Britain
Planes That Will Never Take Off
Planes will never take off, but every promise of mass deportation erodes rights, normalises cruelty, and casts the mob as the voice of the nation.
The rest of the blog
Planes will never take off, but every promise of mass deportation erodes rights, normalises cruelty, and casts the mob as the voice of the nation.
The English “revolution” under the St George’s Cross is no revolution at all, but a counter-revolution, a politics of scapegoating that shields the dominant class from blame.
Scapegoating migrants is just the start. When politics legitimises fear and blame, the mob never stops, and neither does the cycle of persecution.
Keir Starmer’s law-and-order theatrics have handed the far right its new saint: a self-styled free speech Joan of Arc—except this saint didn’t want to be burned, she wanted others to be.
Paul Bristow cites the Epping Forest ruling to demand hotel closures for asylum seekers, but offers no plan for what follows. The Conservatives built the hotel system; Labour inherits it; local politicians weaponise planning law while migrants disappear from view.
The arrest of a part-time cleaner for sharing Facebook posts backing Palestine Action shows how Britain’s response to Gaza has drifted from foreign policy into domestic repression.
Farage brings the noise, Starmer brings the law. The country falls apart to the sound of flags snapping and doors slamming while capital quietly clears the till.
Robert Jenrick’s Union Jack pantomime isn’t patriotism; it’s a confession of weakness. A dying political class turns to flags and ladders because it has nothing left to offer but theatre.
Moral capital was never just sympathy, it was a strategy. It allowed Israel to present itself as victim and victor, past sufferer and present enforcer. But capital is not infinite. What was once a shield has become a smokescreen. And in Gaza, that smokescreen has lifted.
The world is watching a nuclear-backed state starve and bomb a captive population, and still we are told this is security. But what happens when the story no longer convinces? What remains when the history runs out? Only the force. Only the ruin. Only the lie that it was ever anything else.
The President has weaponised billion-dollar lawsuits to silence reporting, chill satire, and punish dissent. After ABC and CBS paid out millions, The Late Show with Stephen Colbert was cancelled days after mocking a Trump settlement. Now he’s suing Murdoch and the Wall Street Journal over a sketch linked to Epstein. This isn’t about truth. It’s about fear, and who’s allowed to speak.
Let’s not pretend this was ever about a child proud of her nation. It’s about the adults. Their performance, their grievance, their weaponisation of the flag. The far right didn’t stumble upon this story; they engineered it. A girl in a Union Jack dress becomes a national martyr, a school is hounded into closure, and the flag flies higher because of it. This isn’t about inclusion. It’s about intimidation. Once again, they’ve made the butcher’s apron the price of admission, and Labour’s too afraid to say otherwise.
Europe is not being overrun—it’s running out. Of workers, of births, of time. François Bayrou’s budget bombshell is less about fiscal rules than demographic reckoning. Fortress Europe clings to nostalgia while the tax base collapses. No amount of white-baby fantasies or border theatre will reverse the maths. The future demands what no mainstream party dares admit: migration, not austerity, is the condition of survival.
Trump isn’t reopening Alcatraz. He’s pointing at the ruins and saying: this is what we’ll do to them. It’s not
Dugin is no longer prophesying. He’s grieving. What was once a militant theology of MAGA as civilisational rebirth has curdled into lament. Trump, the anointed disruptor, has become just another functionary—an “object,” not a “subject.” The Deep State wasn’t slain, the Epstein files remain sealed, Israel is unchallenged. Dugin’s dream wasn’t defeated in battle. It drowned in compromise.
On Climate, Capital, and the Return of Denial in a New Form
They said they were fed up. And maybe they are. But not with what they think. This is how consent is manufactured in a failing state. Scarcity becomes suspicion. Anger gets rebranded as patriotism.
What began as rupture has returned as routine. Brexit survives not in open defiance, but in the quiet enforcement of borders, the bureaucratic choreography of treaties, and the managed reintegration of a Britain that still won’t say its name.
There was a time when the production line ordered more than goods, it ordered life. Work meant wages, wages meant stability, and stability gave the illusion of progress. That was Fordism. What remains now is the shell of that promise, retrofitted as nationalist fantasy. The factory is gone, but its myth has been repurposed. Not to build, but to blame.