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They tell us the crisis is caused by desperate people in dinghies, not decades of housing policy that turned homes into investment vehicles. But the truth is, Britain is not short of houses, its just full of landlords, speculators, and empty properties waiting to make someone rich.
While far right mobs are framed as “concerned locals”, anti-fascists are treated as the threat. The police escort becomes the scandal, not the fact that far-right demonstrators are being allowed to dominate England’s streets with near impunity. When the media sides with the mob, resistance is rebranded as provocation.
When Reform UK’s justice spokesperson declared she would “much rather see a great big strapping male police officer with a female,” she wasn’t just airing a preference. Pochin was laying out a worldview. One where women are too vulnerable to patrol alone, too soft for frontline work, and too inconvenient to be equal. As under Trump, so under Farage: the creeping politics of patriarchy, where power is always male, and women are tolerated only if they stay in their place.
The English disease is back. While Scotland holds the line with civic identity and social solidarity, England is once again the testing ground for far-right mobilisation and state complicity. From hotel sieges in Epping to flag-waving standoffs in Norfolk, this isn’t about deprivation alone. This is nationalism curdled into grievance, stoked by those who know exactly what they are doing. And the only person who benefits from this is the man rubbing his hands together, whispering told you so, told you so, and you all know exactly who that is: Nigel Farage.
Braverman’s plan to leave the ECHR isn’t legal reform, it’s preparation for rule without restraint. Like the ERG before her, she wraps authoritarian ambition in the language of sovereignty. Strip away the rhetoric and what’s left is a state unbound, a state that punishes, not protects. If she jumps to Reform UK, this plan becomes reality.
Reading this made me feel sick. It brought back the images from Abu Ghraib, its black hoods, outstretched arms, the grotesque theatre of domination. Only this time, it’s not Baghdad in 2003 but Miami in 2025. Don’t look away: this is what America does to the unwanted. And Britain’s not far behind.
Farage wants you to believe he can fix the country. But he broke it. From Brexit to “civil disobedience,” his politics turned crisis into currency. Now he wants to cash in. Don’t buy it.
The Labour government has not criminalised violence, it has criminalised resistance. Holding a flag, wearing a slogan, even whispering “Palestine” is now suspect. But dropping bombs on children? That’s fine. If that sounds like justice to you, you’re already lost.
Butler isn’t really about politics. It’s about belief. The bullet didn’t just graze him; it made him sacred. The messy contradictions of 2016 are gone. What’s left is atmosphere, myth, and the story of a man who bled on stage and got up again. The faithful took it as a sign. This isn’t reporting. It’s scripture. A gospel for a leader who survives everything, and so, must rule.
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.
The manosphere doesn’t challenge male alienation, it monetises it. These men aren’t resisting power. They are its casualties, desperate to be reinstated as its enforcers.
On James Pogue’s Chosen Country: A Rebellion in the West
Journalism doesn’t need saving by those who made it toxic. Wright names the rot—Murdoch, the lobby, the Oxbridge cartel—and shows how the presses keeps running.
Pankaj Mishra’s The World After Gaza is a searing indictment of Western complicity in Israeli aggression, exposing the ideological, economic, and political forces that have enabled the destruction of Palestine.
The work isn’t fake because it’s imaginary—it’s fake because it pretends to matter. We clock in, log on, file the forms, and call it a life.
What looks like autobiography is really a sermon: suffer, obey, reproduce, and vote accordingly.
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.