is why Uvindu Kurukulasuriya’s political endorsement feels disconnected from the public mood.
Sri Lankans are not merely looking for articulate managers anymore. They are searching for legitimacy, transparency, accountability, and credibility.
And so the question lingers in the air like cigar smoke above a Westminster whisky bar:
Is Uvindu merely sharing a political opinion?
Or is he pouring whisky into Ali Sabry’s glass while trying to convince the nation it is medicine?