I recently remembered that Kemi Badenoch exists.

For the uninitiated, Badenoch is now Leader of the Conservative Party, which currently exists in a sort of political no man’s land—wedged between Labour’s One Nation Tory cosplay (the word “socialist” is now frowned upon, in the same way that actors avoid saying “Macbeth”) and the fantasy fascistic world of Herr Britler—aka Nigel Farage.

Today’s Conservatives are like characters in a time travel movie: they know history is changing, they can see the apocalypse incoming, but they’re stuck, doomed to remember the glory days while the rest of us adjust to this new and terrifying timeline.

In that spirit, Badenoch has apparently announced she’d like to be the British version of Javier Milei, who is himself the Argentinian version of Elon Musk, who is—well, I think we’ve lost track.

Milei, if you are unaware, is the chainsaw-toting libertarian whose economic policy consists of cutting everything, everywhere, all at once. His “accomplishments” include declaring environmental concerns “fake”, shrinking the state to nothing, sacking public servants (or “parasites”, which I think is some kind of pet-name), and polarising the crap out of the country.

In this kind of dysfunctional dystopian wish-dream, the state exists solely to make money for the already rich, while everyone else can go whistle—and if you complain, well, the police would like a word.

No wonder this rhetoric makes Reform UK so popular with people who either (a) have a large fortune to protect, or (b) haven’t yet checked their bank balance and realised that’s not them.

So of course, Badenoch is jumping up and down shouting:

“Look at me! I can be an unhinged populist too!”

But the problem for her is... no one’s listening.

You might say she’s pandering to the base, but that base has long since buggered off to join the gormless goose-steppers that make up Reform UK. So, again—who is this for?

It’s not for me. I’ve never been into the kind of ersatz sixth-form politics currently dominating Britain.

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A Hard Left Turn... Maybe

On the other end of the spectrum, we have Your Party—the new project from Jeremy Corbyn and Zarah Sultana, which has grabbed headlines and a fair bit of curiosity.

Too early to speculate on a party that doesn’t yet have a name—but I do have a question:

How is this different from the existing smaller left-wing parties?

Are they really so different from, say, the Greens, that joining was impossible?

Sure, some parties might not want Corbyn due to those pesky antisemitism allegations. But given his profile, he could have boosted an existing small party—so why not do that?

I have a horrible feeling the answer might be:

“Because I couldn’t be leader straight away.”

Maybe unfair. Maybe not.

But whenever someone starts their own party, I get suspicious.

Look at Nigel Farage (actually don’t it’s too grim)... and look at that, we’re back where we started.

Once upon a time, politics attracted people who at least pretended to put the country first. Now it feels like it’s become a resting place for sociopaths, narcissists, and people with YouTube channels.

Not exactly filling me with hope.

❓Agree? Disagree? Does Your Party feel like a move in the right direction or is it just another vanity project?

✏Let me know in the comments. For more of this kind of tosh please consider subscribing below 👇

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I’ve been ruminating on the past — as many of us do.

With modern streaming platforms, it’s easier than ever to revisit the TV shows we adored as children, reliving a time when life felt simpler, slower, and full of possibility.

Movies from decades ago are also being rebooted, reimagined, or revived with sequels. This summer, we have seen the return of Superman and a fresh take on The Fantastic Four. We've had what may be the final instalment of Mission: Impossible, a long-delayed sequel to Beetlejuice, and ongoing talks about reviving the Pirates of the Caribbean franchise.

Nostalgia-Tok

If you’re of a certain age, Instagram and TikTok are flooded with nostalgia-fuelled accounts celebrating growing up in the 80s and 90s — the music, the fashion, the multi-coloured sweeties. In our world eating a certain brand of choc really did help you work, rest and play.

But here’s the thing: all of this is designed to remind you how great everything used to be — and, by contrast, how grim everything feels now.

The chocolate bars were bigger, the TV more fun and innocent, the fashion more individual and iconic.

Nonsense.

What made those times feel so magical wasn’t the chocolate or cartoons — it was that we were kids.

The weight of the world wasn’t ours to carry. We weren’t responsible for mortgages, politics, wars, or recessions. Grown-ups handled those (albeit not very well), while we focused on snacks and Saturday morning telly.

This is the lens of nostalgia — what we used to call "rose-tinted glasses." A fuzzy glow that softens the sharp edges of the past.

Kajagoogoo and the joy of Woolworths

I grew up, mostly, in the 1980s. And let’s be honest — it was no golden age.

There was the AIDS crisis, deep economic turmoil and the birth of neo-liberalism. The rich got richer, child poverty climbed, and Clause 28 banned the "promotion" of homosexuality in schools. We had race riots, rising unemployment, striking miners, dockers and ship workers.

And yet, play a few bars of Kajagoogoo, show me a scan of the Argos catalogue, or mention Our Price and Woolworths, and suddenly all that fades away: I’m lying on my stomach, legs kicking in joy as I wrestle with a game on an Atari or a Dreamcast, watching Knightmare with a can of Lilt, wrapped in a warm illusion that the past was better.

It is a dangerous mindset.

Toxic Nostalgia

In a recent Radio Times interview, writer Mark Gatiss (only a few years older than I am) used a phrase that hit home: toxic nostalgia. It fits.

Because this isn’t just about classic movies or tastier, bigger snacks — it’s shaping our culture and our politics.

Every generation longs to return to some mythic time when things were better. But better for whom? And when exactly?

The “Make America Great Again” lobby never actually said what period of time it was looking to get back to. The 1950s? The 1980s? Because that greatness only applied to a certain sub-set of the population. How about women, people of colour, or the working class?

Arguably this is nostalgia as pandemic - rolling across the world and causing devastation in its wake: you only need to look at the rise of authoritarian regimes; the cult of Trump and the ascent of Reform in the UK. This dangerous belief that if we can go back to the way things were it would solve all social ills.

In the UK, this same longing fed directly into the Brexit campaign — a desire to rewind the clock to some pre-EU era.

Yet few seemed interested in why we joined the European project in the first place: economic decline, International Monetary Fund bailouts, and the Winter of Discontent. The 1970s were a deeply troubled decade, but you add that nostalgic glow of the Bay City Rollers, Butterscotch Angel Delight and The Rockford Files and it takes on the appearance of a blessed decade.

But don’t look too closely, or you’ll see the racism, the sexism, and the shift toward reactionary politics that marked the end of that decade.

Living in the now

And still — I’m not immune. I listen to playlists of 90s and 00s bangers, and rewatch old sitcoms and dramas that give me a bittersweet ache for something that never really was. The truth is, I was a miserable child. The comfort I feel now is not in remembering how things were, but how I wanted them to be…

There is a phrase I hear bandied about in the wellness sphere (God spare us): living in the moment. While I may weep at the paper-thin philosophies that underpin 'wellness', this is extremely wise.

We cannot function or develop if we are stuck in a time loop, reliving our imagined childhoods. We have to exist in the now - remember our histories accurately and treat them as lessons - or warnings - rather than as a hazy sun-kissed paradise that never really existed.

⏰ Am I wrong? Is there a balance to strike between to longing for all our yesterdays while existing in the present? Let me know below 👇

There comes a time when it is impossible to retain a dignified silence.

I told myself there was simply too much history in the Israeli–Palestine conflict to speak on it with confidence. I’ve always tried to educate myself, but how does one get up to speed on over 3,000 years of contested land, religion, and identity?

And yet, the sheer magnitude of the suffering now being inflicted upon the people of Palestine is impossible to ignore.

The Israeli Defence Forces recently bombed children as they queued for water. The official line is that it was an error. I’m afraid I do not believe them.

If you are willing to strike civilians waiting at an aid distribution point—under the pretext of targeting Hamas—then I do not see how this is any different. Children died there too. And when a government imposes a blockade that knowingly deprives an entire population of food, water, fuel, and medicine, it is not simply a policy decision—it is the deliberate weaponisation of deprivation.

Starvation kills. And it kills babies first.

“Children are not a target.” — UNICEF, April 2024

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There is only ever one path out of a cycle of hatred, violence, and vengeance: talk.

It worked, to a degree, in Northern Ireland. That conflict, too, was rooted in land, faith, history,

and colonial legacy. It claimed thousands of innocent lives.

For generations, the two communities lived apart—different schools, different streets, different allegiances. I still remember the images of Protestant parents lining the streets to spit on a Catholic child simply trying to attend school. The inhumanity was open, sanctioned, and generational.

And yet, after decades of bloodshed, the parties sat down. It was slow. It was painful. The peace has never been perfect. But the guns were lowered. Diplomacy took root.

The Good Friday Agreement may not have solved everything, but it saved lives. There are people alive in Belfast, Derry, and beyond who might not be, had that path not been chosen.

The Israeli–Palestinian conflict is older, more deeply entrenched, and loaded with existential fear on both sides. A solution would demand mutual recognition: Israel’s right to exist, yes—but also Palestine’s right to exist. It would require international mediation by a genuinely neutral party—not the US, not the UK, whose legacies are too tangled and partial to be trusted as honest brokers.

But the alternative is clear: more killing, until one side is utterly broken. As I write this, only one side currently has the military and technological capability to do that.

Where we stand matters.

To call for a ceasefire and peace talks is not to call for the destruction of Israel. It is to plead for a reprieve—for those living in the rubble of what used to be their homes, for the children who live each hour under the threat of death, for the convoys of aid workers who just want to deliver water and bread without being bombed.

Our governments seem unwilling or unable to speak out. So, it falls to us. Those with any kind of platform—even if it’s just a few words shared among a few kindred souls.

We speak because silence, in the face of atrocity, is complicity.

📚 Further Reading / Sources

• UNICEF: Children Must Be Protected in Gaza

• The Guardian – IDF strike kills children collecting water

• BBC – Dozens killed near aid convoy in Gaza

• Amnesty International: Israel’s starvation policy

• BBC History: The Good Friday Agreement

• CAIN Archive – Northern Ireland Conflict and Peace Process

We are now at the one-year mark of the Labour Administration. I voted for them—more out of exhaustion with the grifters who had held power for 13 long years than any real enthusiasm.

I knew then, as I know now, that their policies were lifeless. There was no passion, no thunder. Even Tony Blair had John Prescott as his thunderer-in-chief. Today’s Labour Party has long since abandoned the label “socialist” and seems far more comfortable styling itself as a kind of “One Nation Tory” tribute act—more palatable, perhaps, to the pollsters and the swing-voter demographic, but politically anaemic nonetheless.¹

Now, a year in, it’s clearer than ever: Labour has thrown anything resembling ideology into the bin.

What Happened to the Left?

I fully understand why members of the party are now questioning their continued affiliation—but perhaps that’s a reckoning they should have had years ago.

Blair changed the Labour Party at the level of its DNA. When New Labour emerged in the 1990s, it didn’t just modernise the brand—it erased the old identity entirely.² One moment that always stuck with me: on his Channel 4 show, comedian Mark Thomas ripped up his Labour membership card on stage and invited the audience to do the same. It was a stunt, yes, but a telling one.

At the time, I was in my early twenties and I didn’t understand the outrage. Why complain, I thought, after such a resounding victory? Change is inevitable. You can’t fix the country if you can’t get elected. Foot and Kinnock had come up short every election from 1983 onwards. In 1992, Labour should have won—but again, the Tories triumphed. Maybe Labour had learned its lesson. Maybe, finally, they’d make Britain better for all.

What they actually did was centralise power.³ They crushed internal dissent, marginalised the left flank, and enforced discipline through what many MPs described as systematic bullying.⁴ Figures like Dennis Skinner and Tony Benn were either side-lined or denied influence.

Cabinet ministers became interview robots—briefed to within an inch of their lives, grinning like automatons, terrified of saying the wrong thing. They appeased the right-wing press rather than challenge it, which was always a Faustian bargain. Rupert Murdoch turned on them the moment they did anything the media barons didn’t like.⁵

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Yes, There Were Gains—But Never Enough

There were reforms, yes. The introduction of the minimum wage in 1999.⁶ Tax credits to support working families.⁷ A significant drop in child poverty between 1998 and 2004.⁸ Huge investment in the NHS that slashed waiting times.⁹ All welcome, all real—but still, all piecemeal.

They never truly tackled the system that kept making the rich richer while the working class stagnated.¹⁰ Thatcher had slashed the top tax rate from 83% to 40%; Labour raised it only slightly, to 50% in 2010, and even then only after the financial crash.¹¹ An earlier rise wouldn’t have been revolutionary—it would’ve been fair.

They could’ve closed the legal tax loopholes that let millionaires dodge their dues. These were exposed in scandals involving comedians, singers, and actors—some of the most notorious names in entertainment. David Cameron later called such schemes “morally wrong” without apparent irony.¹² But Labour had the chance to act before the headlines—and they didn’t.

Instead, they spent political capital—and literal billions—on a war that almost nobody wanted.¹³ Over a million people marched against the Iraq War on 15 February 2003—the largest protest in British history.¹⁴ We marched, wrote letters, signed petitions. It didn’t matter.

The Fallout of Fear

New Labour’s legacy also includes an expanded security state. The 2001 Anti-Terrorism, Crime and Security Act and the 2006 Terrorism Act gave sweeping new powers to the government—laws that have outlived their moment and outstripped their original intent.¹⁵

Warnings were issued at the time by the party’s left wing—but ministers brushed them off as hyperbole. Could they still make that claim today? I doubt it. As Owen Jones pointed out in The Guardian, he now feels he has to self-censor rather than publicly support a recently proscribed group known for non-violent direct action.¹⁶

Is that the sign of a healthy democracy?

We rightly condemn the U.S. for its authoritarian spiral—but how far behind them are we, really?

Fragmented Futures

So, what now? I’ve argued before that the left’s biggest flaw is its tendency to splinter. And, like clockwork, Labour MP Zarah Sultana has now resigned from the party and joined Jeremy Corbyn to launch a new left-wing political movement.

Predictably, figures like Neil Kinnock have already dismissed this as self-sabotage—another gift to the Conservatives and Reform UK. And perhaps he’s not wrong.

There were already parties they could have joined: the Socialist Workers Party, Socialist Labour, or the Green Party, which has grown in popularity over the past few years.

I don’t know their precise reasons for launching something new, but it’s hard not to see this as an ego-driven move rather than a necessary reinvention. And it doesn’t help that Corbyn, fairly or not, has become a toxic figure in British politics.

You might point to the success of Reform as a counter-argument, but even that is misleading. Reform isn’t truly new—it’s just a rebranding of the Brexit Party, itself a splinter of UKIP. They filled a genuine vacuum on the far right.

The left, by contrast, is choked with micro-parties who barely register with the electorate or the press. I may be wrong, but I hold no great hopes for this new endeavour.

Let’s Talk About It

If you’ve made it this far, I’d love to hear your thoughts.

Was voting Labour in 2024 a necessary compromise—or a mistake we’re already paying for? Do you believe a new left-wing party can make a difference, or is this just history repeating itself in smaller rooms?

What should the future of the British left look like—and who gets to define it?

👇 Share your thoughts in the comments. Let’s have the honest, difficult conversation that the mainstream parties seem unwilling to start.

Leave a comment

Sources

1. BBC News – Clause IV and Labour’s ideological shift (1995)

2. Channel 4, The Mark Thomas Comedy Product (1997–98)

3. The Guardian – "The control freaks" (on Mandelson and message control)

4. Hansard and political retrospectives on Skinner/Benn; see Guardian obits and profiles

5. The Independent – Tony Blair’s courtship of Rupert Murdoch

6. UK Government Archive – Introduction of minimum wage (1999)

7. HM Treasury – Tax credit reforms

8. Institute for Fiscal Studies – Poverty trends under New Labour

9. King’s Fund – NHS transformation under New Labour

10. LSE – Inequality in the UK

11. HMRC – Top tax rate history

12. BBC – Celebrity tax avoidance schemes

13. Chilcot Report (2016) – Official Iraq War Inquiry

14. Stop the War – 15 Feb 2003 march

15. Liberty – Impact of UK terror legislation

16. The Guardian – Owen Jones, July 9, 2025

Hello to my readers—well, it’s sweltering at the moment. If it’s the same in your part of the world, I hope you’re coping OK.

I’ve been experimenting with different days to post content—Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays so far—and the results have been... uneven, to say the least, so now I am trying a Thursday. But on we go.

Maybe I haven’t quite hit the sweet spot with the content yet. Honestly, there’s so much shittery in the world right now, it’s hard to focus.

America is basically a bin-fire—except for the parts that are underwater, of course. So, let’s hope they extend some national gratitude to the Mexican rescue crews who crossed the border to save lives. I doubt many MAGA types would do likewise, which makes it all the more laudable.

Mad King Donnie appears to have declared war on Los Angeles, which I suppose is a change-up from attempting to declare war on any country that disagrees with him. The visions of mounted soldiers cantering across parkland seems to have been ripped from a Lifetime dystopian film-of-the-week where some of the actors slightly oversold their riding ability.

Over here, Britain is still aiding and abetting a genocide, despite all the evidence, and has now proscribed a non-violent protest group for trying to stop it.

Not knowing the difference between criminal damage and terrorism is quite the look.

At least David Lammy has finally acknowledged that the planned concentration camps in Palestine might be a “sticking point” in ceasefire negotiations. Stirring stuff, Mr. Lammy. Thanks for that razor-sharp insight.

So yes, things are getting darker.

Sir Keir Starmer—despite playing far-right dress-up—is somehow managing to get even less popular.

And speaking of concentration camps (a jolly topic that appears to be in vogue), reports from “Alligator Alcatraz” suggest detainees are being starved. Bright white lights are left on 24/7 so they can’t sleep. There’s no proper sanitation either.

And world governments have said... nothing. What heroes. What marvellous, upright spines they are exhibiting.

A Little Light (and Glitter)

There have been a few bright spots though. The footage and photos from London’s Pride March genuinely warmed my heart. A real highlight: the Navy marching and dancing along to “In the Navy.” (It’s fine—only one of the Village People is a red hat.)

That this pissed off the rabid right? Chef’s kiss. A cherry on the top of this knickerbocker glory of love.

I’ve always believed that love—of all kinds—is the best of humanity. And there’s just not nearly enough of it.

Pessimism seems to have infected everything. And it’s hardly surprising.

The Superman Divide

I noticed, and this will tie in, that nerd media and American reviewers have praised the new Superman. Brave, hopeful, full of heart.

Whereas over here? The reviews have been notably more cynical.

Now, I haven’t seen it (and to be honest, it’s unlikely I’ll drag myself into a dark room for a couple of hours to do so), but it’s an interesting cultural split.

Maybe the U.S. has been so starved of kindness and compassion for so long that something hopeful felt like a breath of fresh air.

Whereas in the UK, we’re so steeped in cynicism—so used to feeling utterly bereft and without hope—that anything earnest gets dismissed as fuckwittery.

Who knows?

I do think though, that those of us with a platform, however small, have a duty to point this shit out and not to shrink from it—however tempting that may seem.

Thanks as ever for reading my brainfart for today and I hope you will consider subscribing of you have not already. Also, feel free to make contact – even if it is just to disagree 😊

We are now at the one-year mark of the Labour Administration. I voted for them—more out of exhaustion with the grifters who had held power for 13 long years than any real enthusiasm.

I knew then, as I know now, that their policies were lifeless. There was no passion, no thunder. Even Tony Blair had John Prescott as his thunderer-in-chief. Today’s Labour Party has long since abandoned the label “socialist” and seems far more comfortable styling itself as a kind of “One Nation Tory” tribute act—more palatable, perhaps, to the pollsters and the swing-voter demographic, but politically anaemic nonetheless.¹

Now, a year in, it’s clearer than ever: Labour has thrown anything resembling ideology into the bin.

What Happened to the Left?

I fully understand why members of the party are now questioning their continued affiliation—but perhaps that’s a reckoning they should have had years ago.

Blair changed the Labour Party at the level of its DNA. When New Labour emerged in the 1990s, it didn’t just modernise the brand—it erased the old identity entirely.² One moment that always stuck with me: on his Channel 4 show, comedian Mark Thomas ripped up his Labour membership card on stage and invited the audience to do the same. It was a stunt, yes, but a telling one.

At the time, I was in my early twenties and I didn’t understand the outrage. Why complain, I thought, after such a resounding victory? Change is inevitable. You can’t fix the country if you can’t get elected. Foot and Kinnock had come up short every election from 1983 onwards. In 1992, Labour should have won—but again, the Tories triumphed. Maybe Labour had learned its lesson. Maybe, finally, they’d make Britain better for all.

What they actually did was centralise power.³ They crushed internal dissent, marginalised the left flank, and enforced discipline through what many MPs described as systematic bullying.⁴ Figures like Dennis Skinner and Tony Benn were either side-lined or denied influence.

Cabinet ministers became interview robots—briefed to within an inch of their lives, grinning like automatons, terrified of saying the wrong thing. They appeased the right-wing press rather than challenge it, which was always a Faustian bargain. Rupert Murdoch turned on them the moment they did anything the media barons didn’t like.⁵

Subscribe now

Yes, There Were Gains—But Never Enough

There were reforms, yes. The introduction of the minimum wage in 1999.⁶ Tax credits to support working families.⁷ A significant drop in child poverty between 1998 and 2004.⁸ Huge investment in the NHS that slashed waiting times.⁹ All welcome, all real—but still, all piecemeal.

They never truly tackled the system that kept making the rich richer while the working class stagnated.¹⁰ Thatcher had slashed the top tax rate from 83% to 40%; Labour raised it only slightly, to 50% in 2010, and even then only after the financial crash.¹¹ An earlier rise wouldn’t have been revolutionary—it would’ve been fair.

They could’ve closed the legal tax loopholes that let millionaires dodge their dues. These were exposed in scandals involving comedians, singers, and actors—some of the most notorious names in entertainment. David Cameron later called such schemes “morally wrong” without apparent irony.¹² But Labour had the chance to act before the headlines—and they didn’t.

Instead, they spent political capital—and literal billions—on a war that almost nobody wanted.¹³ Over a million people marched against the Iraq War on 15 February 2003—the largest protest in British history.¹⁴ We marched, wrote letters, signed petitions. It didn’t matter.

The Fallout of Fear

New Labour’s legacy also includes an expanded security state. The 2001 Anti-Terrorism, Crime and Security Act and the 2006 Terrorism Act gave sweeping new powers to the government—laws that have outlived their moment and outstripped their original intent.¹⁵

Warnings were issued at the time by the party’s left wing—but ministers brushed them off as hyperbole. Could they still make that claim today? I doubt it. As Owen Jones pointed out in The Guardian, he now feels he has to self-censor rather than publicly support a recently proscribed group known for non-violent direct action.¹⁶

Is that the sign of a healthy democracy?

We rightly condemn the U.S. for its authoritarian spiral—but how far behind them are we, really?

Fragmented Futures

So, what now? I’ve argued before that the left’s biggest flaw is its tendency to splinter. And, like clockwork, Labour MP Zarah Sultana has now resigned from the party and joined Jeremy Corbyn to launch a new left-wing political movement.

Predictably, figures like Neil Kinnock have already dismissed this as self-sabotage—another gift to the Conservatives and Reform UK. And perhaps he’s not wrong.

There were already parties they could have joined: the Socialist Workers Party, Socialist Labour, or the Green Party, which has grown in popularity over the past few years.

I don’t know their precise reasons for launching something new, but it’s hard not to see this as an ego-driven move rather than a necessary reinvention. And it doesn’t help that Corbyn, fairly or not, has become a toxic figure in British politics.

You might point to the success of Reform as a counter-argument, but even that is misleading. Reform isn’t truly new—it’s just a rebranding of the Brexit Party, itself a splinter of UKIP. They filled a genuine vacuum on the far right.

The left, by contrast, is choked with micro-parties who barely register with the electorate or the press. I may be wrong, but I hold no great hopes for this new endeavour.

Let’s Talk About It

If you’ve made it this far, I’d love to hear your thoughts.

Was voting Labour in 2024 a necessary compromise—or a mistake we’re already paying for? Do you believe a new left-wing party can make a difference, or is this just history repeating itself in smaller rooms?

What should the future of the British left look like—and who gets to define it?

👇 Share your thoughts in the comments. Let’s have the honest, difficult conversation that the mainstream parties seem unwilling to start.

Leave a comment

Sources

1. BBC News – Clause IV and Labour’s ideological shift (1995)

2. Channel 4, The Mark Thomas Comedy Product (1997–98)

3. The Guardian – "The control freaks" (on Mandelson and message control)

4. Hansard and political retrospectives on Skinner/Benn; see Guardian obits and profiles

5. The Independent – Tony Blair’s courtship of Rupert Murdoch

6. UK Government Archive – Introduction of minimum wage (1999)

7. HM Treasury – Tax credit reforms

8. Institute for Fiscal Studies – Poverty trends under New Labour

9. King’s Fund – NHS transformation under New Labour

10. LSE – Inequality in the UK

11. HMRC – Top tax rate history

12. BBC – Celebrity tax avoidance schemes

13. Chilcot Report (2016) – Official Iraq War Inquiry

14. Stop the War – 15 Feb 2003 march

15. Liberty – Impact of UK terror legislation

16. The Guardian – Owen Jones, July 9, 2025

Back in 2016 - the year when apparently, we were jolted off the progressive forward-looking timeline into what seems to be a dark dystopian reality scripted by Alan Moore - I was speaking to a colleague about the recently inaugurated President Donald Trump.

He was obviously insane, I said, behaving like a spoiled child who is constantly being told he cannot have ice cream for dinner by his parents.

I thought that we were looking at a Stalin-like character - paranoid, fanatical and deeply dangerous.

Kaiser Trump

For her part, she had been reading a biography of Kaiser Wilhelm and the parallels, she explained, were eerie.

Both of them erratic and polarising figures who would tread their own path, regardless of advice to the contrary. Wilhelm's approach to diplomacy and his ego-led aggression certainly play its part in the decisions that led to the First World War and the slaughter of thousands.

Then it was an intellectual exercise - after all Trump’s win had been unexpected. Despite placing allies in some key roles, he did not have free reign in 2016 as grown-ups in Congress and at the Pentagon were not going to allow him to start WWIII.

Now?

It is all frighteningly real.

The Madness of King Trump

Since re-election Trump has run riot. He has managed to alienate allies in NATO, side with Putin, start trade wars, and escalate tensions in the Middle East, seemingly unaware that striking a match near a bone-dry haystack has consequences.

At this point, the Kaiser comparison falls away—and the shadows of a far more infamous German leader begin to loom.

Where do you even start with the loudly trumpeted "Alligator Alcatraz"?

The pride with which this was announced was truly sickening. Cages with bunks to imprison people for the 'crime' of being undocumented? This is unlikely to be the last. I suspect we’ll see more of these spring up across the U.S.

MAGA (well, Laura Loomer at least) have been 'joking' about feeding immigrants to the sharp-toothed denizens of the swamp, a nasty echo of Trump’s own words about alligator-filled moats back in 2019. That is not just tasteless - it has a nasty tang of something that someone has actually thought about.

Concentration camps (increasingly this is what this camp seems to be) were usually not boasted about - and certainly I have never heard about proudly wearing merch – albeit unofficial!

There is little underhand about this - the US seem genuinely excited about the rapid descent into a dystopian nightmare.

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All Things Big and Beautiful

Of course, as is almost always the way of these things, when it emerges that none of this will benefit Americans it is likely to be far too late to do anything about it.

The so-called “Big Beautiful Act” — a grotesquely rebranded budget reconciliation bill passed on July 7 — will disproportionately impact the very Americans still cheering Trump on: those on low wages, the disabled, seniors, and veterans.

The impact of the measures will fall after the midterms - but the fallout begins now.

In the past such unpopular policies, especially those that hit the Red States would lead to a rout of Republicans in the mid-terms - but the truth is that none of us can be sure as the cult of Trumpism is so strong that it may not matter to those who will suffer.

Perhaps most chilling of all is Trump’s rhetoric following Zohran Mamdani’s win in the New York Democratic mayoral primary.

Not content with the usual slurs, Trump questioned Mamdani’s citizenship and publicly threatened him with arrest—simply for opposing ICE operations in his city.

Eyes Wide Shut

If leaders can threaten opponents with arrest and still gain applause, democracy becomes theatre—not governance.

We’ve seen where this road ends. History has shown us.

The question now is: will we act in time, or will we once again stumble into catastrophe with our eyes wide shut?

As ever, I want to hear your views. Are there chinks of light in the darkness? Am I being overly pessimistic? Please let me know 👇👇👇

Leave a comment

What to say about the current state of this rock we are careering around the sun on? Well, there is a simple answer:

The world is on fire.

In Turkey that is no exaggeration as airports closed due to the wildfires.

There is almost too much to say about the USA. Since I last wrote they have tried, once again, to ignite World War Three by escalating tensions with Iran.

Oh - I do hate to be pedantic, but the name of that country is not, and never has been Eye-Ran - it is not a country that was engineered by Apple. Tsk – say it properly, or not at all.

But it is not all doom and gloom, for once.

Embracing The Celestial

It was actually a piece of celestial news that has got me into a writing frame of mind (despite the early morning heat).

We continue to reach for the stars (quite literally) with the first images appearing from the Vera C Rubin Observatory in Chile. They are stunning.

Pink hued clouds of dust and gas swirl around like watercolour paints in a pool of water. The images show the majesty of stellar nurseries where stars and planets are born. If you are looking for the divine and the transcendental, look no further. It’s enough to remind me of Wilde’s famous quote:

“We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.”

Professor Manda Banerji and Dr Phil Wiseman, writing for The Conversation, say that these images " … will enable [us] to map the substructure and satellite galaxies of the Milky Way like never before."

That is amazing. Here we are boldly looking into the reaches of space to further our scientific research, while down on planet Earth we are being pulled back into the dark ages.

All of the scientific endeavour in the world will not change the fact that we are retreating into a world of half-baked religious philosophies that come from a time when we knew vanishingly little - about our place in the cosmos or our own bodies.

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The Toddler-King

It is hard not to feel hopeless about the state of the USA - and it’s important to remember that the sheer gravitational pull of America has a substantial effect on the rest of the world.

In service to a powerful President whose capricious nature knows no bound, what will countries be prepared to do?

It reminds me of the panic when my son was a toddler, whose cry could have been weaponised as crowd control, doing what we could to ensure that there was nothing that could set them off.

A little like living with an unexploded bomb.

So, here comes the world, acting like doting parents to a troublesome child:

“What can we do for you Mr. President. DEI? Why yes, let’s all dump that into shredder, despite all evidence that says that DEI policies are not just good for employees but good for business too.”

Lest he begin his wailing, again.

Hang on – who is this defying the toddler-king?

Spain have told him they will not be increasing the percentage of their GDP on defence, because they’re not the ones who keep starting unwinnable wars. Good for them. Let the toddler flail about on the supermarket floor – they are only showing themselves up.

Alas, in the UK, we do not have such a strong leader – we have another incompetent, spineless, PM (in a long line). Sir Keir Starmer seems willing to do and say anything to appease the tangerine toddler, up to and including go against his own long-held principles as a lawyer. He previously supported people’s right to direct action but now is trying to proscribe a pro-Palestine group for just that.

When Will Enough Be Enough?

Bravo!

At what point do we decide that

• imprisoning immigrants;

• harassing anyone who happens to look like one;

• threatening news outlets;

• or threatening a man who is running for mayor of New York with deportation because they don’t like his politics,

is enough to cut ties?

We have already proven ourselves to be fine with the eradication of reproductive rights for women, the deportation to permanent detention without parole in El Salvador of ‘illegals’ because they have tattoos or the imposition of what increasingly looks like a fundamentalist Christian state.

There, I suppose, is the challenge for all of us across the world – we must use our voices and any platforms we have to continue to speak out. Silence is the best ally of the oppressor – so let’s continue to be progressive, call out injustice and keep looking to stars – even as our elected representatives continue to lie in the gutter.

Well, it is another hot day today.

The type of weather that a few years ago would have prompted the tabloids to pop a giant sun in shades[1] on its front page accompanied by headlines like:

“Phwoar, what a scorcher!”

In The Sun (that home of high-grade journalism) they would also have a model dressed in nothing but a sunhat and a smile, possibly holding a beachball.

Or something vaguely similar.

I would like to think that they still do this, but for real news stories:

Okay - maybe not.

If You Can’t Stand the Heat …

On the topic of it being too hot - I have seen lately a number of Americans who have found themselves living in the UK finally admitting that Britain in heat is a very different beast than almost anywhere else.

That is because it is.

In these times of climate change, we are seeing temperatures that we used to see occasionally. Usually just before a pleasant summer storm which would see it all crashing down and you could then happily write off summer until the following year.

We just did not do extremes, and as such, on those occasions when we did get hit by unexpected periods of hot, cold, windy, rainy weather we would lose our collective minds and then talk about it for the rest of our lives.

I still occasionally talk about the 1987 storm - nearly forty years on and it will still come up in conversation:

"Remember the neighbours that lost that tree/slates fell off the roof/caravan overturned."

Compare that to anywhere else that gets severe weather, they do not need to talk about it as it will certainly happen, like clockwork, every year.

In Extremis

It is one of the things about the UK that I genuinely liked - extremes were for other people. It is built into the geographical DNA of the place.

• Mountains? Not really, compared with the rest of the world we have fancy hills.

• Rivers? We those too, but they are outranked by middling rivers in backwaters, of which you will have never heard.

That is not to say that these places cannot be beautiful, as they really are. But on a much smaller scale. I would say more manageable. We also have few of the downsides. We do not have to worry about volcanos, earthquakes or tornadoes that plague other nations.

Now, even with the oncoming storm that is climate change we are not suddenly going to discover a fault line or a dormant earthquake threatening to come to life, but there is a danger that we will start to see people die more frequently as a result of flash floods, baking heat or plunging arctic freezes.

This is dangerous stuff, and yet we continue to wander around as if it isn’t happening.

Missing An Open Goal

We were in Crete last year and we got an alert about a forest fire, not near us thankfully, but it was not newsworthy anywhere else other than locally. I cannot tell you whether there was any loss of property, or worse still, life - but we cannot take it in our stride. This global catastrophe is not fine; it is not natural - no matter what the homicidal lunatic in the White House might say.

It would be lovely if we could stop talking about goals without moving the posts – it would not be so bad if we didn’t keep missing. We have been doing that for the last thirty years.

My generation share a great deal of the blame.

I am afraid we were not present politically when we were young. I was too busy drinking and er ... other things that we do not need to go into here, to become actively engaged. We were partying like the world was not living on borrowed time.

I know, in the scheme of things this is just another coal on the conflagration that is our world right now. But we cannot give up - we need to kick up a stink and let our elected representatives know that what they doing is not good enough.

At the end of this stifling heat, there is a storm coming - but this time it will do little to cool things down.

🧠 What are your thoughts? Is it too late to start fixing things? Are we so dependent on fossil fuels that we may never be able to reverse this crisis?

As ever drop your wisdom below 👇

[1] Although it was unclear why – what is it protecting itself against?

On Saturday night I attended a ghost hunt.

Ah - was that for the content?

No - you cynical, cynical people. It was not.

I have always had an interest in the supernatural, the spooky and the downright uncanny.

At University, in the midst of what was the very epitome of a 'liberal arts degree'. I happily explored the world of hauntings, UFO sightings and witchcraft with the disappointing conclusion that most were the result of very human causes.

Most UFOs are weather balloons, military aircraft, or in one sensational report someone looking at a very bright moon.

But.

Some are not. Seasoned pilots and military experts cannot be sure what they were seeing.

Aliens? Evidence of little green men? Probably not, but there is a tantalising possibility – and it is in that gap between the known and the mysterious that lies the real fun.

Mass hysteria has been the explanation for everything from Bigfoot sightings to the Salem Witch Trials (in the latter we can also include petty revenge and old-fashioned misogyny.)

Ghosts are not nearly so easy to explain.

There is no evidence to speak of, apart from eye-witness statements (and we all know how unreliable they can be) but some testimonies seem to defy explanation.

I am not quite ready to believe that these are the remnants of the deceased, but I do think that simply disregarding genuine experiences out of hand is arrogant.

The Haunted Mill

It was with this mindset that I ventured with my wife to Chirk Mill near Wrexham (a town in North Wales that has recently become globally famous).

Chirk is a rather lovely spot. The town sits on the River Ceirog which provides the border between England and Wales; which boasts a castle, an aqueduct, a number of excellent looking public houses and one haunted Mill. It really was very inviting in the early summer sun.

We arrived early and took the opportunity to sneak in a drink at the local pub. We were duly reminded why we do not do this very often when we parted with almost £15 for two drinks (the cheek).

On arriving at the Mill, we were greeted like long-lost friends by the couple who run these events. They could not have been more welcoming as they showed us where to get drinks and snacks while we waited for our fellow ghost-hunters to arrive.

The seasoned seekers of the supernatural came in dribs and drabs and knew each other well. We were pretty much the only newbies.

Typically, this would signal a bad night - with the two of us co-dependently clinging to one another in the chill of an indifferent crowd. Not so that night.

These were rather wonderful people and were keen that we get the best from the evening.

Whistles, hoots and hollers

We began in the basement of the old mill (and it is most certainly old - with the earliest parts dating back to the 12th century), and we stood hand-in-hand in a circle, and we called out to anyone who was there.

So far, so traditional.

The organiser, Nic, began a game of asking the 'spirits' to engage in banging and whistling to show their presence.

We stood in silence as Nic gave a simple two-tone whistle as if calling a dog to heel.

"wee woo"

There was silence for a moment as we keened our ears for a response. Then it came:

"wee woo"

It was soft, almost on the edge of hearing: more like an echo than a solid whistle back. Slightly ethereal, but none-the-less definitely there.

Okay, so this was a one-off - we were primed and wanted to hear something - but it happened again and again. We laughed and clapped and jabbered excitedly. Contact.

Tradition be damned. Standing in reverent silence was not their style. We chatted and sang and laughed some more.

Building energy was the stated reason but that did not matter. This was not just about contacting the dead - not for me. Our social life had taken a hit - parental duties, family illness and a host of other calls upon our money meant that we had got into a rut:

Work, dinner, television, bed, repeat.

Not that night.

There were real people, fun and giggling.

It. Was. Brilliant.

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Viral Dances and Wish-Keanu

Something of a personal highlight was accidentally wandering into some of the group who were broadcasting live on TikTok - to a small but enthusiastic following watching on at home.

"Do you mind being on a live?"

"No, that's fine."

"Oh ... one of our followers said you looked like Keanu Reeves."

"Glasses." I replied. "I can recommend glasses."

"Keanu Reeves if you order him from Wish" came a voice in the darkness that turned out, inevitably, to be from my wife.

I'll fucking take that!

Previously I have been compared with Rolly from Grange Hill (a niche reference for British Gen Xers) and Nick Frost - so it is a definite improvement.

At breaks we chatted with the group, slowly discovering each other’s stories over a hot cup of tea and a biscuit. These people had found each other through a mutual desire to find out what lay beyond our mortal lives, but it was a more human connection that had formed the bonds of friendship. That stuff is precious and if there is a reason that we exist then I think that might just be it.

Finally, as night became early morning and we were ready to bring the night's fun to an end, we engaged in what seems to have become de rigueur for these types of nights: viral TikTok dances. Cue yet more laughter as we tried to emulate those more suited to choreographed routines.

Did we prove life after death?

No.

But I did find out there was life out there, and that we could be a part of it . And that—on a night of whistles and wish-Keanus—was proof enough for me.

👻 We didn’t find definitive proof of ghosts… but we did find laughter, strangers who felt like friends, and overpriced drinks. Hit subscribe if you’re chasing the same kind of spirits 👇

You know, it’s been an awful week. The world is once again in the grip of mono-maniacs who will break every rule of civility to bend it to their will.

Bastards.

Democratic norms are being merrily tossed into the crackling flames—like the fiery death of a Waymo.

I’m sure I’ll get my head around it eventually and post about these horrors. But not today. The sun is out, and workers will soon be spilling into the pubs and clubs of London Town to celebrate. This lunacy will see people drink their bodyweight in fiercely alcoholic concoctions until something stirs in their subconscious:

“Shit—I need to get the last train home.”

A Chaotic Ensemble

There’s something grimly democratic about the last train home on a Friday night after a sunny day.

The train does not account for rank or class. The final service crams you in alongside a chaotic ensemble of the overambitious and the under-hydrated—and it does not apologise for it.

There’s always someone being carried by a mate, slurring, “I’ve only had a couple,” while clinging to the handrail like it’s the mast of a sinking ship. Behind him, a woman is physically shoved onto the train by a group of cheerfully indifferent friends who assure the carriage, “She’s fine. She always wakes up at her stop.”

Then there’s the man teetering on the edge of alcohol poisoning, who uses the handrails to swing himself—like a drunken gibbon—into the vacant seat beside you. He falls asleep almost immediately. On your shoulder, of course. Then, with the solemn dedication of a man on a mission, he begins to drool. Profusely.

And standing in the corner (carefully avoiding the suspiciously yellow streak of liquid heading his way) is the bewildered tourist, slowly realising that London is not quite the haven of culture and refinement promised by all those Richard Curtis films.

We must pity him the most.

Hammered, Actually

Because this isn’t Love Actually. It’s Hammered, Actually—and it smells like spilled beer, stale cigarettes, and the unmistakable despair of someone who’s just realised they left their kebab by the ticket machine.

Still, somehow, this chaos feels weirdly affectionate. Everyone is a little too loud. A little too sticky. A little too close. But for those fifteen or twenty sweaty, lurching minutes, we’re all in this together: strangers held captive by signal failures, group chats, and the promise of a sunny weekend to follow.

Of course, you may be one of the lucky ones—the privileged few who live within walking distance of the station. But for the others, the night is not yet over. What awaits them is the true horror:

The all-night bus.

That is another story for another time.

✏ I hope this distracted you for a few minutes. If it did, consider dropping me a follow or subscribe.

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Ah—it’s Friday again. And, in keeping with the private and non-binding contract I made with myself, here’s another trek through the foothills of my brain.

Have you packed your sturdy boots and oxygen tank? Excellent—let’s get cracking.

There are four words that usually strike fear into my heart when I hear them, mainly because what tends to follow is the worst kind of pseudoscience or flat-earth/aliens built the pyramids conspiracy nonsense:

“I have a theory.”

But today, I’m going to say them anyway. I am aware that someone might hit the button marked ‘controversial’, but here goes:

Neurodivergence in the Wild?

When you live in a family where neurodiversity is the norm (one person with ADHD, another with AuDHD), you start to notice the overlapping traits that hum in the background of daily life. Recently, I’ve been wondering: might these same traits exist in the animal kingdom? Could they also have been essential to our early ancestors, especially during the hunter-gatherer period?

Focus

The kind of hyper-focus that some neuro-divergent people experience would have been a major asset on a hunt. Hours of patient tracking, intense visual scanning, and immersive attention—these aren’t bugs in a system. They’re features. Evolutionarily speaking, this could have been the difference between feeding your tribe and going hungry.

Injustice Sensitivity

One trait I’ve often observed in neuro-divergent individuals is a pronounced sensitivity to fairness and justice. It turns out, this isn’t just a human trait.

In a now-famous experiment, Capuchin monkeys were trained to exchange tokens for food. At first, the system worked. But when some monkeys began receiving better rewards (grapes instead of cucumbers) for the same tokens, the others noticed—and rebelled. Some refused the lesser reward. Others disengaged entirely. Fairness mattered.

Hypervigilance

This trait overlaps with focus but deserves its own spotlight. In a world teeming with predators, the brain that notices too much is arguably better than one that notices too little. Missed a rustle in the brush? You might be lunch. That edge of alertness could literally save lives.

Routine and Structure

A preference for routine is common in both autism and ADHD, but I have observed this in animals. Every pet I’ve ever lived with has been exquisitely aware of when they’re supposed to be fed, walked, and greeted. Disrupt the routine, and the fallout is immediate: confusion, distress, frustration.

So is this really so “disordered”? Or are we measuring it against the wrong yardstick?

A Thought, Not a Diagnosis

Let me be clear: there’s no rigorous science behind these musings, and I make no claims beyond simple curiosity. But I can’t help but wonder—what if neurodivergence isn’t divergence at all?

It’s estimated that around 15% of the UK population is neuro-divergent in some form. But with diagnostic rates rising (especially among adults who slipped through the net in childhood) some believe the true figure is much higher.

So here’s my theory:

What if the people we label “neuro-divergent” today are just exhibiting traits that were once vital—and might still be, if we valued them properly?

Maybe it’s not that people who are neuro-divergent have diverged from society. Maybe society has diverged from them.

📚 References

• Brosnan, S.F. & de Waal, F.B.M. (2003). Monkeys reject unequal pay. Nature, 425, 297–299. Read here

• UK Parliament: Neurodiversity Briefing (2023)

• Thom Hartmann’s “Hunter vs. Farmer” ADHD hypothesis (this is controversial so interpret with caution)

• Suddendorf, T. (2013). The Gap: The Science of What Separates Us from Other Animals

• Gray, P. (2017). Psychology (free online edition)

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If you have thoughts, even it is to profoundly disagree, please let me know in the comments below 👇

If you enjoyed this, please feel free to subscribe to my musings which I try to drop on Mondays and Fridays …

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I don’t often wade into the world of television commentary—people like what they like, and that’s that. But occasionally, something cuts through the cultural static and nudges me to say: hang on a minute.

This time, it’s Doctor Who.

I’m not generally a fan of reality TV (which, yes, includes those never-ending talent shows), and I’m always slightly amazed to find some of them are still going. But Doctor Who? That’s a different beast entirely. And I feel moved—surprisingly—to defend its latest season.

Just in case you are wondering I am a long-time fan and have a fair knowledge of Who-lore. I boarded the TARDIS with Peter Davison in 1982 and have gone back and watched all the other Doctors strut their stuff across time and space.

An Institution with a Social Conscience

Let’s get something clear: Doctor Who is an institution. It’s been on our screens in one form or another for over 60 years—apart from a hiatus between 1989 and its revival in 2005. Even during that break, it lingered in the public consciousness through the 1996 TV movie and Big Finish audio dramas.

It has always had a social conscience. So, when I see people dismiss the latest seasons as “too woke,” I can’t help but roll my eyes. Since 2005, the show’s writers and showrunners have simply followed the same trail blazed by the classic series.

There are endless examples online: slavery, environmental destruction, the glorification of war, genocide, workers’ rights—you name it, Doctor Who tackled it. John Nathan-Turner (producer 1980-89) even had a villain who was a thinly-veiled version of Margaret Thatcher. The politics were never hidden.

A New Landscape, A New Challenge

There’s no denying it: viewing figures have dropped. Once upon a time, EastEnders pulled in 30 million viewers. Today? It’s doing well to break 5 million. That’s not a BBC problem—it’s a symptom of the entire TV ecosystem changing.

More channels. More streaming services. Infinite choice. Not to mention the lure of social media, TikTok, and games consoles. So yes, Doctor Who’s premiere episode Rose drew 13 million viewers in 2005, but we’re in a different world now.

And yet—there’s a silver lining. Among younger viewers, the show has seen a rise in viewership. That’s no small feat. It suggests the show’s regeneration is working. We just don’t know the full picture, especially globally, thanks to Disney+ keeping their metrics secret.

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Enter: Ncuti Gatwa

Ncuti Gatwa brought fresh energy to the role. His profile was already high—Sex Education, Barbie, Masters of the Air—and this summer he stars in The Roses. It’s understandable that, with uncertainty around a third season, he opted to pass the baton.

Was it disappointing? Yes. We expected him to follow the now-familiar “three seasons and out” rule. But disappointment is baked into the show. It's also what keeps it fresh.

Doctor Who thrives on change. Regeneration is in its DNA. It’s why the show is still here, 60 years later.

Surprises, Spoilers, and a Cameo

The appearance of Billie Piper took everyone by surprise. There’s footage of fans screaming at her unexpected “Oh, hello.” It was a genuinely thrilling moment—kept entirely under wraps, for once—something we haven’t had since David Tennant’s debut after Christopher Eccleston’s abrupt exit.

The finale may have been jarring, but it was still touching. Another surprise cameo, another swirl of emotion, and yet more proof that the show can still pack a punch.

Bring Me the Head of Russell T. Davies. Again.

For those demanding the head of RTD, this is not new. These are probably the same fans who were constantly angry with Steven Moffat and Chris Chibnall. There’s always someone shouting from the side-lines.

By all means, be furious. But in the spirit of the show: be kind.

The BBC seems committed to keeping Doctor Who alive, regardless of Disney’s plans. And with the UNIT spin-off (The War Between the Land and Sea) set to land soon on Disney+, we might get a clearer picture of the franchise’s future.

What’s Next? Who Knows?

Is Billie Piper a stopgap? Did they simply run out of time to find a new Doctor? Or have we been foxed again, and she is the 16th Doctor for the long haul? Who knows. I suspect RTD has a plan, and I hope we get to see it unfold in 2027 or perhaps before (fingers crossed).

Until then, let’s enjoy the ride.

Because despite everything, Doctor Who remains a remarkable, shape-shifting exploration of what it means to be human—across time, space, and an ever changing world.

Enjoyed this? Hop aboard the TARDIS.

Join me for my musings on everything from disastrous farm visits to the current political climate. Sometimes barbed, hopefully funny but always sincere.

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Have you ever been surprised by a visit to a farm?

No? Me neither.

Let’s take a quick roll call of the usual suspects you might find down on the farm:

• Sheep? ✔️

• Pigs? ✔️ (Wallowing, enormous, and somehow more intimidating than you remember from those pastel-coloured children's books.)

• Chickens scratching around in the dust? ✔️ (Assuming this isn’t one of those battery hellholes where they are squeezed into an enclosure with only slightly more room than a Monday morning commuter.)

• Llamas? A more glamorous addition, but there they are, like a sexier Boris Johnson.

• Ostriches? Increasingly, yes — it seems diversification is the order of the day.

So far, so bucolic.

But, lo, what do we have here?

A large car park. A gaggle of coach parties. A sea of balding middle-aged men with generous bellies forming a long, snaking queue …?

I don’t remember that verse in Old MacDonald Had a Farm. I mean, what the hell sound do they make?

Welcome, dear reader, to Clarkson’s Diddly Squat Farm.

I came. I queued. I regretted everything.

Let’s get this out of the way: I’m not a fan of Jeremy Clarkson.

His particular brand of xenophobic, casually misogynistic bombast has never been my cup of builder’s tea. So I’d managed to avoid his Amazon Prime series Clarkson’s Farm entirely — which may partly explain why I was so unprepared for the reality of Fiddly Fuck Farm (as it shall henceforth be known in my mind).

I had naively assumed we were visiting an actual farm. You know — tractors, hay bales, animals, the occasional jug-eared yokel.

What we got was... a shed. A queue. And an enormously smug brand experience.

The café was closed.

We'd driven for what felt like an eternity to reach sunny Chipping Norton — a sort of upper middle-class purgatory designed to keep the very rich safely fenced off from the rest of us. I will say this though: someone out there is making an absolute killing in Union Jack bunting.

There it was: the fabled Farm Shop, and a queue of the sort that would usually have a rollercoaster at the end.

"Is this it?" I asked, craning my neck for signs of an actual farm.

"Yes," came the reply from my mother-in-law, who had recommended the trip. "You’d have known that if you’d watched the programme."

A fair point, maybe. But still — it’s just a shop?

"Yes," she said. "But it has funny stuff in there."

"Funny how?"

"Well, there’s a candle that smells of his bollocks."

Oh dear - that appeared to be a ‘fresh-as-a-daisy’ satirical response to a certain Goop founder’s candles with a whiff of her undercarriage. Not the best start - but perhaps it would improve.

Or not.

Cow Juice & Bee Puns

We queued. For a long time. I can’t tell you how long — I zoned out somewhere between despair and mild heatstroke, shuffling forward like a zombie waiting to be shown where a brain used to be.

Eventually, we got within striking distance of the shed’s entrance. My wife spotted strawberries — locally grown and, to be fair, they looked very good — and placed them delicately into a wicker basket.

Nothing else joined them.

The shop itself was packed with what I can only describe as branding exercises. Normal items renamed with zany little winks:

• Milk = Cow Juice

• Honey = Bee Juice

You get the gist. Rib-tickling stuff, to be sure.

The rest of the goods were either:

a) things you can buy at literally any supermarket,
b) eye-wateringly expensive, or
c) (frequently) both.

It was a retail experience dressed up as rural adventure. An English farm by way of Disneyland where the punchlines had gone through several rounds of committee approval.

Finally after a whole ten minutes of slow progress you are spat out at the other end along with many other people who look confused as to how they had spent quite so much money.

Back to Reality (and Better Farm Shops)

I live half a mile from an actual farm shop.

It doesn’t call itself a farm. It doesn’t sell “bollock candles” or £6 jars of jam called “Fruit Splooge” or whatever. But it does have good food, a brilliant café that’s always open, and — crucially — no queue. You can breathe. You can browse the goods without fear of accidentally assaulting a fellow customer.

And yet it does not seem to gather throngs of baffled-looking tourists or middle-aged men in brewery t-shirts — where did they go wrong?

Final Verdict

We drove home, tired and mildly traumatised, vowing never to return. But I’ll say this much in fairness:

The strawberries were excellent.

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It may just be where I live, but there’s been a noticeable uptick in Union Flags flying outside houses. Not draped from bedroom windows — I mean actual flagpoles in actual gardens.

When did this become a thing?

Flagpoles were for town halls, castles, or the occasional seaside B&B. Not suburban semis in Northampton.

Flying the Flag (Back in the Day)

Growing up in the 80s, a prominent display of the flag usually meant one thing: you were very likely a jackboot-wearing member of the National Front or the British National Party (the same people, really — just some of them wore suits).

The Union Flag had its moments — jubilees, the Olympics, royal weddings. But when the party ended, the bunting came down. Packed away with the plastic tableware and forgotten. As it should be.

Sure, Cool Britannia gave the flag a brief comeback. You saw it on mugs, T-shirts, and most famously on Geri Halliwell’s dress at the Brits. When British Airways removed it from their tailfins — Virgin gleefully adopted it.

I’ll admit, it’s a design classic.

But it’s also been permanently sullied by large bald men with misspelled tattoos, convinced the country backed the wrong side in WW2.

Retired Like an Aging Royal

When Cool Britannia died (mercifully), the flag was retired once again. A cultural grandparent, wheeled out only for state occasions.

And then came Boris.

Ah, Boris.

He waved that flag with the glee of a man trying to distract from… well, everything.

During the lockdowns of 2020–21, we saw some surreal scenes: ministers, stuck at home, delivering statements flanked by massive Union Flags. Sometimes two. It looked less like a press briefing and more like a hostage video.

And it wasn’t just the Tories.

Everyone Loves the Flag Now, Honest

Fearing the dreaded “unpatriotic” label, Labour got in on the act too.

“We love the flag, honest guv!”

This, from the same folks who claimed to love Old Blighty while throwing staff parties that would make Oliver Reed blanche, while the rest of us were stuck inside, hoping not to contract a disease that might finish off Granny.

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When Flags Were Rare

There was a time when seeing a Union Flag or a flag of St George in someone’s window was a rare thing — and usually not a good sign.

As comedian Rhys James once said:

“Now that the World Cup is over, we can all go back to identifying the people with a flag in the window as racist.”

And now? I see them all. the. time.

It feels out of character for our country. We used to carry a kind of quiet guilt about being British — and unlike other nations, we didn’t drape ourselves in the flag.

That would’ve been unseemly. Braggadocious.

No, our national identity was found in:

• a cup of tea (and a biscuit),

• a gin & tonic under grey skies,

• an obsessive love of games we invented but never win.

That was Britishness. Subtle. Self-effacing. Slightly shambolic.

Are We Becoming More American?

Have those days been consigned to the dustbin — replaced by a new kind of Britishness? One that’s:

• flag-waving,

• immigrant-hating,

• performatively patriotic,

• and vaguely narcissistic?

Are we becoming more American?

Please, tell me this is just a phase. That the flags will vanish from front gardens as suddenly as they appeared.

And that we can go back to being quietly patriotic, instead of obnoxiously nationalistic.

☕️ Have you spotted a rogue flagpole lately?

Drop a comment — or send me a photo. I’m collecting them like rare birds.
And if you enjoyed this mildly concerned cultural ramble, hit subscribe below. More to come.

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Last week, I shared the personal story behind The Ignoble Nobleman—a novel born from a difficult chapter in my life. But this week, I want to shift gears and share something from the writing side: the journey from my first draft to the final version of Chapter One.

This is a story about learning to write by writing badly.

The ‘Draft That Shall Not Be Named’

In the very early days, I handwrote the first draft of the novel. It was terrible—truly, irredeemably bad. That version met a deservedly dramatic end in a recycling bin. In a way, I wished I had kept it as a monument to folly.

But the first typed draft still exists. Reading it now is like opening an old diary: part-nostalgia, part-cringe, part "why didn’t anyone stop me?"

Here’s how I originally opened the novel:

Chapter 1 – Stormy Weather

March 1793 – Calais, France

“The storm had finally passed, allowing the Henrietta to reach the safety of the port... A booted foot stepped onto the rain-greased wood… slipping into a mysterious, noxious substance…”

And then… not much else happened. Our protagonist, James Balowick, disembarked. He walked to an inn. A few descriptions, a few musings. That was it.

In my mind, this was meant to be a dramatic entry into a dangerous world.

In reality: the reader got to see our hero being clumsy and … that is about it.

Mistake #1: Starting Too Late

I’d made a classic beginner’s mistake—writing the story like a slow boil rather than a hook. There was no tension, no stakes, and no sense of why any of this mattered. Even worse, we didn’t learn much about Balowick beyond his clumsiness.

I also waited too long to learn about story structure. I started Googling terms like “three-act structure” and “narrative hook” after I’d written half a dozen chapters. Don’t do that.

Eventually, I scrapped the opening entirely and reworked the narrative flow. The Calais arrival scene stayed, but it moved later—after the reader had context, and after the action had already begun.

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The Final Version: A Stronger Start

Here’s how The Ignoble Nobleman opens now:

1

A Kick in the Rookeries

“The streets of London played host to a throng of thieves and vagabonds… John Campbell was barely into his teens when he had run from a life of toil in the Glasgow docks… now in debt to a gang leader called Nicholson.”

Instead of a sleepy stumble off a boat, we now open with a chase through the London slums. We meet John Campbell—a streetwise pickpocket—and through his eyes, we see James Balowick in action: clever, commanding, and dangerous.

No more telling readers that Balowick is impressive. Now, they get to see it from the very beginning.

Lessons Learned

• Start with movement. A character arriving is less engaging than one who’s already running.

• Don’t wait for the story to get interesting. Begin where something’s already at stake.

• Murder your darlings. Your lovingly crafted first scene might not serve your story—and that’s OK.

• Structure helps. You don’t need to follow every formula, but knowing how stories work makes a huge difference.

It took me years—and more than a few rewrites—to get there. I am far happier with the opening now and hope that I can improve as I embark on my follow-up.

✏️ From a scribbled draft to a self-published novel — The Ignoble Nobleman is the book that grew out of chaos, caffeine, and a very patient co-writer and editor (my wife).

If you’re into time travel, vampires, and 18th-century intrigue, you can check it out here. If you're working on something of your own: keep going. First drafts are meant to be bad. Just don’t let them be your last - I very nearly did!

The news from the USA this week is horrifying—and yes, utterly disgusting.

Adriana Smith died because she was denied medical treatment that might have harmed her unborn baby. Bad enough? No. Now she’s been turned into a glorified incubator for a child likely to be born with a suitcase full of medical problems—and a dead mother.

Just typing this makes me feel physically sick. Honestly, it reads more like a particularly grim episode of The Handmaid’s Tale than actual news headlines.

You already know why this is happening. It’s the far-right Christian nationalist agenda bleeding into every crevice of American society.

This is why secularism matters. And no, secularism isn’t just for heathens like me. It’s a polite, reasonable request: please don’t use your dogmatic religious beliefs as the foundation for laws that affect everyone—regardless of whether they believe in your fairy tales.

A Collective Scream …

You could hear the screams from space if someone suggested imposing Sharia on a mainly Christian population. For years, conservatives warned us of this “imminent threat”, and yet when the rules get rewritten to their advantage, you could hear a pin drop—silence worthy of a church on Sunday morning.

For decades, pastors and religious leaders railed against the removal of prayer from public schools. But it wasn’t just any prayer. No “prayer mats for all faiths” or “Buddhist meditation corners” here. Nope. It was always Christian prayer.

That is the problem.

I’d defend anyone’s right to worship however they like and live by their own holy book’s rules—but those rules belong to their flock and no one else. They shouldn’t stop women from getting healthcare or turn them into zombie incubators, treated by doctors too scared of a Christian state to save lives.

If this isn’t a dystopian nightmare, it’s a hell of a close second.

So what now?

If you want to fight back against this creeping theocracy, start by demanding that lawmakers keep their bibles—and their sermons—out of the hospital rooms and courtrooms. Because healthcare isn’t about faith, it’s about life.

And if that makes you uncomfortable—well, that’s probably the point.

As ever if you have a view, please comment below 👇

Most of you will remember the economic disaster of 2008 — and the fallout. People lost jobs and homes thanks to shiny-suited, shit-eating fuck-weasels who played fast and loose with the markets. And when they lost, everyone lost.

In 2009, I was still gainfully employed and doing pretty well. I got married, and my wife, Laura, was already carrying our son, blissfully unaware of the dark clouds on the horizon.

Before our son was born, I started hearing whispers about restructuring at work. The department I was in was being scrapped.

With uncertainty surrounding my job, and the cost-of-living in London being so high we were wrenched from the city we loved back to my wife’s hometown of Northampton in 2010. This was partly for the lower housing costs, but it did have the added benefit of being closer to Laura’s mum as we prepared to become parents.

Then the hammer blow came at the worst possible time, I was suddenly out of a job.

To make matters worse, we discovered that Laura was unwell — a chronic condition that would only get worse.

So there we were: new parents, neither of us able to work, and despite my efforts to find new employment, I was getting nowhere. It took months to get back into work — and even then, the pay was significantly less.

The outlook was bleak in the months of job seeking without much success. It took a toll on both of our mental health. But being a man — the most stubborn of all animals — I wouldn’t admit how bad it was. My depression simmered, quiet but constant.

The days were long. No money for nice days out. We did whatever we could to pass the time.

And then, one afternoon, desperate for something — anything — to do, we wandered into a church.

A Not-So-Damascene Moment

Before you wonder: no, this isn’t the tale of a spiritual awakening. We’re both agnostic on the whole God issue.

But inside All Saints Church — which squats in the centre of town, surrounded by burger joints, mobile phone shops, and bookmakers — we found something curious.

It’s a beautiful building, a beacon of loveliness in an otherwise unloved town centre (sorry, Northampton, but your high street looks like a fucking war-zone). The Reverend welcomed us in warmly, told us to have a wander, and so we did — our baby in a buggy, us slightly damp from the drizzle.

The church had a small café, and while sipping our budget coffees, Laura pointed out a plaque she’d seen:

Here under lyeth
John Bailes Born in this
Town he was above 126
years old & had his hearing
Sight and Memory to ye last
He lived in 3 Centurys
& was buried the 14th of Apr
1706.

John Bailes. Born in the reign of Elizabeth I, buried under Queen Anne. For a man born in Tudor times to have lived that long — and to be remembered for it — was astonishing. There wasn’t much information about him, but we wondered: could we invent his history? Build a story around him?

A Project is Born (painfully slowly)

We started playing around with ideas. We’d never written a novel before. Just this initial stage — trying to figure out a structure — took ages. And we quickly realised: just being really old is not a plot.

We needed focus. A setting. A hook. And, ideally, a dose of fantasy — not only to make it interesting, but to let us work outside the strict boundaries of historical accuracy.

So I started handwriting a draft.

It was... not good. Full of rambling, overwritten prose. Laura (bless her bluntness) called me out for trying to sound like the cleverest person in the room. That draft became kindling.

Draft Two was better — but still lacking. We needed more energy. More intrigue. And what’s more intriguing than vampires?

Nothing. That’s the answer. In case you were wondering.

So we threw in vampires. And werferrah — a shape-shifting race we made up. And tempus viators, another invented race who could travel through time and space.

Suddenly, we were excited again.

And Then… Life

We were on the home stretch, or so we thought. I was back in work, our son was growing (and causing glorious chaos), and things were moving.

And then Laura’s health collapsed.

Twice in the same year I almost lost her. Long hospital stays. Scrambling to arrange childcare. Worry, exhaustion, guilt, fear. The novel — the world we’d created — slipped into the cracks of our life.

As things slowly improved — Laura got the care she needed, I found better-paid work — our long-lived protagonist, now named James Balowick, began to whisper again.

We picked the project back up. Rewrote. Revised. Rewrote some more. Eventually, we self-published it on Amazon.

Four Years in the Void

Family and friends were lovely. A few kind strangers even left glowing reviews. But then — life again. And ironically, despite working in marketing, I did absolutely nothing to promote the book.

So it sat. Four years. Unloved. Unnoticed.

Then last year, some friends who’d enjoyed the book asked:
“When’s the next one?”

The next one?

Honestly, I’d lost all confidence — in the project, in my writing, in myself. The thought of doing it again wasn’t just daunting — it felt impossible.

But I lied.

“I’m working on it now.”

I wasn’t. But maybe I should have been.

A Bit of Love, A Bit of Belief

That lie became a decision. The book had received

praise. Laura’s mum — who is not one to blow smoke — had said she enjoyed it. A couple of the Amazon reviews had been genuinely fulsome.

So, since late last year, I’ve been revisiting the novel. Reading it aloud. Sprucing it up. Fixing the odd typo no one had spotted.

And now — republished. A bit cleaner. A bit sharper. Hopefully better.

It took over a decade. But that little plaque in a quiet church gave us something to hold onto during the worst of times. And that feels worth sharing.

If you're curious, the book is called The Ignoble Nobleman.
You can check it out here — or not. Either way, thanks for reading.

It’s hard to know what we should genuinely be concerned about anymore, or what’s just showmanship from the far right.

We should absolutely be worried about the rights-trampling, society-warping brand of free-market economics being foisted onto world. The kind that makes everyone poorer except a tiny handful of billionaires. And yet, most of us are too distracted to notice.

That’s the point.

The Flood of Nonsense Is the Strategy

Trump figured it out a long time ago: if you make a new, absurd, headline-grabbing statement every five minutes, no one has time to examine what’s actually being planned.

Take his recent bizarre rant about reopening Alcatraz. Why? Because no one’s ever escaped from it—except for the people who did. But hey, it was the plot of The Rock, so it must be true.

Rebuilding a rusting, abandoned prison would cost millions. It’s not going to happen. But it will dominate headlines, deflect attention, and eat up airtime that should be spent covering genuinely dangerous policies—like the SAVE Act, which could disenfranchise millions of voters and destabilise democracy.

And who will that affect the most?

Spoiler Alert

Well, you can drown me in a vat of treacle – it’s women!

Married woman who have changed their last name to that of their husbands to be precise.

Shock twist, I know.

In a country where misogyny is increasingly celebrated, it should come as no surprise that women’s rights are once again on the chopping block.

But don’t think the US has a monopoly on regression.

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The UK’s Own Distraction Machine

In the UK, a small group of Scottish campaigners have managed to make life less safe—for both trans women and cisgender women—all while claiming to defend the latter.

Their bogeyman? Trans women in public toilets.

Let’s look at the facts.

In 2023/24, there were nearly 70,000 reported rapes in England and Wales. The number attributed to trans women? According to a written response by Sir Nicholas Dakin, five. That’s 0.007%. (Yes, really.)

Despite this, we’ve ended up with a bizarre new set of EHRC guidelines that increase scrutiny and suspicion not just for trans people, but for any woman who doesn’t “look right.” Pink News recently reported on a case of a cisgender woman removed by security from a female toilet - and this is likely to get worse.

And while everyone is fixated on trans women, no one seems to have considered trans men—who, under these new rules, would be forced to use the women’s toilets. Who is going to police that?

Even Tory MP Simon Clarke had no answer when asked this exact question by Labour’s Dawn Butler.

Because, of course, they haven’t thought it through.

This Was Never About Safety

This is about control. About manufacturing outrage. About rolling back rights one marginalised group at a time.

Today, it’s trans women. Tomorrow, it’ll be queer people. After that? Anyone who doesn’t conform.

If you think a bathroom sign has ever stopped a determined predator, I have a bridge to sell you.

"Yeah - I was gonna go into the toilets and sexual harass all the women, but then I saw that outline of a woman on the door and it stopped me dead in my tracks."

The Broader Threat

All of this—the fake policies, the fear-mongering, the erosion of rights—is just a symptom of a deeper strategy.

Keep people distracted. Keep them divided. Keep them angry at the wrong targets.

And while we argue about toilets, voting rights are eroded, public services are gutted, and the very foundations of democracy start to crumble.

Let's start to reorient our fury toward those who deserve it. There is a common enemy and generally speaking they are wealthy, suit-wearing, white men with a public platform of millions all the while complaining they have been 'silenced' by ‘wokism’.

💬 I’d love to hear your thoughts.

Do you feel like distraction is being used to mask real dangers? Has the media circus made it harder to focus on what matters? Share your comments below.

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The right wing has always been surprisingly welcoming. A vast tent willing to accommodate everyone.

A bit racist? Come hither, brother;

Climate change denier because the truth makes you uncomfortable? Pull up a chair and help yourself to tea and biscuits;

Despise women because your noxious personality means no one will touch you? Welcome to the warm glow of our hatred.

That, I would argue, is why the Liberal and Left movements keep getting their backsides handed to them.

The right embraces almost anyone who shares even a sliver of their worldview, no matter how toxic. It is a fraternity of hate. The left, by contrast, often alienates those not considered "pure of faith."

Eating Our Own

I've noticed this pattern growing worse as the USA descends into authoritarianism and Europe teeters on the edge.

Many on the left lay the blame squarely at the feet of liberals, accusing them of selling out, compromising, watering down principles to please everyone but, in the end, pleasing no one.

There’s some truth to this.

Kamala Harris, in her presidential bid, tried courting disaffected Republicans, diluting her policies to win them over.

It didn’t work.

In the UK, Sir Keir Starmer toppled the exhausted Conservative government. It was an outcome so inevitable he could have afforded to be bolder. Fourteen years of grifting and incompetence which saw five PMs in that time - one of whom has the distinction of being the shortest serving PM of all time.

Yet he wasn’t. Fear of a hostile press made him timid and promise nothing at all. The very same press that attacked him anyway.

Meanwhile, the right produced its best weapon: The Strongman.

A figure unburdened by facts, unshackled by law, who "tells it like it is" ( a none-too-subtle code for unfiltered bigotry).

Academics, experts and scientists are dismissed as the "woke mob" out to spoil the party with their well reasoned arguments, evidence and facts.

We’re watching people cheer policies that will wreck their economies, ruin their environments, and strip away their rights.

Why?

Because The Strongman promises they will 'get things done' and that they will hate anyone you do. Standing like Groucho Marx decrying everything:

"Your proposition may be good

But let's have one thing understood:

Whatever it is, I'm against it

And even when you've changed it or condensed it

I'm against it."

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The Big Tent vs the Herd of Cats

On the right: a loyal flock, willing to march into the slaughterhouse for their leaders.

On the left: a swirling mass of cats, fighting over ideological purity while the wolves close in.

The right uses mass media to convey messages that are simple, emotive, and brutal. The three-word slogan gets stuck in the head, which is why they are so effective.

The left gather in dense pages of journals and magazines, wrapped in academic jargon few outside the bubble can understand.

Does anyone honestly know what a Post-Marxist Dialectic is? I can't be sure that this even a thing or just a half-remembered slogan from a man selling copies of the Socialist Worker.

I once got called a "fattened member of the bourgeois" by the same man for daring to walk briskly past his stall on my way to catch a train. Which was pretty odd for a working-class kid from the less salubrious end of North London.

The Emergency We Face

If we want to stop this terrifying slide into oligarchy and fascism, we have to build alliances across the left spectrum. Fast.

Liberals must accept that the

neo-liberal economic model has failed. More billionaires is not success, it’s a sign the system is broken.

Socialists must accept that a left-wing authoritarianism would be just as poisonous as a right-wing one (see Venezuela). People must be allowed individuality, not be crushed by dogma.

There is common ground between liberals and the left.

We just need to stop clawing at each other long enough to identify what they are.

Right now, democracy itself is on the ropes and we should not just be onlookers as others throw in the towel.

I really hate to quote the old bigot Churchill but:

"Democracy is the worst form of government, except for all the others."

📢 If you found this thought-provoking, or perhaps you think I am wrong? Let me know in the comments below.

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