Category: History

Bent Bananas and Broken Truths

For decades before the Brexit referendum, much of the right-wing UK tabloid press presented the EU as a hostile, meddling force, not by accident but because it suited their politics, profits, and power. The EU represented shared rules, social protections, and limits on deregulation, all of which clashed with a free-market, low-regulation worldview. Brussels was distant, complex, and unfamiliar, making it an ideal target for caricature and distortion.

Sensational stories about “bent bananas”, bans on British traditions, or faceless bureaucrats dictating daily life were easy to understand and emotionally charged. They sold newspapers, drove outrage, and encouraged loyalty by framing readers as victims of an external enemy. The truth, that EU regulations were often co-designed by UK ministers and benefited consumers and workers, was far less clickable.

There were also clear political incentives. Successive governments found it convenient to blame the EU for unpopular decisions while quietly supporting those same policies in Brussels. Tabloid owners, some with global business interests, often favoured weakening EU rules and cultivated close relationships with politicians who shared that goal. Over time, myth became narrative, and narrative became identity.

Crucially, accountability was weak. Inaccurate stories were rarely corrected with equal prominence, and the EU itself was poor at explaining its role in plain, human terms. Journalists who challenged the myths were dismissed as elitist or unpatriotic. By the time of the referendum, decades of repetition had embedded a sense of grievance and mistrust so deeply that facts alone struggled to compete with emotion, nostalgia, and a carefully nurtured story of lost sovereignty.

Rejoining the EU Erasmus Scheme

It’s been announced today (Wednesday 17 December 2025) that the UK will be rejoining the EU Erasmus Scheme. This fantastic opportunity was stolen from our young people following a foolish Brexit decision and a disastrous deal.

Its return matters deeply because Erasmus is about far more than study placements or exchange terms. It opens doors to language learning, cultural understanding, friendship across borders, and the quiet confidence that comes from discovering you can belong in more than one place.

I saw this first-hand through my grown up daughter, Sarah, who benefited immensely from her time in Bologna. The experience shaped her academically, stretched her personally, and left her with friendships, memories, and a sense of Europe that no classroom alone could ever provide.

For countless students, particularly those from less privileged backgrounds, Erasmus was a first passport stamp, a first step beyond the familiar, and a powerful reminder that Europe isn’t an abstract idea but a shared human space. Rejoining sends a signal that we’re serious about investing in the next generation, trusting them to learn, travel, collaborate, and imagine bigger futures.

It won’t undo all the damage of Brexit, but it’s a meaningful act of repair, restoring opportunity, dignity, and hope where they were unnecessarily taken away.

The Jewish Festival of Hanukkah

Today, 15 December in 2025, Jews around the world gather to celebrate the first day of Hanukkah, a festival rich in memory, meaning, and light. As winter deepens and days feel short and fragile, Hanukkah arrives as a quiet but resilient act of hope. It recalls a moment when faith was threatened by oppression and conformity, and when a small community chose courage, identity, and trust over fear.

At the heart of Hanukkah is the lighting of the menorah, one candle on the first night, growing steadily brighter as each evening passes. It’s a gentle ritual, yet deeply powerful, reminding those who take part that light doesn’t need to be overwhelming to be transformative. Even a single flame can push back darkness, can offer warmth, can be seen from a window and shared with the world outside.

The festival remembers the rededication of the Temple in Jerusalem and the story of the oil that should have lasted one day but burned for eight. Whether heard as history, tradition, or sacred story, it speaks of endurance beyond expectation, of provision where none seemed possible. It invites reflection on what it means to stay faithful when resources are thin and the odds feel stacked against you.

Hanukkah is also a time of joy, family, food, song, and storytelling. Children play games, gifts are exchanged, and tables are filled with foods fried in oil, celebrating abundance in the midst of scarcity. In a fractured world, Hanukkah offers a steady, luminous reminder that identity matters, hope endures, and light, patiently tended, can still change everything.

Note: The date of Hanukkah changes each year because it follows the Jewish calendar rather than the Gregorian calendar used by most of the world. The Jewish calendar is lunisolar, shaped by both the moon and the sun. Months begin with the new moon and last 29 or 30 days. Hanukkah always starts on the 25th day of the Hebrew month of Kislev, but because the Jewish year doesn’t match the length of the solar year, the festival shifts when mapped onto the Gregorian calendar. To keep festivals in their proper seasons, the Jewish calendar occasionally adds an extra month. This prevents celebrations from drifting through the year, but the exact Gregorian date still varies, usually falling in late November or December. So while Hanukkah’s timing is fixed within Jewish tradition, it appears to move each year on modern calendars, reflecting an ancient, carefully balanced way of marking time.

St Lucy’s Day

St Lucy’s Day, celebrated on 13 December, sits quietly in the heart of Advent, carrying a gentle promise of light in the year’s darkest days. Lucy’s name comes from lux, meaning “light”, and over the centuries she’s become a symbol of hope that refuses to be extinguished, even when nights feel long and heavy. She was a young Christian woman from Syracuse in the fourth century, remembered for her courage, her generosity to the poor, and her refusal to let fear define her choices. The stories about her mix history and legend, yet they all circle around this conviction that light belongs to God and can’t be taken away.

In Scandinavia the day has a luminous beauty all of its own. A girl dressed as Lucy wears a white robe and a crown of candles, moving through the early morning darkness while songs about light and peace are sung. It’s a simple ritual, yet it feels profoundly human, capturing that ache we all recognise: the longing for warmth, clarity, and kindness to break into the cold shadows of winter. Even without the candles and processions, the day invites a moment of quiet reflection, reminding us that small acts of courage and compassion shine far further than we imagine.

St Lucy’s Day whispers that light isn’t a spectacle, and it isn’t fragile. It’s something we carry, something we share, something that grows whenever we choose generosity over indifference, truth over convenience, or hope over cynicism. In the middle of December, it’s a gentle reassurance that dawn always comes.

When Alliances Start Shifting

There’s a growing uneasiness across Europe right now, and it’s hard to shake the feeling that we’re being pulled into a darker, colder season. Putin’s behaviour makes it painfully clear that he has no real interest in peace with Ukraine; his actions speak of expansion, intimidation, and a calculated willingness to let suffering drag on. That alone casts an unsettling shadow over the whole region, reminding us that the peace we often take for granted is far more fragile than we’d like to believe.

Adding to that tension is Trump’s strange admiration for Putin, which seems to outshine his regard for Zelensky. It’s bewildering to watch a democratic figure praise an autocrat more readily than a leader defending his people from invasion. It deepens the instability, almost as if the moral compass of global leadership is spinning in odd and unpredictable ways.

What troubles me even more is the sense that the United States is drifting from its long-held partnership with Europe. For decades, that bond has been a pillar of democratic security, a reassuring constant in turbulent times. To see cracks widening now, when unity matters more than ever, feels like watching a bridge we depend on start to sway in the wind.

Altogether it paints a bleak, uneasy outlook, one filled with shifting loyalties and fading certainties. Yet even in this confusion, there’s still a stubborn hope that democracies can hold firm if we choose solidarity over cynicism, and courage over complacency.

Wynyard Woodland Country Park

Wynyard Woodland Park occupies land that was once part of the nineteenth-century Clarence Railway, a line built to transport coal from the Durham coalfields to the River Tees. The railway served the industrial development of the region for many decades, passing through what is now Thorpe Thewles. When the line closed in the twentieth century, the trackbed and surrounding land were left unused until local authorities identified the opportunity to convert the disused route into a public green space.

The redevelopment created a linear park that follows the former railway corridor. New pathways, cycle routes, and planted woodlands were introduced, allowing visitors to move through the landscape along the old line. The former station house at Thorpe Thewles was restored and adapted to include visitor facilities, a small museum covering the history of the railway, and a café. As the site matured, the woodland areas developed greater ecological value, supporting a range of wildlife and providing a mix of open and shaded spaces for recreation.

Wynyard Woodland parkrun forms part of the park’s present-day use. Held every Saturday morning, it follows sections of the former railway route and attracts local runners, walkers, and volunteers. The event highlights how the park has shifted from an industrial transport corridor to a community-focused recreational area.

Today Wynyard Woodland Park serves as a practical example of how former industrial land can be repurposed for public benefit. Its combination of historical features, accessible paths, and expanding natural habitats makes it a valued local space for exercise, education, and outdoor leisure.

St Nicholas Day

St Nicholas Day, celebrated on 6 December, carries a gentle kind of magic that flows through many European traditions. It honours St Nicholas of Myra, a fourth-century bishop remembered for kindness that wasn’t loud or self-promoting, but steady, courageous, and rooted in compassion. One of the best-known stories tells of him secretly providing dowries for three young women by slipping bags of gold through their window at night. It’s a small, vivid moment that grew into a lasting symbol of generosity given quietly, without any desire for thanks.

In many countries, children still place shoes by the door on the evening of 5 December, hoping to wake to fruit, sweets, or small gifts. The simplicity of it makes the joy feel even richer. Rather than the grand spectacle that later surrounded Santa Claus, the spirit here feels gentler, more grounded in community, more like a whisper in the winter darkness reminding us to look out for one another.

What I love about St Nicholas Day is how it nudges us toward thoughtful generosity: the kind that starts with noticing who might need a blessing, then offering it without fanfare. It reminds us that giving doesn’t have to be big to be transformative. Sometimes the smallest gesture, offered in love, becomes the spark that warms an entire season.

Breaking the Silence on Brexit

Sir Keir Starmer’s signal that the government will step up its criticism of Brexit feels like the beginning of a gentle but necessary reckoning; a moment when the country is finally invited to name the truth that’s been sitting heavily on us for years. So many promises were made in 2016, and so many of them were built on sand: claims about billions for the NHS, effortless trade deals, frictionless borders, and a world queueing up to prioritise Britain. Those lies shaped expectations, stirred emotions, and pushed people towards a path that hasn’t delivered the renewal or control they were told to expect. Now, with a quieter honesty, the government seems ready to acknowledge that Brexit hasn’t offered the stability or prosperity once promised.

By placing renewed emphasis on repairing relations with Brussels, Labour isn’t trying to reopen old divisions; it’s acting out of pragmatic realism. Closer cooperation with our nearest neighbours offers smoother trade, stronger supply chains, and a steadier economic climate. It also draws a clear contrast with Reform UK’s politics of resentment and retreat.

Hopefully, Labour can offer something steadier: the belief that partnership, shared standards, and respectful dialogue are acts of responsibility, not surrender. Many people who voted Leave weren’t gullible or unthinking; they were hopeful. They wanted a fairer deal, more security, and a sense that life might open up rather than narrow down. When those hopes haven’t been met, people are willing to listen again, as long as they’re met with honesty.

There’s something restorative in this shift, because it gently invites us to stop pretending. We can admit that we’re tired, that isolation hasn’t served us well, and that healing begins with truth. If the government speaks plainly, avoids the lure of easy slogans, and offers a hopeful, cooperative path forward, it may help the country breathe again.

Why is Socialism feared?

The negative portrayal of socialism has deep roots, and it isn’t really about the ideas themselves so much as the stories that have been told about them.

For more than a century, powerful interests have framed socialism as something to be feared, often because it challenges the concentration of wealth and asks hard questions about fairness, community, and economic justice. During the Cold War those fears hardened; western governments, media, and cultural institutions painted anything associated with collective provision as a slippery slope towards authoritarianism. That legacy still lingers, long after the geopolitical context has changed.

There’s also a tendency in public debate to flatten socialism into its worst historical examples. Instead of seeing it as a broad tradition with democratic, ethical, and community-centred strands, people often hear the word and think immediately of failed states or heavy-handed regimes. It’s easier to caricature than to explore nuance, and outrage always travels further than careful explanation.

At the same time modern politics rewards simple binaries. Calls for stronger public services, fair wages, or shared responsibility get bundled together as “socialism”, then dismissed as unrealistic or dangerous, even though many of these ideas already sit quietly at the heart of everyday life: the NHS, public libraries, state education, and the principle that no one should be left behind.

In truth socialism is portrayed pejoratively because it threatens comfortable assumptions. It asks us to look again at how we live together, who benefits, and who’s forgotten, inviting a conversation about compassion, community, and the common good.

Roman Welfare Benefits

It’s easy to imagine the ancient world as hard, unforgiving, and uninterested in the wellbeing of ordinary people, yet the Romans quietly remind us that societies have always wrestled with how to care for those who’re vulnerable. They didn’t have anything like a modern welfare state, but they did understand that a city, and an empire, couldn’t hold together unless people had enough to live on. That sense of shared responsibility feels surprisingly familiar.

In Rome, the annona – the state grain supply – became a lifeline. Huge quantities of grain were shipped in from across the empire and distributed free or at subsidised prices to the city’s poorer citizens. Taxes, rents, and provincial revenues made it possible. It wasn’t simply largesse; it was a recognition that a hungry population breeds unrest, while a fed population can breathe, hope, and build.

Later, under Trajan, the alimenta scheme offered support for orphaned and poor children in Italy. Money from taxes and state-managed loans funded regular payments to help them grow, learn, and thrive. It wasn’t universal, and it certainly wasn’t perfect, but there was a quiet moral thread running through it: children matter, and society can’t flourish if they’re left behind.

Even the emperors’ occasional cash gifts, debt relief, or employment through public works carried the same message. However self-interested those acts were, they revealed an understanding that prosperity isn’t just an individual pursuit; it’s something held in common, something tended and shared.

When you look at it this way, the Romans weren’t just building roads and aqueducts. They were experimenting with the idea that a community should look after its people – an idea that still shapes the choices we make today.