Britain
The Free Speech Martyrdom of Lucy Connolly
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.
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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.
By sanctioning International Criminal Court judges and prosecutors, Trump’s America has openly declared that empire stands above the law. Europe and Britain now face a stark choice: defend the court’s independence, or accept a world where justice stops at Washington’s door.
The Alaska talks were not a breakthrough but a trap. A “peace deal” that rewards Russian aggression is appeasement by another name. Ukraine’s fight is for survival, and any settlement must be on its terms—not Moscow’s.
The High Court’s ruling in Epping shows how Britain has turned planning law into a border regime, feeding jealous politics of scarcity and erasing the very category of the refugee. Now with Labour councils as willing collaborators.
The Alaska talks were not a breakthrough but a trap. A “peace deal” that rewards Russian aggression is appeasement by another name. Ukraine’s fight is for survival, and any settlement must be on its terms—not Moscow’s.
At the Alaska summit, Alexander Dugin saw triumph in mere recognition. But sovereignty today (whether in Moscow, Washington, or Westminster) exists only as theatre, feeding on crisis and rendering peace impossible.
Alexander Dugin calls the Trump–Putin summit in Anchorage “splendid,” insisting the US and Russia must find an “understanding as superpowers.” The problem is that this fantasy of bipolar order flatters two declining states while obscuring the real forces shaping the 21st century.
Trump’s Alaska summit with Putin wasn’t diplomacy. It was pure theatre. No ceasefire, no deal, just a spectacle in which Trump played host, rolling out the red carpet for Putin while Ukraine burned in the background.
Alexander Dugin has declared the Istanbul peace talks “meaningless theatre” and announced the arrival of “total war.” He wants Russia (not just its army, but its soul) put on a permanent war footing.
Dugin doesn’t need Trump to lead anymore. He just needs him to stall. The real project now is building a soft-theocratic death cult that prays for collapse but never acts. Spectators waiting for revelation, not revolution. Fifty days to Armageddon. Maybe. Maybe not. That’s the point.
Dugin’s latest tract is less geopolitics than geopolitical psychosis. An unhinged blend of Orthodox ultranationalism, fascist paranoia, and terminal online posting. But buried in the hallucinatory sprawl is a blueprint for what Russia’s ideological vanguard now sees as the next phase: war with Europe, justified not by security, but by metaphysics.
BRICS condemns the bombing of Gaza and strikes on Iran with the language of international law, civilian protection, and sovereignty. But when it comes to Ukraine (a country invaded by one of its founding members) the silence is deafening. This isn’t a blind spot. It’s the logic of bloc politics. BRICS positions itself as a voice for the Global South, an alternative to Western hypocrisy, but it has its own double standards. Anti-imperialism loses its meaning if it only runs one way. The emerging multipolar order may be less Western, but it is not necessarily more just.
The phrase “rules-based international order” has become a punchline. When Russia bombs a maternity hospital, it’s a war crime. When Israel flattens a refugee camp, it’s self-defence. The ICC pursues African warlords and Balkan generals with zeal—but stalls or retreats when the accused are allies of Washington or clients of London. The problem isn’t that international law exists. It’s that it doesn’t apply to everyone. War crimes are prosecuted not on the basis of what’s done, but who does it, and who they do it for.
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.