H OSNI MUBARAK once shut off the internet to discourage protests. So what happened to one of his biggest online supporters this summer is ironic. Karim Hussein shares photos and videos of the former dictator with the 3m followers of his “I’m Sorry, Mr President” Facebook page. Many of his posts are subtly political, like a tongue-in-cheek list of reasons why Egyptians wanted to overthrow Mr Mubarak in 2011: a stable pound; manageable external debt; thriving tourism. (All have worsened since the revolution.)

Mr Hussein also wrote that the ex-president allowed a free press. That was an exaggeration. But the current president, Abdel-Fattah al-Sisi, does not tolerate even the limited political freedoms his predecessor did. On July 9th police arrested Mr Hussein on suspicion of “spreading false news”.

Back in 2011, when a popular uprising ended Mr Mubarak’s 30-year rule, it was hard to imagine much nostalgia. Many Egyptians felt their country was adrift, led by an old man who was not up to the job. They mocked his doddering demeanour by calling him la vache qui rit, the laughing cow, after a French brand of processed cheese with a beaming bovine on the box.

Eight years later, more than a few Egyptians view the past through rose-tinted glasses. Ordinary people recall a president who maintained a subsidy scheme that kept prices low. The dispirited remnants of Egypt’s civil society miss the relative openness. Mr Mubarak allowed a bit of space for opposition, as a safety valve and a sop to the West. Mr Sisi has ramped up executions and persecutes even supporters who step out of line. “They were professionals. Now they’re amateurs,” says one activist of those in charge.

Mr Mubarak and his sons have stoked nostalgia by returning to the public eye. In May the former president sat for a rare interview with a Kuwaiti journalist. The discussion was largely about foreign affairs. He held forth on Iraq’s invasion of Kuwait in 1990 and Donald Trump’s efforts at Israeli-Palestinian peace. But it cast him back in his cherished role as a well-travelled elder statesman. His eldest son, Alaa, has also become more visible. He pops up in photos on social media, playing backgammon in humble cafés or dining in El Prince, a popular haunt in the working-class Imbaba district, famed for heaping portions of fried liver and other healthy fare.

All of this seems to unnerve Mr Sisi. On June 26th Alaa was photographed cheering for Egypt at an Africa Cup football match in Cairo. The authorities revoked his fan ID card shortly after, barring him from future matches. Last month he tweeted criticism of a minister who quipped that those who speak ill of Egypt should have their throats cut. A sycophantic newspaper soon accused him of links to the banned Muslim Brotherhood. Samir Sabri, a hyperactive pro-government lawyer, sued him for “solidarity with a terrorist group”.

This seems irrational. No one truly expects Alaa to challenge Mr Sisi. His patrimony would not protect him—even a former army chief who stood for the presidency last year wound up in jail. But the public has soured on Mr Sisi, who lacks a political party or trusted allies (ironically, his own sons are increasingly powerful aides). “Mubarak had a regime. Sisi has himself,” says an activist. The government’s overreactions are signs of its weakness, not Mr Mubarak’s strength. Coincidentally, your correspondent noticed last month that Egyptair no longer serves processed cheese with its in-flight meals. ■