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Behind the talk of “humanitarian cities” and postwar development lies a brutal truth: this is a plan to herd Palestinians into ghettos, fence them in, and call it aid. When Blair’s thinktank is on calls about a “Trump Riviera” in Gaza, you know the project isn’t reconstruction—it’s removal.
They say the Games are about unity, but what’s happening in LA tells a different story
What separates Hedges’s account from the usual war reporting is his refusal to speak in the language of balance. There are no “both sides” here. Gaza is not a tragedy. It is a crime. And history, in his telling, is not analogy but repetition. The Nakba never ended. The airstrikes are new; the logic is old. “We progress backwards,” someone has scrawled on a UN school wall. That line could be the book’s thesis.
This month, the British state made its position on violence unambiguous: while ex-generals and loyal newspapers led the charge, Parliament followed. The result was clear: Impunity for its own, criminalisation for its critics. In the same month it moved to quash investigations into war crimes in Northern Ireland, it voted to proscribe Palestine Action under terrorism law.
Trump is no longer a politician in Dugin’s hands. He is a prophet who fell short. But the prophecy lives on. That’s how Dugin works: he turns failure into myth, betrayal into destiny. Putinism becomes the sacred, Trumpism the fallen. Everything is wrapped in theology, because the politics (when you look closely) aren’t up to much. It’s not tradition he’s defending. It’s accelerationism with a whiff of incense.
The state demands loyalty from its killers, and contempt for those who ask why. To question the SAS is treated as heresy. To investigate them, as betrayal. But no one is above the law. Not even the men with night-vision goggles and state-sanctioned impunity. If the victims of British state violence are to be denied justice so that the myth of military virtue can remain intact, then we are not a democracy. We continue to be an empire that refuses to admit it.
You don’t have to like the tactics. But if protest that disrupts power is treated as terrorism, then the state has rewritten the definition to suit itself.
The Labour Party under Starmer has become a machine for silencing dissent. Abbott, Shaheen, Driscoll, and others have been smeared, blocked, or expelled. The party has moved right on immigration, welfare, protest, and Palestine — and done so proudly. Sultana’s resignation wasn’t a betrayal of Labour values. It was a defence of them. And if a new left party is to be more than symbolic, it needs more than moral clarity. It needs leadership. Corbyn remains the figurehead, but John McDonnell (articulate, disciplined, and trusted) is the one who could anchor this project. He may not want the crown. But that is exactly what makes him the right person to hold it.
By the time Hollywood started scripting Iran as its newest bogeyman, the Cold War playbook had already been written. The turbans replaced fur hats, the chants swapped in for Russian-accented threats, but the role remained the same: the unknowable enemy, forever at the gates. From Argo to Homeland, Iran is less a country than a plot device—violent, duplicitous, irredeemably foreign. Yet in the shadow of this narrative, exiled Iranian filmmakers are doing something far more dangerous than propaganda: they’re telling the truth.
Trump’s bunker busters, Netanyahu’s theological realism, and Starmer’s threat to criminalise Palestine Action reveal a world in which violence is moralised, empire is rationalised, and dissent is once again labelled terrorism.
Travis Scott’s Astroworld concert should never have turned deadly—but as Netflix’s Trainwreck series shows, the machinery of profit, fandom and spectacle made it almost inevitable. When capital kills, no one at corporate is ever to blame.
Mike Tyson was never just a boxer—he was a system made flesh. Mark Kriegel’s Baddest Man understands this: it’s not a redemption tale but an anatomy of spectacle, where a traumatised boy from Brownsville is forged into a global icon of violence, repackaged as entertainment, and finally rebranded for profit
Alexander Dugin’s Trump Revolution is less a political treatise than a fascist gospel for the post-liberal order—mythic, dangerous, and perfectly in tune with the mood of the new authoritarian right.
As Trump edges closer to war with Iran, the MAGA movement confronts its deepest contradiction: you can’t bomb your way to peace and still call it America First.
The far right has no intention of meeting the climate crisis—they’re not even pretending anymore. As scientists warn we have just two years left to stay within the carbon budget for 1.5C, reactionary forces double down on fossil fuels, culture war, and delay. Their politics is not about preventing collapse, but exploiting it. Climate denial has become climate opportunism—and the cost will be counted in lives.
Britain doesn’t have a problem with ambition—it has a problem with delivery, honesty, and class. HS2 is just the latest national fiasco sold as progress, then gutted behind the scenes to serve consultants, cronies and headlines.
As Trump ramps up pressure on Iran—economically, militarily, and rhetorically—he discards intelligence briefings in favour of bombast, demands a surrender he can’t define, and courts catastrophe under the banner of strategic clarity. But Iran is not Iraq, and the fantasy of collapse may end in flames, not order.
Adam Curtis’s latest series attempts to diagnose the collapse of public trust in Britain—but without his voice, a clear argument, or fresh material, Shifty drifts through the ruins of the neoliberal age, recycling fragments and offering atmosphere where once there was clarity.