John43 @TwoCatsCooking

Hier, Mélenchon a expliqué aux patrons comment il allait « sauver la France ». Une recette toute simple : on planifie tout, on taxe davantage les dividendes que l’investissement, on rétablit l’ISF, on augmente le SMIC, on ramène la retraite à 60 ans et on demande à la BCE de mettre une partie de la dette au congélateur. Le financement ? 150 milliards de recettes nouvelles. La magie des chiffres. Sauf que le seul retour de la retraite à 60 ans en mange déjà plus de 80 milliards. Le reste, on le trouvera grâce au multiplicateur keynésien et à la générosité de ceux qu’on va taxer à 90% si il en reste.🤡 On va faire la révolution industrielle verte tout en interdisant aux entreprises de licencier si elles versent des dividendes, et en même temps leur demander d’être compétitives face à la Chine. Logique implacable. Et si ça merde parce qu’avec un programme pareil, ça va merder, ce sera la faute des patrons qui n’auront pas assez augmenté les salaires. Le grand cirque est ouvert, mais cela ne fait plus rire personne.

@Guigz75116 Comme ces gens vivent de l'argent des autres ils ne comprennent même pas comment on créé de la richesse de base Ils veulent tous être les meilleurs redistributeurs, les meilleurs planificateurs Avec la croyance dogmatique que la richesse se produit toute seule

The most expensive beef in the shop is the beef with the food taken out. Fillet: the muscle that does nothing, hangs inside the animal and never once takes a step. Around three per cent fat. The dearest thing on the counter. Chateaubriand: the middle of the fillet. Same nothing, cut shorter, sold for more. Tournedos Rossini: a fillet steak that a French chef looked at, despaired of, and buried under foie gras and butter until it tasted of something. Beef Wellington: a fillet so lacking it has to be wrapped in pâté, then mushrooms, then pastry, then served with a sauce, at which point you are eating the wrapping. Filet mignon: a fillet with bacon tied round it, which is a butcher's word for a transfusion. Topside: the joint your mother apologised for at half past one every Sunday of your childhood. Silverside: topside with a worse attitude. Eye of round: four per cent fat, and the entire reason the pot roast was invented. Extra lean mince: the same cow as the good mince, with the best part removed, at two pounds more a pack. Every one of them arrives at the table needing rescue. Butter on the fillet. Pastry round the Wellington. A jug of gravy over the topside, made from an animal that still had some fat, because this one has none worth catching. Now walk twenty feet down the same counter. Ribeye, brisket, short rib, chuck, shin, oxtail, 25% mince. Marbled all the way through, so they baste themselves, taste of beef without assistance, and carry twice the energy per mouthful. Cheaper. Every one of them. Often half the price. The dear end of the counter is beef that needs a French chef standing over it. The cheap end is beef that needs a pan. They separated the flavour and the fuel out of the animal, sold you the leftovers at a premium, and put the good part in the bargain section under a yellow sticker. Nobody is coming to correct this. Fill the freezer.

Même l’anarchiste/socialiste/mutualiste Pierre-Joseph Proudhon l'a fait remarquer dès 1851: "Être gouverné, c’est être gardé à vue, inspecté, espionné, dirigé, légiféré, réglementé, parqué, endoctriné, prêché, contrôlé, estimé, apprécié, censuré, commandé, par des êtres qui n’ont ni titre, ni la science, ni la vertu… Être gouverné, c’est être à chaque transaction, à chaque mouvement, noté, enregistré, recensé, tarifé, timbré, toisé, coté, cotisé, patenté, licencié, autorisé, admonesté, empêché, réformé, redressé, corrigé. C’est sous prétexte d’utilité publique et au nom de l’intérêt général être mis à contribution, exercé, rançonné, exploité, monopolisé, concussionné, pressuré, mystifié, volé; puis, à la moindre réclamation, au premier mot de plainte, réprimé, amendé, vilipendé, vexé, traqué, houspillé, assommé, désarmé, garrotté, emprisonné, fusillé, mitraillé, jugé, condamné, déporté, sacrifié, vendu, trahi, et pour comble, joué, berné, outragé, déshonoré. Voilà le gouvernement, voilà sa justice, voilà sa morale! Et qu’il y a parmi nous des démocrates qui prétendent que le gouvernement a du bon; des socialistes qui soutiennent, au nom de la liberté, de l’égalité et de la fraternité, cette ignominie; des prolétaires qui posent leur candidature à la présidence la République!" (Idée générale de la révolution au XIXe siècle, 1851)

Seed oil arrives at your table already damaged, and every stage between the field and your fork makes it worse. A rapeseed is the size of a pinhead. No human arm is getting oil out of that, so the seed is cracked, flaked, cooked and washed in hexane, a petroleum solvent. What comes out is dark, sour and inedible. Everything after this exists to disguise that. Phosphoric acid strips the gums. Caustic soda turns the free fatty acids into soap, and the soap is skimmed off and sold, so the first saleable product of the process is soap. Activated clay bleaches out the colour, along with the vitamin E the plant built to stop its own fat spoiling. Removed at the bleaching stage, sold back in a capsule at the front of the shop. Two hundred and fifty degrees under vacuum, for hours. Trans fat forms in the vessel before anybody has cooked anything, and so do glycidyl esters, which Europe classes as releasing a genotoxic carcinogen in your gut. Europe set a legal maximum, governing how much of it you may be sold rather than whether it gets made. The same step strips the smell. Every fat a human has ever eaten came with an alarm attached, a nose that detects rancidity at parts per billion. They remove the alarm at the factory. Then it sits in clear plastic under supermarket lighting for weeks, and light gets at those double bonds faster than air does. Olive goes in dark glass. Fish oil goes in an opaque capsule, in an amber bottle, in a box. This goes see-through at eye level, because clear sells. At home it lives in the warm cupboard beside the hob, half empty, oxidising twice as fast for every ten degrees. The fryer finishes it. Two hours at temperature and soybean oil is producing an aldehyde that cross-links proteins and damages DNA. At two hours the oil is not changed. It is topped up, and the next batch inherits everything in the old one. The chip absorbs all of it. You eat the oil in the state the fryer left it, and you pay for the chip. Linoleic acid loads into your cell membranes and your fat stores on a turnover of about two years, so you are built out of what you ate two summers ago. An LDL particle armoured in it oxidises, gets swallowed by a macrophage, and becomes the plaque. Cut that plaque out of a dead man and the fat inside it is overwhelmingly linoleic acid. In Western breast milk it has gone from around six per cent of the fat to twelve and sixteen, tracking the oil supply exactly. Nothing on that journey improved the substance. Every step made it worse, and every step was somebody's idea, approved, costed and installed. They industrialised a lubricant crop, deleted its warning system, fed it to the country for seventy years, and the first generation raised on it from the breast is currently in its forties.

SHOCKING: This Turkish ex-Muslim woman spent 30 years working for a Turkish state organization that sent Muslims to America to engage in jihad and influence politics. She explains there are two types of jihad: a demographic/missionary jihad, carried out through immigration and conversions. And a political jihad, where Muslims infiltrate American universities and political movements to influence young people into becoming anti-American, hating Jews and Israel, and seeing Muslims as allies. They pretend to be secular and support progressive causes, but it’s all taqiyya to gain political power and advance Islam. Even though they are also trying to infiltrate the right, Muslims have realized the left and progressives are their biggest useful idiots. Does anyone in particular fit that description and come to mind? It’s all starting to make sense now. x.com/Shariakill/sta…

It just gets worse. 144 out of the 532 Crown courtrooms across England and Wales are sitting empty today. That’s a staggering 27 per cent. Rather than doing the hard yards of governing and getting the courts to actually sit, David Lammy claimed that the only way to bring down the backlog of cases in the Crown Court was to slash our ancient right to a jury trial. FSU research has shown that those charged with speech-related offences are almost twice as likely to be acquitted in a Crown Court with a jury as they are in a magistrates’ court without one. Put simply, if Lammy’s reforms go ahead, more people will be banged up for simply exercising their right to free speech. At the Free Speech Union, we know just how important jury trials are. Royal Marine veteran Jamie Michael was arrested at work after posting a 12-minute video on Facebook in the wake of the heinous Southport murders in which he criticised mass migration. He had been reported to the police by a Labour Party staffer. A jury found him not guilty in just 17 minutes. When Parliament returns next week, Andy Burnham must axe David Lammy’s sinister reforms and save jury trials.

Beatrix Potter left fifteen farms and four thousand acres of the Lake District to the nation, with a condition attached that the fells are still arguing about. Peter Rabbit money bought that land. Book by book, farm by farm, from 1905 onward, a Londoner with an income and a stubborn streak buying up Lakeland ground as it came available to stop it being sold off in parcels for villas. What she did with it is the part that gets skipped. She farmed it. Properly. She bought Troutbeck Park in 1923 and built a Herdwick flock of over a thousand, took advice from her shepherd Tom Storey, showed her tups at local shows against men who had been doing it for four generations, and beat them. She was the first woman elected to lead the Herdwick Sheep Breeders' Association and died before she could take the chair. The Herdwick was in trouble for the reason all hill breeds get into trouble. Slow growing, fewer lambs, small carcass. On a balance sheet it loses to a lowland sheep every single time, and the only thing it is unbeatable at is living on a Cumbrian fell in February. She understood the other half too, which is the part that would get you shouted at today. That view, the one on the biscuit tin, the open fell and the walls and the cropped green, is not wilderness. It is a grazed landscape. Take the sheep off and you get bracken, then scrub, then a different place entirely, over about fifteen years. So when she died in December 1943 she left the lot to the National Trust, the largest gift of land it had ever had, with instructions. The farms were to stay working farms. The Herdwicks were to stay on them, heafed to their own ground, the flocks passing with the tenancy. Eighty years on, the fashionable position in that valley is that there are too many sheep on the fell and it should be allowed to go back. Back to what, nobody can say, because nobody has seen it. The last ungrazed version of that fell predates the pyramids and there is no photograph of it, no survey, and no living thing that remembers it. The woman who wrote Jemima Puddle-Duck saw this coming and wrote it into a legal document.

Et Simone de Beauvoir, portée aux nues par plusieurs générations de "feministes", n'était qu'une rabatteuse pédophile, grande bourgeoise intello qui jouait les délurées pour plaire à son mec, en pondant des théories exaltées qui ont plus asservies les femmes qu'elles ne les ont libérées.

@brivael La "matrice 68" de déconstruction est l'origine des maux qui rongent la France aujourd'hui. Cette "matrice" a été améliorée, sophistiquée. Les "champs sémantiques" sont triturés pour modifier le langage, le rendre neutre, "inoffensif" alors que tout est destructeur

Il faut voir ce que sont devenus nombre de soixante-huitards : des bobos de gauche critiquant tout mais bien installés dans la vie, qui ont totalement perverti l'enseignement avec leurs idées fumeuses, tout en pondant eux-mêmes de bons petits bourgeois à qui rien n'a été refusé, generation connaissant parfaitement ses "droits" mais rejetant tout "devoirs".

On a vendu Mai 68 comme une fête. Une plage sous les pavés. Des étudiants heureux. Un général trop vieux. Une jeunesse qui voulait juste aimer et respirer. C’est une légende. Et comme toutes les légendes utiles, elle cache l’opération. Mai 68 n’est pas né de la misère. La France de 1968 est riche. Les Trente Glorieuses tournent à plein. On n’occupe pas Nanterre parce qu’on a faim. On l’occupe parce qu’on ne supporte plus qu’il existe encore un père, un professeur, un règlement, une chambre de filles fermée à clé, une vérité qui ne se négocie pas. Le 8 janvier 1968, à Nanterre, Cohn-Bendit interrompt le ministre Missoffe : votre Livre blanc sur la jeunesse n’a pas un mot sur le sexe. Le 22 mars, cent cinquante étudiants occupent la tour administrative. Le détonateur est minuscule. Le logiciel, lui, est déjà là. Le but n’était pas l’Élysée. De Gaulle l’a compris plus vite que les commentateurs. Le but était la transmission. Qui a le droit de dire à un enfant ce qui est vrai, ce qui est beau, ce qui se fait et ce qui ne se fait pas. Une fois que vous cassez ça, vous n’avez plus besoin de prendre le palais. Le palais suivra. Ils ont trouvé la formule parfaite : il est interdit d’interdire. Écoutez le verbe. Pas « interdit », l’état. Interdire, l’action. Le slogan prétendait abolir la norme. Il a fait autre chose. Il a changé le titulaire du verbe. Désormais, ce n’est plus le père, l’école, l’Église, l’armée, la langue elle-même qui ont le droit d’interdire. C’est le militant, le département, la rédaction, le commissaire au récit. « Interdire d’interdire » voulait dire : nous seuls interdirons. Politiquement, ils ont perdu. En juin 68, le pays vote gaulliste à la pelle. La rue se vide. Les usines rouvrent. Le cadavre du communisme politique est déjà froid, même si l’URSS mettra encore vingt-trois ans à s’allonger dans le cercueil. Culturellement, ils ont gagné. C’est toute l’histoire. Faute de coup d’État, un coup d’éclat : Vincennes, 1969. Une anti-Sorbonne plantée dans un bois. Foucault y dirige la philosophie. Deleuze arrive. Lyotard. Rancière. Badiou. On n’y cherche plus ce qui est vrai. On y cherche qui domine, qui est victime, quel récit imposer. J’ai déjà raconté comment cette manufacture a traversé l’Atlantique et enfanté le wokisme. Mai 68 est l’usine. La French Theory est le produit exporté. Le journal aussi. En 1973, Sartre et Serge July fondent Libération. L’enfant déclaré de Mai 68. Quatre ans plus tard, une pétition paraît dans Le Monde et dans Libération. Elle demande qu’on cesse de traiter comme un crime les relations sexuelles entre adultes et enfants de douze ans. « Si une fille de 13 ans a droit à la pilule, c’est pour quoi faire ? » Parmi les signatures : Sartre, Beauvoir, Deleuze, Guattari, Barthes, Lyotard, Sollers, Aragon, Lang, Kouchner. Et Philippe Gavi, cofondateur du journal. Ce n’est pas une dérive. C’est la consigne poussée jusqu’au bout. Si interdire est le crime, alors interdire de toucher un enfant de douze ans devient le dernier tabou à faire sauter. Le même logiciel. La même caste. Les mêmes pages. Voilà le communisme qui a vraiment survécu. Pas celui des kolkhozes. Celui-là a implosé. Le mur tombe en 89. L’URSS se dissout en 91. En 1999, on croit que c’est fini. Fukuyama a déjà écrit la notice. Les marchés ont gagné. L’histoire aurait atteint son terme. On s’est trompé de cadavre. Le communisme politique est mort. Le communisme moral était déjà dans les murs. Il avait changé d’hôte. Plus besoin de saisir les moyens de production. Il suffisait de saisir les moyens de signification : l’université, la langue, la rédaction, le concours, la DRH, l’école. Rudi Dutschke l’avait dit dès 67, de l’autre côté du Rhin : la longue marche à travers les institutions. Mai 68 a été le jour J. Les trente années suivantes ont été le débarquement. En 1999, le virus n’était pas mort. Il était incubé. Il a condamné des millions de gens qui n’avaient rien demandé : des profs honnêtes formés à soupçonner au lieu de transmettre, des jeunes à qui on a appris que leur civilisation est une scène de crime, des femmes à qui on a vendu que la nature est une oppression, des pauvres à qui on a expliqué que le mérite est une violence. Les mauvaises idées tuent d’abord ceux qui y croient. Puis elles se reproduisent. Ce ne sont pas des monstres. Ce sont des gens qui ont reçu un logiciel. Le même qui, en 68, a pris une faculté isolée au milieu d’un bidonville et en a fait le modèle de l’université occidentale. Il nous faut un anti-Mai 68. Pas une revanche. Un retournement du verbe. Remettre interdire à sa place : interdire le mensonge, interdire de détruire ce qu’on n’a pas construit, interdire de confondre la liberté avec la démolition de toute norme. Et rendre à l’école, à la famille, à l’entreprise, à la langue, le droit de transmettre. Les bâtisseurs n’ont jamais eu le luxe de la déconstruction. Le réel les sanctionne tout de suite. Pardon. Et au travail.

Sartre n’était pas un philosophe qui s’est trompé. C’était un homme qui a choisi. Le camp des bourreaux. Puis le camp de ceux qui touchent les enfants. Et la France l’a porté en triomphe. On va le prendre par A + B. Pas par l’ambiance. Par les actes. A. Le communiste. Sartre n’a jamais eu besoin de la carte du Parti. Il a fait mieux. Il a mis le prestige de la France au service d’États qui assassinient, tout en restant l’intellectuel « libre » de Saint-Germain. 1952. Il devient compagnon de route du PCF. Il écrit Les Communistes et la Paix. Il lâche la phrase qui résume l’homme : « tout anticommuniste est un chien. » Il préside l’Association France-URSS. 1954. Premier voyage à Moscou. Le Goulag est connu. Kravchenko a déjà témoigné à Paris, sous serment, en 1949. Sartre sait. Il rentre. Il accorde à Libération une série d’entretiens. Il déclare que le citoyen soviétique jouit d’une « entière liberté de critique ». Cinq ans après le procès. Un an après Staline. Ce n’est pas une erreur. C’est un mensonge au service d’un État qui tue. 1956. Les chars écrasent Budapest. Il condamne. Il rompt avec le PCF. On croit que c’est fini. Ça ne l’est pas. Il reviendra. Onze voyages en URSS entre 1954 et 1966. Le marxisme, écrit-il, reste « la philosophie indépassable de notre temps ». Il préface Les Damnés de la terre et légitime la violence. Il visite Castro. En 1973, quand Soljenitsyne publie L’Archipel du Goulag, Sartre trouve encore le moyen de le traiter d’élément nuisible. 1970. À 65 ans, le philosophe le plus célèbre de France devient directeur de La Cause du peuple, journal maoïste. Il le vend sur les Champs-Élysées. Il se rapproche des hommes de la Gauche prolétarienne. En 1973, avec Serge July et Benny Lévy, il fonde Libération. L’enfant déclaré de Mai 68. Voilà le communiste. Pas un militant de cellule. Un commissaire du prestige. Il n’a pas tiré. Il a couvert ceux qui tiraient. B. L’autre dossier. On ne va pas broder. On va citer. Le 26 janvier 1977, une pétition paraît dans Le Monde et dans Libération. Elle défend trois hommes accusés d’attentats à la pudeur sur des enfants de 12 et 13 ans. Le texte parle de « caresses » et de « baisers ». Il affirme que les enfants étaient « consentants ». Il pose cette phrase : « Si une fille de 13 ans a droit à la pilule, c’est pour quoi faire ? » Sartre signe. Il a 71 ans. Beauvoir signe. Deleuze signe. Barthes signe. Lyotard signe. Philippe Gavi, cofondateur de Libération, signe. En mai 1977, une deuxième lettre. Elle demande que la loi reconnaisse « le droit des enfants et des adolescents à avoir des relations avec qui ils choisissent ». Sartre signe encore. Foucault signe. Derrida signe. Ce n’est pas un égarement de soirée. C’est une position. Le philosophe officiel de la gauche française a mis sa signature au bas d’un texte qui demandait qu’on cesse de traiter comme un crime le sexe avec des enfants de douze ans. Et ce n’était pas tombé du ciel. Des années plus tôt, Beauvoir pêchait dans ses classes de lycée. Bianca Bienenfeld a 16 ans. Beauvoir la prend, puis la « passe » à Sartre. Bianca l’écrira plus tard : on a abusé d’elle à seize ans. Natalie Sorokin : Beauvoir est révoquée en 1943 pour détournement de mineure. Olga Kosakiewicz, élève, entre dans ce qu’ils appelaient « la famille ». Sartre avait un mot pour ce qu’il faisait : la « dévirginisation ». Le système était en place. Les lycéennes d’abord. La tribune ensuite. Même logiciel. L’interdit bourgeois est le vrai crime. Donc on casse l’interdit. Y compris celui qui protège un enfant de douze ans. Maintenant la vie, d’un seul tenant. 1905. Naissance bourgeoise à Paris. Père officier mort tôt. Enfance dans la bibliothèque du grand-père Schweitzer. Louis-le-Grand. ENS. Agrégation. La Nausée en 1938. L’Être et le Néant en 1943. L’existentialisme devient une mode, une cave, un manteau. Il refuse le Nobel en 1964 — le seul geste élégant d’une carrière publique. Il meurt en 1980. Cinquante mille personnes suivent le cercueil au Montparnasse. Entre ces deux dates, que fait-il de l’intelligence qu’on lui a donnée ? Il construit le personnage de l’intellectuel engagé. L’homme qui parle au nom de l’Histoire. L’homme dont la signature vaut une armée. Et il met ce personnage au service du pire. Foucault, Derrida, Deleuze, Barthes, Lyotard ont philosophiquement quitté son humanisme. Ils n’ont pas quitté son tribunal. Ils ont grandi dans sa cour. Ils ont appris, en le regardant, qu’un philosophe français n’a pas à rendre des comptes au réel, seulement à la cause. Ils ont signé les mêmes textes. Ils ont occupé les mêmes revues, les mêmes éditeurs, les mêmes chaires. Sartre n’a pas écrit la French Theory. Il a créé la fonction. Le pignon sur rue. L’impunité morale de la caste. Sans Sartre, ces idées restaient des séminaires. Avec Sartre, elles sont devenues une institution. Gallimard. Les Temps modernes. Vincennes. Libération. Le lycée. La terminale. L’État. Le siècle a donné raison à Camus point par point. L’URSS s’est effondrée. Les Khmers ont tué. Soljenitsyne avait raison. La pétition de 1977 est aujourd’hui indéfendable. Sartre s’est trompé sur tout ce qui comptait — et a aidé à couvrir, par le prestige de sa signature, tout ce qui méritait d’être combattu. Pourtant c’est encore lui qu’on laisse au centre. Camus au rayon littérature. Sartre au Panthéon moral. Il faut inverser. Sartre au sous-sol. Pas par esprit de revanche. Par hygiène. Une civilisation qui confond cet homme avec une conscience ne peut pas se défendre.

Brivael Le Pogam @brivael

2 days ago

On a vendu Mai 68 comme une fête. Une plage sous les pavés. Des étudiants heureux. Un général trop vieux. Une jeunesse qui voulait juste aimer et respirer. C’est une légende. Et comme toutes les légendes utiles, elle cache l’opération. Mai 68 n’est pas né de la misère. La

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Four Mounties starved to death in the winter of 1911 while eating meat every single day. They left Fort McPherson on 21 December 1910 with three sleds, fifteen dogs and thirty days of food, carrying the mail to Dawson City. Inspector Francis Fitzgerald had been selected for the coronation contingent and wanted to be out of the north in good time, so he cut the load down to travel faster, on the reasoning that they would not need what patrols normally took. His guide was Sam Carter, a retired constable who had done the route once, four years earlier, in the opposite direction. On Boxing Day they camped with several First Nations families and hired a man called Esau George to break trail and take them over the portage. On New Year's Day they reached a cabin on Mountain Creek, and Fitzgerald paid George twenty-four dollars and let him go. Carter then lost the trail and could not find it again. They circled in the mountains for weeks hunting for a river mouth. The daily low averaged around fifty below. On the last day of January it went to sixty-two below. Four men and three sleds meant only one man could be out in front breaking trail while the others walked in the ruts behind. They went through the ice repeatedly, and every time they did, everything stopped while a fire was built and the wet clothes were dried, because at that temperature wet clothing is a death sentence with a delay on it. Fitzgerald turned back for Fort McPherson on 18 January. By then the food was gone. So they ate the dogs. Between the nineteenth of January and the fifth of February, ten of the fifteen went into the pot. Understand what those animals were by that point. Working sled dogs, hauling loaded sleds at fifty below for a month, on rations that had run out along with everybody else's. There is nothing left on an animal in that condition. No fat under the skin, nothing in the marrow but red jelly. What comes off it is protein and water. The men ate it every day, and got weaker every day, and had to kill another dog, which left fewer dogs to pull, which put more men on the traces hauling by hand, which meant they ate more of the next one. The last entry in Fitzgerald's diary is the fifth of February. His last hope, he wrote, was gone. The search party found them in March. Kinney and Taylor were lying side by side at an open camp around a burnt-out fire. Kinney had starved. Taylor had shot himself. There was a kettle on the fire, and in the kettle, boiling, was a sled dog harness. Fitzgerald and Carter were found the next day, forty kilometres short of Fort McPherson. Fitzgerald had laid Carter out in the snow and covered his face with a handkerchief before lying down himself. They killed and ate ten animals in seventeen days and died with leather in the pan. This has a name. The men who worked out what it was called it rabbit starvation, after the animal that kills you fastest, because a winter rabbit carries almost no fat and a man living on rabbits weakens, swells, empties his bowels and dies inside a few weeks with meat still hanging in camp. The liver will only process so much protein in a day. Everything above that ceiling arrives as urea to be got rid of, and the man doing the eating burns his own body to pay for the disposal. Fat is what makes meat food. Strip it out and a man can eat until he is full, every day, and go down anyway. There is now an entire aisle devoted to lean protein. Protein water, protein coffee, protein crisps, chicken breast, egg whites, and five per cent mince priced above the twenty-five, because somebody has taken out the part that keeps you alive and charged you for the labour. The one thing every arctic explorer who came home had understood is the one thing a supermarket has trained a generation to throw away. Fitzgerald ate ten dogs and boiled the harness. He would have given the whole patrol for the bit you are trimming off and leaving on the board.

Burnham's £300 Promise Meets an Empty Cupboard Andy Burnham built the opening weeks of his premiership on a promise inherited from Reeves and Starmer, that Labour's energy policy would cut household bills by £300. Bills have risen by nearly £400 instead. Ofgem's price cap now sits at £1,723 a year, a swing of roughly £700 against what voters were told to expect. Claire Coutinho has called it a broken promise. The numbers make the case without her help. The reason bills are rising is sitting in a storage tank nobody thought to fill. Britain's gas facilities are around 30 per cent full this week, down from 46 per cent a year ago and over 90 per cent in the two years before that. Chris O'Shea, chief executive of Centrica, says the country has "almost no gas in storage" heading into winter and calls energy security a matter of national security. He is not a political opponent making a point. He runs British Gas. O'Shea has offered £2bn of his shareholders' money to redevelop the Rough storage facility, which holds half the country's remaining capacity, and says time is "rapidly running out" for the regulatory support that would let him spend it. The government's response, through the Department for Energy Security and Net Zero, is that Rough's future is "a commercial decision for Centrica." A fully funded fix, on the table, waved off as someone else's problem. That is the governing instinct in a single sentence. Norway compounds the exposure. For years Britain treated it as the backstop, the green battery that would always have surplus power and gas to sell when the numbers ran short at home. Norway's own energy minister has now called that idea "flawed," and reservoir levels there sit below the twenty-year minimum. The supplier of last resort is signalling it may not be able to play that role much longer, in the same season Britain needs it most. None of this is new. Andrew Neil described a policy bordering on the criminally negligent, and named the man responsible for it. Ed Miliband closed North Sea production, warned from the despatch box that Britain was a price taker in volatile fossil fuel markets, and then ensured that exposure would be as severe as possible by dismantling the domestic supply that could have softened it. Storage levels this low are not an accident of weather or timing. They are the physical record of that choice, arriving on schedule. Burnham now owns the consequences without having caused them, which is not the same as being blameless for what he does next. He has staked his early premiership on giving households breathing space. The country he is governing has less gas in reserve for August than at any point since records began, a chief executive begging for a regulatory green light to fix half the shortfall, and a Norwegian supplier openly questioning whether it can keep bailing Britain out. A prime minister serious about the £300 promise would treat Rough as an emergency rather than a commercial footnote, and would ask why the man who created this exposure still sits in Cabinet. Instead the same instincts that produced the shortage are being left in place to manage it. Bills are up, not down. Storage is empty, not full. The backstop is wavering, not holding. Burnham inherited the empty cupboard. What he does with the key to fill it is now entirely his to answer for. "A prime minister serious about the £300 promise would treat Rough as an emergency rather than a commercial footnote, and would ask why the man who created this exposure still sits in Cabinet."

There is a massive chain of convenience shops in Japan called Family Mart. Yesterday, it announced that it will allow staff to wear hijabs to work. I have just spent a week in Japan and one of the best things about it was the lack of diversity. You don’t see Muslims in the streets. You don’t see hijabs anywhere: in any city. And you know what the result is? A highly trusting, cohesive, exceptional environment. This is just one chain (even if a big one!) but it has irritated a lot of Japanese who think it is pandering to the DEI mob. Japan needs to hold firm.

Imagine you are Swiss. Life is good. The climate is great for most of the year. You are wealthier than the average person in Europe. You have direct democracy. And then you find out that 80.5% of asylum seekers from North Africa (Algeria, Morocco and Tunisia) have been accused of one or more crimes. For comparison: 12.3% of those from all other countries have been accused of a crime. Only 0.6% of Swiss nationals have been accused of a crime. You would think that these North Africans would be deported. Ah no…not quite. Because 90% of them arrive without papers it is illegal to deport them anywhere. Some hang around in Switzerland but many go on to countries (like the UK) where they can get accommodation, money, phones. Western civilisation is dying because of our addiction to silly laws that benefit criminals over the innocent population.

Every major famine of the 20th century happened under government control of food supply. The Soviet Holodomor (1932-33): 3.5-7 million dead in Ukraine while Stalin exported grain. The Great Leap Forward (1959-61): 15-55 million dead while Mao's cadres seized harvests and falsified production records. Ethiopia 1983-85: the Derg regime used food as a weapon against Tigray and Eritrea while Western aid money subsidized the military. Bengal 1943: Churchill carries blame, yes, but wartime price controls and export requisitions crushed the local market's ability to signal scarcity. Free market economists have documented this pattern for decades. Amartya Sen (not an Austrian, which makes this more interesting) laid it out in 1981: no famine has ever occurred in a functioning democracy with a free press and market prices. Prices communicate scarcity. When you suppress prices, you suppress the signal. Farmers stop producing, traders stop moving goods, and by the time bureaucrats notice the spreadsheets are wrong, people are already starving. Every time you hear someone say food is "too important to leave to markets," ask them to name a counterexample. A single one. Because the 20th century ran the experiment at scale, with hundreds of millions of people as the test subjects, and the results came back the same way every time.

Evidence of a greening planet should be a source of celebration for the modern world. Instead, the bureaucrats and political elites who warned of imminent climate collapse have fallen silent as the truth emerges. NASA satellite records spanning the past four decades show a world growing greener, not dying. Vegetation is expanding across once-barren landscapes and desert margins, while agricultural yields continue to climb. Instead of recognising this biological expansion, a colossal economic agenda continues to disrupt global energy security and add severe costs to working economies. The rise of global leaf cover is not the catastrophe grandly predicted decades ago by smug technocrats, political opportunists and global asset managers. Figures like former US Vice President Al Gore have built lucrative carbon-credit advisory firms on this foundation. While financial managers profit, everyday citizens absorb the cost through soaring electricity bills and heavy taxation. We were warned that major cities would be submerged within decades and instructed to prepare for 'global boiling'. The proposed solution—a massive global carbon credits market administered by the UN—has turned environmental policy into a multi-billion-dollar enterprise, arguably the greatest cash grab in modern history. Modern greening signals a far more habitable planet. Glacial ice, tundra and the Taiga biome currently cover roughly 34% to 44% of Earth's land surface. Geologically, we are in an ice age that began 34 million years ago. Replacing dense, reliable hydrocarbon energy with a poorly planned transition to intermittent wind and sunlight - in the face of expanded global biomass - reveals a major policy failure. Carbon dioxide is the fundamental building block of terrestrial life. This is why commercial greenhouse operators routinely elevate internal CO₂ levels to 1,000–1,500 ppm to boost crop yields by 20% to 70%. Biological history reinforces this dynamic: early human ancestors emerged during the Miocene epoch when CO₂ levels hovered around 400–500 ppm in a warm, thriving biosphere. Returning to 426 ppm today is restoring biological vitality, not driving an environmental crisis. All the empirical data support this trend: NASA satellite records confirm that elevated CO₂ has greened between a quarter and a half of Earth's vegetated lands over the past 40 years. Global crop yields have risen up to 20% since 1960, driven by CO₂ fertilisation alongside modern agricultural technology. Every 100 ppm increase in CO₂ typically boosts plant growth by 25% to 50%, with meta-analyses showing optimum growth occurring around 550 ppm. Famine-related deaths have fallen dramatically over the past century even as global population doubled—a triumph supported by expanded food production. We should be acknowledging the proven biological benefits of carbon dioxide. Instead, we are waging an unwinnable economic war on the very compound that sustains a greener world.

The dumbest thing I did was be a 'good boy' for my entire working life: work hard and pay my taxes. 45 years of being systematically and arbitrarily robbed by criminals, some wearing blue ties, some wearing red, and even some sporting a splash of yellow. I now struggle to pay my bills in retirement and I am still being fleeced via tax by the same clowns. Meanwhile, these crooks choose to send cash abroad, squander it on insane initiatives such as 'net zero' and DEI, pay themselves tidy expenses, fund wars, and welcome with open arms anyone illegally entering the country, people they are happy to spend billions of pounds on whilst simultaneously making those of us who paid a fair whack into the system, struggle. People often ask me why I don't vote any more ... and I think it should be fairly obvious. None of these 'senior politicians', across all parties, have any interest in the wellbeing of the common man or woman. They are only interested in their own self-promotion and pressing ahead with whatever harebrained agendas they support whilst in power. It's only the window dressing that changes ... what awaits in the shop is always the same bullshit that shafts the good, honest folk of this country.