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Keir Starmer’s government has turned protest into a criminal offence, wielding counter-terror laws against pensioners, vicars, and schoolteachers while arms dealers cash in. This isn’t public safety, it’s the criminalisation of conscience.
The crimes of Dresden, Hiroshima, and Nagasaki were supposed to teach the world “never again.” Huckabee’s defence of Gaza’s destruction turns that into “do it again” — not moral clarity, but moral collapse.
Restore Britain isn’t an alternative to Farage — it’s his spawn, bred in the gaps when he feigns moderation. Their game isn’t winning elections, it’s shifting the boundaries of the possible until the grotesque feels ordinary.
Israel killed Anas al-Sharif because it feared what he could still show the world.
Jenrick’s “medieval attitudes” line isn’t about protecting women — it’s about importing the far right’s script into the Tory mainstream. From Powell to Farage, the cast has changed but the grammar is the same: the outsider as danger, the nation as victim, the politician as saviour.
Keir Starmer’s proscription of Palestine Action marks a new stage in Britain’s authoritarian turn, retooling counter-terrorism laws to criminalise dissent, define solidarity as “terrorism”, and dress up political repression as public safety.
Gilbert Achcar’s The Gaza Catastrophe is not a plea for sympathy. It is a political weapon. Written in the midst of genocide, it strips away the euphemisms, the diplomatic theatre, and the moral fog. This war, he argues, is a settler-colonial project. Accelerated to its most brutal form, with the full backing of the Western powers who claim to uphold human rights. Achcar names the system, maps its historical scaffolding, and indicts not only Israel but the global order that enables it. This is not a book of mourning. It is a call to act.
Right to Buy was never just a housing policy. It was a weapon. It stripped councils of their power, turned tenants into property owners, and recast collective provision as individual gain. The result wasn’t freedom but fragmentation: social housing gutted, rents soaring, and the right to strike undermined by the threat of eviction. Thatcher didn’t just sell homes. She sold a new class alignment, and we’re still living in its ruins.
The Manson murders have long been framed as the dark collapse of the 1960s dream, but Errol Morris’s Chaos: The Manson Murders suggests a more unsettling possibility, that the violence was not the product of countercultural excess, but of a deeper, hidden war waged by the state against the radical potential of the era.
Donald Trump’s second presidency is turning the U.S. government into the world’s biggest bagholder, legitimising a crypto Ponzi scheme in exchange for the cash that put him back in the White House.
The push for “freedom cities” in the US is the logical endpoint of a tech oligarchy determined to replace democracy with a network of private, corporate-run enclaves where the wealthy rule and the rest are left behind.
Nick Dyer-Witheford and Alessandra Mularoni’s Cybernetic Circulation Complex: Big Tech and Planetary Crisis, recently published by Verso, is more than a critique, it’s an intellectual war machine. They chart how the CCC has reshaped the global economy, from Amazon’s AI-driven logistics empire to the speculative bubbles propping up Tesla and Google. They expose how Big Tech’s far-right accelerationists, from Andreessen to Thiel, are using crisis to rewire the state itself. The choice, they argue, is stark: biocommunism or extinction.
Robert D. Kaplan’s Waste Land: A World in Permanent Crisis is less a serious analysis of global instability than an extended defence of imperial power, dressing up the failures of capitalism as inevitable and naturalising the dominance of Western capital as the only alternative to chaos.