Category: History

Shrove Tuesday

Shrove Tuesday is the day before Ash Wednesday and marks the last day before the start of Lent in the Christian calendar. It’s observed in many countries, though in the UK it’s most commonly associated with Pancake Day. The tradition of eating pancakes developed as a practical way to use up rich foods such as eggs, milk, and butter before the fasting season of Lent began.

The name “Shrove Tuesday” comes from the old English word shrive, meaning to confess or receive absolution. Historically, it was a day when Christians were encouraged to reflect on their lives, seek forgiveness, and prepare spiritually for Lent. In medieval England, people would attend confession on this day in order to enter Lent with a clear conscience.

Over time, Shrove Tuesday also became linked with wider community customs. In some places, it was a day for feasting and social gatherings before the more restrained weeks that followed. Traditional foods varied, but pancakes became popular because they were simple, filling, and made from ingredients that households wanted to finish before Lent.

Today, Shrove Tuesday is often celebrated in a more secular way, with pancake breakfasts, school events, and pancake races. Many churches still observe its religious meaning, using it as a reminder of the themes of repentance, renewal, and preparation. It provides an opportunity to pause before Lent begins, whether that involves giving something up, taking on a new discipline, or simply becoming more mindful.

Although modern celebrations tend to focus on food and fun, Shrove Tuesday remains rooted in a long tradition of marking a transition, from ordinary routines to a season of reflection leading towards Easter.

Don’t scapegoat immigrants!

A billionaire worth around £17 billion who has moved his tax residence to Monaco is now criticising immigration and suggesting migrants are a major cause of Britain’s problems.

Whatever your view on immigration, it’s hard to ignore the hypocrisy. When extremely wealthy individuals avoid paying large amounts of tax in the UK, it weakens the funding base for public services like the NHS, schools, and local councils.

This kind of rhetoric risks turning working people against migrants, while far bigger pressures come from inequality, underfunding, and a system that allows the richest to opt out of contributing fairly.

If we want honest solutions, we should focus less on scapegoating newcomers and more on holding the powerful to account.

Holocaust Memorial Day

Holocaust Memorial Day calls us into a sacred kind of remembering, not distant or abstract, but close to the heart, where names, faces, and stories matter. We remember the six million Jewish lives stolen, alongside Roma, disabled people, LGBTQ+ people, political dissidents, and so many others whose humanity was denied. We don’t remember to wallow in despair, we remember because love demands truth, and because forgetting is the first step towards repeating.

Scripture doesn’t offer easy comfort here, but it does offer presence. “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit,” the psalmist writes, and we cling to that promise for every life shattered by hatred. The cry of Micah still confronts us with holy clarity: God requires us “to act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.” Remembrance, then, is not passive, it’s a call to live differently.

We hold the tension between grief and hope. We name the darkness honestly, because anything less would betray the truth, yet we also dare to believe with John’s gospel that “the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” That light flickers in every act of resistance to hatred, every stand against prejudice, every choice to protect the dignity of another.

Today, we remember with reverence, we lament with sincerity, and we commit ourselves again to compassion, justice, and courageous love, trusting that God’s memory is deeper than ours, and that no life, no story, no tear is ever forgotten.

St Dwynwen’s Day

Saint Dwynwen’s Day is celebrated on 25 January as the Welsh day of love and friendship, often compared to Valentine’s Day but with a gentler, more reflective tone. Dwynwen was a fifth century princess, said to be one of the daughters of Brychan Brycheiniog, whose story blends history, legend, and faith. She fell in love with a young man named Maelon, yet circumstances and family opposition meant they could not be together. Heartbroken, Dwynwen prayed for relief from her anguish and for the happiness of others in love. According to tradition, her prayers were answered through a series of miracles, leading her to dedicate her life to God and to become the patron saint of lovers.

Her story is rooted on the island of Llanddwyn, off the coast of Anglesey, where the ruins of her church still stand among dunes and seabirds. For centuries, people visited the holy well there, believing its movements could foretell the fate of relationships. Today, Saint Dwynwen’s Day is marked with cards, small gifts, poetry, and messages of affection, especially in Welsh, celebrating both romantic love and deep friendship.

The day carries a distinctively Welsh flavour, honouring language, heritage, and the quieter virtues of compassion, fidelity, and self giving love. It offers a reminder that love isn’t only about grand gestures; it’s also about prayerful hope, gentle kindness, and the courage to wish well for others, even when our own hearts have known sorrow. For many, it’s a tender winter pause for gratitude and connection.

An Era Defining Speech

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Mark Carney’s Davos speech argues that the familiar story of a stable, rules-based international order has broken down, replaced by an era of intensified great power rivalry where economic interdependence is increasingly used as a tool of coercion. He warns that middle powers can no longer rely on comforting fictions, symbolic commitments, or inherited institutions for protection, and instead must adopt honesty about the world as it is. Drawing on Václav Havel’s idea of “living in truth”, he challenges countries and companies to stop performing compliance with systems they know are failing, and to act consistently with their stated values.

Carney proposes a path he calls values-based realism, combining principled commitment to sovereignty, human rights, and the rule of law with pragmatic engagement across a fragmented world. He argues that strategic autonomy is necessary, but that isolated national fortresses would leave everyone poorer and less secure. Instead, middle powers should cooperate through flexible coalitions, shared standards, and collective investment in resilience, creating practical alternatives to weakened global institutions.

He presents Canada as an example of this approach, outlining domestic reforms to strengthen economic capacity, major investments in defence, infrastructure, energy, AI, and critical minerals, and a deliberate strategy of diversifying international partnerships across regions and issues. Through variable coalitions on security, trade, technology, and climate, Canada seeks to increase its influence without subordination to any hegemon.

Carney’s core message is that middle powers still have agency. By naming reality, strengthening themselves at home, and acting together with integrity, they can help build a more honest, cooperative, and just international order rather than retreating into fear or nostalgia.

When Faith Loses Integrity

The Book of Hosea offers one of scripture’s most searching critiques of what happens when faith becomes entangled with power, identity, and national pride. It speaks into any age where devotion to God is claimed loudly, yet trust quietly shifts towards political strength, cultural dominance, and the comfort of belonging to the “right” side of history. Hosea’s burden is not that the people of Israel stopped being religious, but that their religion had become distorted, busy with ritual yet hollowed out by misplaced loyalties.

Again and again, the prophet exposes the danger of claiming God’s authority for structures God has not ordained. They set up kings without my consent; they choose princes without my approval (Hosea 8:4) is a devastating spiritual diagnosis, not simply a political observation. It confronts the instinct to baptise human systems with divine approval, to assume that national success, military strength, or political dominance must surely reflect God’s favour. Hosea insists that such confidence is a form of unfaithfulness, even when it wears religious clothing.

What makes this prophecy so piercing is its emotional honesty. The critique is not cold or detached. God’s voice through Hosea is full of anguish and longing, not triumphalism. How can I give you up, Ephraim? How can I hand you over, Israel? (Hosea 11:8) reveals a heart broken by the distance between what faith is meant to be and what it has become. This is not the language of contempt, but of wounded love.

Hosea calls the people back to a faith rooted in trust, justice, mercy, and humility rather than in power or identity. That call remains timeless. Whenever Christianity is used to defend control rather than compassion, to protect privilege rather than pursue righteousness, Hosea’s voice still speaks. It invites honest self-examination, gentle repentance, and a return to the God who desires steadfast love more than sacrifice, and faithfulness more than any display of religious certainty.

The Fragile World Order

The world order is changing at an alarming pace, and what’s at stake reaches far beyond any single conflict or crisis. The credibility of international law itself is under pressure, tested by actions that appear selective, self-serving, or indifferent to agreed norms. When rules are applied inconsistently, or bent to suit the interests of the powerful, law begins to look less like a shared framework for justice and more like a tool of convenience. That erosion doesn’t happen overnight, but once trust is weakened, it’s painfully hard to restore.

Alongside this, the authority of the United Nations is being steadily undermined when its resolutions are ignored, bypassed, or treated as optional. The UN was never perfect, but it was built on the conviction that dialogue, restraint, and collective decision-making were preferable to unilateral force. When states act as though multilateral institutions matter only when they deliver convenient outcomes, they hollow those institutions out from within, leaving little more than symbolism where substance once stood.

At the heart of the matter lies a vital principle, that no state, however powerful, can appoint itself as judge, jury, and enforcer of the world order. Power without accountability breeds resentment, instability, and, ultimately, resistance. If might replaces right as the organising logic of global affairs, smaller nations are left exposed, alliances fray, and cooperation gives way to fear and calculation.

If that principle collapses, so too does the fragile trust on which global cooperation depends. Climate action, humanitarian protection, arms control, and peace itself all rely on the belief that rules mean something, and that no one is above them. Once that belief is lost, the consequences will be felt everywhere, and for generations.

Removing a US President

I’ve been considering how a US President can be removed from office for debasing the office, for being incompetent, and acting inappropriately? I’ve discovered that a president can only be formally removed from office through constitutional processes, and these are deliberately narrow and difficult.

The main route is impeachment. The Constitution allows a president to be impeached for “treason, bribery, or other high crimes and misdemeanours”. This phrase doesn’t mean ordinary crimes alone; it also covers serious abuses of power, corruption, or conduct that fundamentally undermines the presidency. The House of Representatives has the sole power to impeach, which is essentially bringing charges by a simple majority vote. If the House impeaches, the president is then tried by the Senate. Removal from office requires a two-thirds majority of senators voting to convict. Without that supermajority, the president remains in office, even if many believe the behaviour is debasing, incompetent, or inappropriate.

There’s also the 25th Amendment, which deals with incapacity rather than misconduct. If the vice-president and a majority of the cabinet declare that the president is unable to discharge the powers and duties of the office, the vice-president becomes acting president. If the president disputes this, Congress ultimately decides, again requiring a two-thirds vote in both the House and Senate to keep the president sidelined. This mechanism is meant for physical or mental incapacity, not poor judgement, moral failings, or offensive behaviour.

Beyond these, there’s no legal mechanism to remove a president simply for being incompetent, embarrassing the office, or behaving inappropriately. Those judgements are left to voters at the next election, to political pressure within the president’s own party, or to history. The system is designed to prioritise stability and electoral accountability over rapid removal, even when a president’s conduct deeply troubles many citizens.

The Long-Term Drag of Brexit

Brexit is probably the main reason the UK economy is doing badly because it’s made trade slower, more expensive, and more uncertain, especially for small and medium sized businesses. Leaving the single market and customs union introduced new paperwork, border checks, and regulatory barriers that didn’t exist before, reducing exports and discouraging investment.

Many international companies have shifted operations elsewhere in Europe, taking jobs, tax revenue, and growth with them. At the same time, labour shortages in sectors like agriculture, health, hospitality, and construction have pushed up costs and constrained productivity.

While global factors such as Covid and energy prices have affected all countries, the UK has performed consistently worse than comparable economies, suggesting that Brexit has acted as a long term drag rather than a one off shock.

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.