Something is fermenting in Britain, and it’s not the good kind of brew. Perhaps it’s not yet enough to topple the entire circus and restore sanity, but the old honeymoon days are gone—new governments don’t get grace periods anymore. The knives are unsheathed the moment they stumble into office, and rightly so.
The people have caught on to the con: no matter which set of actors takes the stage, the music is always the same dirge, dragging the audience deeper into crisis. It isn’t only the climate cult that stirs unrest—it’s the whole rancid buffet of grievances that has driven citizens out into the streets.
I keep hoping for critical mass, that glorious moment when someone in charge finally understands that the season of lies has expired. But hope has become a cruel habit, rewarded only with disappointment, year after year. Even Reform, that supposed lifeboat, may yet prove another hole-ridden vessel. And then what? Swap one ghastly party for another, like trading plague for cholera?Rulers never learn: ignore the people too long, and you don’t pacify them—you radicalize them. Suppression is not stability; it’s kindling. And Britain’s stockpile is getting very dry.