quinta-feira, 30 de outubro de 2025

Reflexão - O candidato matrix (Nuno Lebreiro)

 

(sublinhados meus)

O candidato matrix

Em boa-verdade, a grande questão dos próximos anos políticos é mesmo esta: para além da propaganda, na prática, que significa o projecto de André Ventura para o país?

No filme de 1972, The Candidate, Robert Redford encarna um jovem idealista que, sem perspectivas reais de ganhar uma eleição para o Senado norte-americano, é convencido por um experiente director de campanha profissional a candidatar-se contra o senador incumbente, tido como invencível. Com a garantia de que, não tendo hipótese de ser eleito, poderia dizer o que lhe apetecia, de forma genuína e sem filtros, a personagem de Redford aceita o repto. A trama evolui, claro, e, a pouco e pouco, à medida que aumentam as hipóteses do candidato outsider ganhar, também aquilo que se lhe pede em termos éticos e morais começa a mudar. Ao longo do filme a história acaba focando-se na forma como existe um enorme abismo entre, por um lado, o processo de conquista do poder através da retórica, do idealismo e da boa-vontade e, pelo outro, as concessões, os compromissos e as escolhas políticas, morais e pessoais que a realidade do exercício do poder acabam por exigir.

No final, o problema do candidato passa a ser a possibilidade de vitória. Como Lenin, perante a hipótese de ser chamado a concretizar a sua retórica desprendida e genuína, o candidato pergunta-se angustiado: o que fazer? A esta pergunta, nos nossos dias e no mundo real português, também terá que responder em breve o nosso candidato moralista, solto, anti-sistema que, com timbre estridente e convicção aparentemente genuína, tem atacado o sistema político português incumbente. Infelizmente, num regime mediático onde impera o clique, a parangona e a farsa, tal pergunta tem passado relativamente despercebida, mas, em boa-verdade, a grande questão dos próximos anos políticos é mesmo esta: para além da propaganda, na prática, que significa o projecto de André Ventura para o país? Considerando a retórica anti-impostos e o anúncio desmedido de medidas caríssimas, táctica não propriamente invulgar em quem almeja chegar ao poder, onde residirá o verdadeiro compromisso de Ventura? Por enquanto, tirando uma mão cheia de ministros sombra, sobra o mistério.

Entretanto, após as últimas eleições legislativas e os célebres 23%, espíritos mais atentos e críticos talvez antecipassem que, finalmente, aquele momento de definição onde o Chega será forçado a transfigurar-se de um partido de protesto — repare-se no nome — num partido que possa, de facto, conquistar o poder, estaria para breve, e com ele, o momento “que fazer?” do candidato Robert Redford encarnado em Ventura. Só que não. Caídos do imaginário de normalidade e saúde democráticas onde Portugal não vive, quando aterrados no pântano tristonho da choldra política lusitana, sobra-nos somente a lengalenga da “extrema-direita”, “do ataque à democracia”, da indignação generalizada para com uma possibilidade que, afinal de contas, no campo dos factos, ninguém sabe sequer muito bem o que é — e a culpa de tal desconhecimento não pode ser assacada apenas a Ventura, pelo contrário, esta é sobretudo de quem cabia perguntar-lhe e exigir-lhe respostas e que se preocupa apenas em, histericamente, gritar “lobo” com a alegada “ameaça” que aquele incarna.

Entretanto, vieram as autárquicas e o Chega, em parte, esvaziou-se na abstenção — mais uma vez, aliás, tal qual nas últimas Europeias — para alívio generalizado da populaça comentadeira e alcoviteira das rádios e TV. Na volta, pensa-se agora, afinal, até há salvação para o vendaval Ventura: se transpusermos para nível nacional, imagina-se, as virtudes, proximidades e especificidades do “poder local”, eis que se afugenta a borrasca política e se salva a Situação. Já alcançar que os votos que ora não vieram votar nos múltiplos candidatos autárquicos Chega por esse país fora são votos que, quando aparecem, apenas parecem votar Ventura, esse singelo facto pareceu passar completamente despercebido a essas argutas mentes analistas do fenómeno político nacional. Mais, que o próximo acto na peça política nacional é uma eleição altamente personalizada, por voto directo, em círculo único nacional, porventura a melhor conjugação de factores que pode haver para que o eleitorado que vota Ventura, e apenas Ventura, se mobilize mais uma vez, como nas Legislativas, para aparecer nas cabines de voto, ora aí está mais uma pequena nota de rodapé que insiste em não aparecer no debate político nacional.

Não, a grande questão política ao que parece é o desgraçado cataclismo que ameaça fazer desabar os céus sobre os desgraçados portugueses se Ventura, sempre ele, tiver uma boa votação e, quem sabe, “passar à segunda volta”. Em coro, cantam a uma só voz: Marques Mendes, o comentador residente que sucedeu ao prof. Marcelo nas suas “conversas em família” na esperança — óbvia, fajuta, quase ridícula — de suceder-lhe também no cargo presidencial, já explicou que Ventura quer “destruir a democracia”. António José Seguro, o socialista renegado que anseia por roubar votos a Marques Mendes concorda. Para ele, “há uma ameaça à democracia”, ameaça para a qual um voto na sua pessoa representa, não apenas a solução, mas a casa de albergue de todos os “democratas, progressistas e humanistas”. Já Gouveia e Melo vai mais longe. Para o Almirante salvador da pátria na luta contra o tenebroso vírus da COVID, Ventura “entrou num corrupio de racismo” e, mais grave, lembra “Hitler”. São génios, senhores, são génios — ou então não, vivem no mundo político português como pretensos actores principais sem perceber patavina do que está a acontecer à sua volta.

Mais à esquerda, a coisa é igual e, como sempre, a ameaça existencial de Ventura domina o discurso. Catarina Martins, uma democrata exemplar da extrema-esquerda jacobina, anuncia a sua candidatura, não apelando à revolução, mas, à contrário, garantindo que com ela a revolução (de Ventura) nunca ocorrerá. Nunca, jamais! Em sendo a senhora eleita Presidente da República, o “Chega”, garante-nos ela, “nunca tomará posse como Governo” — quando o Bloco de Esquerda é o guardião do regime algo está podre no reino português. Já António Filipe, candidato do cadáver adiado PCP, esse assume que tudo fará para “evitar que a extrema-direita” chegue ao poder, obviamente, na medida em que a campanha do Chega e de Ventura “envergonha o país” — já o facto do PCP ainda existir deveria ser algo que nos envergonha a todos, mas enfim, é o que há. Finalmente, do Livre, sai um desconhecido que visa ocupar o espaço que Seguro larga vazio à esquerda e, claro está, também ele aspira a “defender os ideais da República”, pois esta, tal como a democracia, Abril e tudo e tudo e tudo “está sob ataque” — de quem, ora de Ventura, pois claro. São visionários, já percebemos.

Ou seja, e tal como em tempos cantou a candidata do ADN à Câmara Municipal de Lisboa, graças a esta inteligência política toda, cada vez mais pode cantar Ventura em plenos pulmões que, na política, nas eleições, em Portugal, no mundo mediático deste pequeno rectângulo à beira-mar plantado, em todo e qualquer recanto político nacional, incluindo nas cabecinhas pensadoras do regime, o papel principal é dele — e é mesmo. Nestas condições, levado em ombros pelos principais agentes políticos nacionais, em particular os adversários, alguém se pode mesmo admirar que Ventura tenha cada vez mais votos, cada vez mais peso, e esteja cada vez mais perto da vitória final? E tudo isto sem que algum dia, algum jornalista, ou algum adversário político, tenha tido a capacidade para, pelo meio do nevoeiro mediático que o próprio cria para se anunciar como D. Sebastião, forçar Ventura a dizer a única coisa que, de facto, importa — o que é que ele quer e vai mesmo fazer no caso de ganhar?

Vivemos, portanto, no devaneio completo onde o centro gravítico de tudo o que de relevante acontece na bolha mediática é André Ventura. Os jornalistas, ansiando por audiência e o momento de glória em que saquem um gaguejo ou fraquejo do centro disto tudo, acusam, atacam, picam um Ventura que, sempre de sorriso na cara, como Neo no filme Matrix, se desvia com facilidade super-sónica das balas que lhe são enviadas. Porquê? Porque, tal como Neo, Ventura controla a “matrix” política, representando o Alfa e o Omega do mundo mediático entretanto constituído em torno de si. No final, sobram dois mistérios: primeiro, que ninguém, dos candidatos aos jornalistas, perceba que o escândalo, a indignação e a fúria que é lançado contra Ventura apenas o fortalece; depois, que também não haja alma alguma preocupada com o que Ventura, por detrás das manobras e do folclore, realmente significa para o país.

Não deixa de ser extraordinário que políticos profissionais e jornalistas com décadas de experiência vivam confortáveis com esta situação, por eles co-criada, em que todo o mundo mediático se senta numa audiência virada para um palco ocupado por apenas uma pessoa. Que não percebam que é essa situação, junto com a ambiguidade que a sua proposta representa — onde cabe tudo e o seu contrário —, que lhe dá o poder, a força e o sucesso eleitoral, é ainda mais extraordinário e uma infeliz prova da mediocridade reinante que convive, e se alimenta, de um vazio que, esse sim, representa uma ameaça, não à democracia ou à República, mas ao regime político como um todo.

O caso prático do Almirante Melo comprova o ponto. Enquanto viveu na sombra da posição mediática central em que foi artificialmente colocado por diversos interesses políticos e mediáticos, estava praticamente eleito presidente à primeira volta, e garantidamente à segunda. Mas, precisamente porque, ao contrário de Ventura, não foi a arte e o engenho do próprio que o colocou nessa posição, quando forçado a sair da ambiguidade e a explicar ao que vinha, a cada vez que foi forçado a falar lá deu a douta personagem um tiro de canhão no seu próprio barco que, já de tanta água carregado, ameaça ir ao fundo ainda antes de sequer chegar às eleições. Também ele pretendeu ser ambíguo, também ele desejou chegar a todos — primeiro, àquela direita que adora uma farda, depois, ao centro que não é de esquerda nem de direita, rigorosamente ao centro entre PS e PSD, finalmente, porque os focus group revelam que Seguro deixa espaços abertos à esquerda, anunciando-se agora como sucessor de Soares e o novo grande defensor dos imigrantes que, garante ele, ao fim de dez anos são tão portugueses quanto os restantes —, assim se mostrando na prática que, sem o talento de Ventura e a cumplicidade dos media, quando a ambiguidade é forçada a materializar-se numa opção clara, se essa opção não passar de um flato lançado no vento, a força eleitoral evapora-se na atmosfera com a mesma rapidez que o metano das vacas.

Não nos iludamos. André Ventura é, de facto, o político mais influente do país. Também será, provavelmente, o mais talentoso — em terra de cegos quem tem olho é rei. Resta é perceber o que é que esse talento retórico e mediático significa para Portugal, pelo que das duas uma: ou Ventura terá em breve o seu momento Redford e consegue orquestrar um programa, uma linha de rumo concreta e um plano de acção prático para o país que agrade a uma grande maioria; ou então, porque não conseguindo tal desiderato, ou, mais provável, porque é sempre impossível agradar pela positiva, pela proposta construtiva, a todos aqueles que, até agora, o apoiam única e exclusivamente porque representa o descontentamento, a desilusão e a raiva com o regime e o sistema, de uma forma ou outra o grande desafio de Ventura é precisamente aquele que matou o Almirante — o da materialização.

Até agora o seu talento e a inabilidade dos adversários e jornalistas adiou essa necessidade, mas, mais tarde ou mais cedo esse momento chegará. Para bom interesse do país seria melhor que isso ocorresse antes de Ventura chegar ao Governo ou, quem sabe, apesar de improvável, já nos próximos meses, à Presidência da República — mas sendo o país aquilo que é não nos poderemos surpreender que a coisa continue mesmo assim, de vazio em vazio até à vitória final. Uma coisa é certa, em democracia cada povo tem aquilo que merece.

Reflexão - Os nossos inimigos têm mísseis. Nós temos princípios (Rodrigues do Carmo)

 (sublinhados meus)


Os nossos inimigos têm mísseis. Nós temos princípios

Quem acredita que o mundo é um condomínio de filósofos acabará por descobrir, cedo ou tarde, que os filósofos não têm mísseis. E quem não os tem acaba a discutir ética no idioma de quem os dispara.

Nos últimos anos, os portugueses habituaram-se a ouvir falar de mísseis com a mesma naturalidade com que ouvem falar de futebol. Mísseis balísticos, mísseis de cruzeiro, mísseis hipersónicos. Há tempos, uma comentadora televisiva mencionou até um perturbador “míssil basilisco”. Um prodígio mito-zoológico da ignorância.

Um míssil balístico é como um foguete das festas populares. Sobe, propulsionado pela deflagração de uma substância química, atinge um apogeu e depois regressa à Terra em queda, arrastando consigo apocalipses em miniatura.

Foi inventado na Europa. O primeiro, o V-2 alemão, criado por Von Braun, foi lançado em 1942 e, dois anos depois, já caía sobre Londres e Paris semeando destruição e terror. Mais de três mil desses engenhos voaram nos últimos meses da guerra. Foi, literalmente, o primeiro objecto humano a tocar o espaço exterior, ao serviço da Alemanha e do Tio Adolfo.

Os misseis balísticos de curto alcance mantêm-se geralmente dentro da atmosfera terrestre, mas os de maior alcance viajam para fora dela, alguns vão mesmo para além dos 1500 km de altitude (a Estação Espacial Internacional orbita a 400 km de altura). Alguns atingem o solo a velocidades hipersónicas. O maior ataque de mísseis balísticos da história partiu do Irão, em 2024, com duzentos lançados de uma vez sobre Israel.

A Europa não tem nada que se pareça, porque resolveu não ter. Tirando a França e o Reino Unido, que mantêm uns quantos, mas apenas com ogivas nucleares, selados sob códigos que ninguém quer usar, o continente praticamente não tem mísseis convencionais de longo alcance. Mísseis balísticos terrestres? Quase zero. Mísseis de cruzeiro com mais de mil quilómetros de alcance? Meia dúzia, e quase todos lançados do mar.

Em contrapartida, o mundo fora do condomínio europeu parece uma feira de foguetões: Rússia, Irão, China, Taiwan, Coreias, Hezbollah, Houthis, todos com arsenais de mísseis capazes de atingir alvos a milhares de quilómetros.

Como chegámos aqui? Tudo começou com o Tratado INF, assinado em 1987 entre os EUA e a URSS. O acordo eliminava mísseis terrestres de médio alcance (500 a 5.500 km), e embora fosse pensado para Washington e Moscovo, congelou as decisões europeias durante três décadas.

O tratado morreu em 2019, mas a inércia ficou: a Europa afeiçoou-se à ideia de que não ter mísseis era uma virtude. Aliás, evitar tudo o que fizesse lembrar a guerra, era virtude. A dependência, embalada pelo moralismo, tornou-se um modo de estar. Os europeus deitaram-se à sombra do guarda-chuva nuclear americano e concentraram-se no conforto de quem acha que já está para lá da História.

O problema é que a dissuasão terceirizada só funciona enquanto o senhorio, neste caso, os EUA, estiver para aí virado. Quando começa a olhar de esguelha, como está a acontecer, a coisa muda de figura. Os EUA fartaram-se. A Europa pregou, durante décadas, uma espécie de pacifismo aristocrático que incluía um rotineiro deboche do aliado que lhes assegurava a tranquilidade. Acreditou que a geopolítica se resolvia com palestras sobre género e descarbonização. Recusou-se a possuir mísseis de cruzeiro e balísticos de longo alcance para cargas convencionais. Foi uma opção política e cultural, embalada por idealismos kantianos e pela reconfortante convicção de que a guerra era um anacronismo impróprio de pessoas civilizadas. Hoje, essa escolha revela-se não só ingénua como perigosa e suicida.

Resultado: muitos países, muitos orçamentos, muitas certezas e nenhuma capacidade terrestre de ataque profundo. A França, valha a verdade, tem os seus MdCN. Mísseis de cruzeiro navais com alcance de cerca de 1.400 km. O Reino Unido mantém algumas dezenas de Tomahawk em submarinos. E é tudo. De resto, o que existe são mísseis de cruzeiro de curto alcance, lançados de plataformas aéreas. Storm Shadow, Taurus, e outros, bons para ataques tácticos, mas dependentes de aviões e de condições de supremacia aérea. No chão, onde a Rússia, o Irão ou a Coreia do Norte têm as suas plataformas balísticas, a Europa não tem nada.

Sim, há finalmente, algum despertar. A França, a Alemanha, a Itália e a Polónia estão a desenvolver novos mísseis de cruzeiro terrestres com alcances entre 1000 e 2000 km de alcance. Um esforço tardio, mas necessário. A França e o Reino Unido também trabalham no FC/ASW (Stratus), o sucessor do Storm Shadow e do Exocet.

Do outro lado, a Rússia dispara regularmente os seus Iskander-M (balísticos) e Khinzal (cruzeiro), sobre a Ucrânia. Mísseis hipersónicos, difíceis de interceptar. O Irão tem um catálogo inteiro: Fateh, Zolfaghar, Shahab, Ghadr, Emad, todos testados e usados, muitos já com precisão métrica. O Hezbollah tem mísseis iranianos capazes de cobrir todo o território israelita e chegar a Chipre. Os Houthis, no Iémen, disparam Burkan e Qiam contra navios e refinarias a centenas de quilómetros.

A Europa não joga neste campeonato. As consequências de um continente desarmado são óbvias até para um estudante do secundário. Sem mísseis de longo alcance, a dissuasão europeia é uma anedota.

Não há como responder a um ataque sem escalar. Quando a Rússia dispara um Iskander convencional sobre Kharkiv ou quando o Irão lança uma chuva de mísseis a 1 500 km, a Europa limita-se a mandar condolências e declarações e manifestar profunda preocupação.

Não estamos a falar de teoria: estamos a ver, na prática, quem tem meios para ferir à distância e quem fica à mercê do tempo, do vento e do arbítrio do inimigo.Porque a resposta que alguns países da Europa têm, só pode ser por via aérea. Cara, exigente, escalatória, dependente de reabastecimentos e vulnerável a defesas modernas.

Na guerra, quem tem meios impõe o ritmo. Quem não tem, marca reuniões e fala de diplomacia. E aqui surge um incentivo perverso: se o agressor sabe que a Europa não pode retaliar ao mesmo nível, mais provavelmente arriscará a agressão.  A ausência de capacidade de resposta simétrica não dissuade; encoraja. Se um míssil convencional se abate sobre uma cidade europeia, como se responde? Com aviões numa operação que exige supremacia aérea e reabastecimentos em voo? Com um comunicado a repudiar o ataque, a convocar uma cimeira e reafirmar a nossa determinação?

Alguns dizem que possuir certas armas é imoral, recuperando o conceito de “armas pouco agradáveis a Deus”, decantado em 1215, no Concílio de Latrão a propósito da besta. Mas a moralidade, sem meios, é uma flor de estufa num campo de minas. Nenhum hospital se protege com retórica. Nenhuma cidade resiste com flores e comunicados.

E há outro efeito perverso: um general impedido de recorrer a certas armas, mais dificilmente conceberá respostas criativas e antecipatórias e tenderá a andar sempre um passo atrás do inimigo O que há que fazer é também óbvio: É tempo de deixar o romance kantiano na estante e encarar a guerra tal como ela é. A recusa de possuir certas armas não é virtude, é apenas vulnerabilidade. Virtude é ter meios e não precisar de os usar. Porque o inimigo sabe que, se nos ferir, não ficará impune. A dissuasão não se faz com palavras, faz-se com capacidade, vontade e credibilidade.

A Europa precisa de acelerar programas de “deep strike” convencionais: mísseis de cruzeiro que vão até aos 2000 km, e mísseis balísticos de teatro. Lançáveis de plataformas terrestres, navais e aéreas. E, sobretudo, definir doutrina clara de resposta: rápida, proporcional e credível.

O mundo mudou e os mísseis voltaram a ser o idioma da força. Os nossos inimigos falam-no fluentemente e nós ainda estamos a conjugar o verbo “condenar”. Se continuarmos assim, não tardaremos a perceber que, na guerra, quem só tem princípios e não tem meios, acaba sempre no papel de figurante moral.

Quem insiste em acreditar que o mundo é um condomínio de filósofos, acabará por descobrir, mais tarde ou mais cedo, que os filósofos não têm mísseis. E quem não os tem, acaba a discutir ética no idioma de quem os dispara.

quarta-feira, 29 de outubro de 2025

The Spectator - Running is being ruined by the ‘wellness’ brigade

 


(personal underlines)

Running is being ruined by the ‘wellness’ brigade

It’s become all about expensive gear and gratuitous posturing

[iStock]

Is there a more obnoxious introduction in 21st-century Britain than the words ‘I’m a runner’? ‘I’m a runner,’ followed by the gulp of a protein shake or (shudder) the announcement of a 5k personal best. ‘I’m a runner,’ from a wheezing wannabe in carbon-plated trainers: ‘The shoes Kelvin Kiptum wore when he broke the marathon world record? Yes, yes they are.’

I am no Kelvin Kiptum. I’m not even Simon Pegg in Run Fatboy Run. But I am a runner, with the blackened toenails, tight hamstrings and race medals to prove it. It seems that those things are no longer worth much, though. Just as walking was subsumed by step counts, food by calorie trackers and sleep by eight-hour monitors, running has fallen foul of the bourgeois commodification that veils itself as ‘wellness’. So much for gentrification: these days, we’re seeing the plague of middle-class runnerfication, as swarms of joggers in ludicrously expensive gear and hi-tech gadgets become as common a sight as gastropubs and branches of Gail’s.

Take a stroll (or jog) on any given weekend and you’ll see what I mean. Last year record numbers of Britons took up running, according to Sport England, with 349,000 more regular joggers than in 2023. Much of this, no doubt, was fuelled by Parkrun – the weekly 5k event turned global sensation – which celebrated its 20th anniversary last autumn with a 6,000-plus turnout in Bushy Park, south London. 

But you don’t even need to step outside to see the evidence. Look at Instagram, where bright young ‘runfluencers’ such as Mary McCarthy, Jennifer Mannion and Savannah Sachdev have cultivated thousands of followers through their swift (or proudly snail-like) paces and multi-year run streaks. Look at the running apps – a market expected to grow by more than 14 per cent in the next eight years – such as the £1.6 billion route mapper Strava and its recently acquired AI ‘coach’, Runna. Look at the London Marathon website, spangled with the smug announcement that it’s registered a world-record-smashing 1.1 million ballot entries for next year’s race. 

Even dating apps have cashed in on the boom, with Tinder launching its own run club last year. And celebrities aren’t immune, with singer Harry Styles the most recent addition to the coveted ‘sub three-hour marathon’ club after completing the Berlin course last month. No wonder the Atlantic called running the ‘new quarter-life crisis’: if you have pre-rheumatic knees and live anywhere near a pavement, the chances are you’ll be pounding it. 

‘What’s so wrong with that?’ you may ask as you slurp on your isotonic energy gel. After all, the lure of running is obvious: it’s free (in theory), it’s demonstrably good for your wellbeing and it’s an effective way to shed the pounds. To protect a National Health Service panting beneath the pressure of the obesity crisis and mental ill health, becoming a ‘runner’ is arguably a noble – nay necessary – pursuit. 

And yet, of course, it’s not that simple. Long gone are the days when you could pull on a moth-eaten T-shirt and go for a ten-minute pootle round the block. Unless you’re clocking up the kilometres for ‘kudos’ (that’s Strava’s equivalent of social media ‘likes’) with a Garmin watch, hydration vest and £150 heart rate monitor strapped around your chest, it simply doesn’t count. You don’t even have to be running to see this consumerism in action. Nike and US brand Hyperice will launch their ‘hyperboot’ in the UK this month: battery-powered trainers you can pop on for 15 minutes before or after a run to improve blood flow, for the princely sum of £699.99.

Nowhere is this tedious commodification more obvious than where I live in south-west London – a tarmac idyll for Lululemon-clad athletes. During my last evening loop around Battersea Park, I counted no fewer than 28 fellow runners clogging up the pathways. So ubiquitous are the pavement patrols that even a friend of mine, who once missed a flight to Buenos Aires because he refused to run for it, caved into the pressure and signed up for the Barcelona Marathon. When building up to 26.2 miles from no miles at all, little wonder that he (like many) ended up with shin splints, dodgy ankles and a torn ACL. (By the way, for the purposes of this piece, he’s still asked I call him a ‘runner’.)

Just last week I saw three posts from a runfluencer on the verge of despair because he’d completed ‘the worst half-marathon of his life’ in – horror of horrors – one hour, 23 minutes. This, to be clear, is not an elite athlete; just an ordinary man with a few dozen brain cells and copious time to train. His is hardly the plight of Pheidippides, the legendary marathoner who ran to Athens to announce the Ancient Greeks’ victory in battle and promptly died from the effort. But, then again, even Pheidippides might have pulled through for a Puma sponsorship deal and some high-protein ready meals to flog.

This isn’t the first running boom in the past 50 years. Nor will it be the last. And yet it’s notable that this latest explosion comes hot on the heels of the Covid years, when once-daily exercise was one of the only legal reasons to leave the house and ‘staying healthy’ took on a more sinister significance. Against that backdrop, the posturing of ‘runners’ – the obsession with pace and over-priced gear and carbohydrate consumption – is almost gratuitous. At best, running is about the freedom of dirt on your shoes, strength in your legs and not a thought in your head. At worst, it’s a dangerous cycle of control and comparison, the most grotesque type of consumerist culture in which food becomes fuel, bodies become gym equipment and personal bests become just another number to beat. 

Perhaps the best runner to look to, then, is the great Japanese novelist Haruki Murakami, who has been running every day since 1982. While promoting his 188-page ode to the sport, What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, he wrote simply: ‘I’m not a great runner, but I’m a strong runner. That’s one of the very few gifts I can be proud of.’ Is there a more humble, more worthy way of explaining why you run? Not for style, speed or to log on social media, but simply because you can? 

So much for ‘I’m a runner’. Ask yourself: why, exactly, are you?

Fotos - Mais um treino

 Uma viagem de barco para o treino dos Vetvals no colégio Valsassina em 28.10.2025

















The Spectator - Why don’t we know how many people are in Britain?

 

(personal underlines)

Why don’t we know how many people are in Britain?

How many people live in Britain? You would think there would be a straightforward answer, but it eludes some of the nation’s brightest statistical minds.

This week the Office for National Statistics (ONS) projected that our population will grow by some 4.9 million people over the next seven years, bringing Britain’s official population to over 70 million. The bulk of that population growth will come from immigration – nearly ten million people.

But can these projections be trusted? Never mind how many people will live in Britain in seven years, we do not know how many people are living here now. This is despite the fact that – going by the number of CCTV cameras per (estimated) capita – Britons are among the most surveilled people in the world. Big Brother may be watching, but he isn’t counting.

While the ONS does produce mid-year population estimates, these are often considerably wide of the mark. The last national census, in the spring of 2021, proved that point. The total reported population was off by nearly 300,000 from the ONS’s estimate for the year.

Other estimates fare even worse. The Annual Population Survey, which samples about 150,000 households nationwide, has seen response rates plummet from around half in 2017 to less than one in five last year. The APS is so useless that its national statistical accreditation was suspended in October.

Unlike some other countries, such as Sweden, Britain has no centralised population register. We don’t count people in or out of the country, so our population figures are based on rough estimates. Imposing such checks at the border is more difficult than it sounds. Dual passport holders and the UK-Ireland Common Travel Area both present logistical hurdles.

If the British state is bad at population estimates, the private sector is no better. A recent report conducted by Edge Analytics on behalf of Thames Water suggested that as many as one in 12 people could be living in London illegally. However, the methodology was far from robust. Rather than measuring actual water usage, it used out-of-date migration estimates from 2017 and assumed the irregular migrant population peaked the previous year.

Yet even though no company or organisation can give a complete picture of how many people are in the country or who they are, one trend is clear. Whenever official population figures are tested against real-world data, the population is almost always undercounted.

In England alone, nearly 64 million patients are registered with GP practices, higher than the ONS’s estimated national population of 58 million. In 2021, NHS figures indicated a Covid vaccination rate of more than 100 per cent in some areas. In other words, more people had received Covid jabs than were registered as NHS patients.

The problem of population undercounting isn’t new, but it has worsened in recent years, largely because of unusually high post-Brexit migration (both legal and illegal). The surge of non-EU migrants after the end of the Covid lockdowns – the so-called ‘Boriswave’ – represented such a radical increase in numbers that statisticians have struggled to keep up. The ONS’s estimate for net migration in 2022 alone has been revised upwards three times, from an initial figure of 606,000 to 872,000.

This estimate is mostly for legal migrants. Illegal migrants are even harder to track. Though discussions about illegal immigration often focus on the ‘small boats’ crossing the Channel, this is not the only way to achieve undocumented residence in the UK. The vast majority of illegal immigrants arrive legally and then overstay their visas. Many of these overstayers fade into the ‘grey market’, taking up unofficial positions in the gig economy and renting from landlords who are willing to turn a blind eye.

The state’s record at removing these illegal migrants is remarkably poor. The number of ‘enforced returns’ has fallen sharply in the past 20 years, from 21,425 in 2004 to a mid-pandemic low of around 3,000. Last year’s figure of 7,706 represents a slight improvement, but it is still well below the pre-pandemic average. 

If 7,706 returns sounds low, that’s because it is. Though estimates range widely, the latest figures suggest that Britain could be home to 745,000 illegal immigrants. That’s more than any other country in Europe, and the true number could be higher still. In October 2017, David Wood, the former head of immigration enforcement at the Home Office, suggested that the figure could be as high as 1.2 million. 

Against these enormous numbers, 7,706 is a drop in the ocean, particularly when inadequate record-keeping and porous borders ensure that the illegal immigrant population can replenish itself year on year. For every return which the Home Office enforces, how many new visa overstayers does it miss? We simply do not know.

What’s to blame for the country’s data deficiency? Officially, stretched resources are at fault, and this is partially true. The ONS faces the mammoth task of collecting, recording and reporting hundreds of different datasets each year. From time to time, efficiencies will need to be made. None of this will have been helped by the ONS’s relocation in 2006, when around a thousand jobs were transferred to Newport. This early example of ‘levelling up’ has made it difficult for our national statistical body to recruit top talent: as many as nine in ten staff members did not follow their jobs to Wales, while a grand total of seven senior civil servants chose to make the move.

Ultimately, the failure to collect accurate population data is also a product of deliberate decision-making. When time and money are limited, bodies such as the ONS must decide which datasets they want to keep publishing, and which they want to discontinue. And when potentially controversial migration datasets happen to fall out of publication, ministers are unlikely to clamour for their return. Collecting more accurate data on the population at large risks exposing the scale of our national failure on migration, and would force the government to confront the fact that so many British businesses now rely on illegal immigrant labour.

‘Well, no one told me there was a new world order.’

Efforts to spare politicians’ blushes have real-life consequences. At every level, public policy decisions rely on the assumption of accurate demographic data. An inflated population puts unexpected pressure on public services and infrastructure. It means increased water and electricity usage, more cars on the roads and more passengers on public transport. If the figures being used for investment decisions underestimate the true size of the population, then the investment inevitably won’t be enough. 

Population undercounting also means more strain on the NHS and on schools. It means a tighter-than-expected housing market, as fewer homes are built than are needed and there is more competition for rental properties. It means that many small business owners have to compete with unscrupulous firms that use grey-market labour to suppress wage costs. Those working here illegally are unlikely to report their employers to the authorities for underpaying them.

Britain’s phantom population problem affects nearly every aspect of life in this country. What can be done to address it? We must at least improve our national data collection capacity. Some have suggested that we might need to conduct an emergency census, to allow us to fully grasp the scale of the Boriswave – though this will be a challenge to organise without taking a serious look at how the ONS collects and processes data.

There are lessons from the US, if we care to learn them, about how to combat illegal migration. In the first days of his second term, a reinvigorated President Donald Trump has already suspended new visa applications at the southern borders, redeployed active duty troops to help with removal flights and allowed authorities to arrest illegal migrants in schools, churches and hospitals. On Monday alone, Immigration and Customs Enforcement arrested 956 people.

Whether or not Trump’s successes will inspire a similar flurry of activity from our own government remains to be seen.

The Spectator - The political resurrection of Christianity

 (personal underlines)


The political resurrection of Christianity

There is a passage in Milan Kundera’s novelisitic essay ‘Testaments Betrayed’ where he writes about the nature of history. Man walks in a fog, Kundera observes. He stumbles along a path and creates the path as he walks it. When he looks back, he can see the path, he may see the man, but he cannot see the fog. Everything looks inevitable after it has happened.

So we have the ‘sleepwalkers’ explanation of how Europe stumbled into the first world war. We have the ‘inevitability’ of the slide into the second world war. It is perhaps the greatest of all idiotic modern presumptions that so many people imagine while looking back that they would have known better or acted differently.

Which brings me to the present. Because the only thing you can do if you are going to try to tread a path well is to use what senses you have to work out what the next step might be. In the past week there have been two events, one on each side of the Atlantic, which have revealed a very interesting sense of the path we are on.

Charlie Kirk was a proud and devout Christian. When asked what he wanted his legacy to be (a question it is awful to think that a man only just through his twenties was often asked), he always said that he wanted to be remembered first and foremost for his faith. Before being an American, a Republican, an activist or a supporter of Donald Trump, it was that which he wanted to be remembered for. His faith in Christ was the rock on which everything else stood.

Since Charlie’s assassination there have been many gatherings around the world in his memory, from cities in America and Britain to as far away as South Korea. And these have so far been notable for a number of things. Unlike those in response to, say, the death of George Floyd, these gatherings have not compelled local businesses to board up their windows. They have not, so far, been despoiled by significant violence. What they have been dominated by is prayer. Indeed the memorial gatherings to Charlie have so far been defined by their Christian content more than anything else. That is a rather remarkable thing: in response to a political assassination, the people on the side of the victim have gathered to pray.

In London last weekend Tommy Robinson held his ‘Unite the Kingdom’ rally. There is the usual dispute over the number of people who attended, but the area around Whitehall was full enough to suggest that it was more than 100,000. As Rod Liddle mentions, it has been attacked in the media as some kind of far-right, white-supremacist gathering, but was in fact marked by its racial inclusivity and peaceable nature.

Something that the media coverage almost completely ignored were the efforts to insert a Christian element into the proceedings. Yes, there were various anti-mass migration activists and politicians. Yes, there were musicians, including black gospel singers. But to me one of the most interesting aspects of the events on the main stage was the prominence of overtly Christian figures – including the Maori men who performed a haka with a Christian pastor. The proceedings were kicked off by a slightly Black-adder-esque clergyman called Bishop Ceirion Dewar from something called the Confessing Anglican Church.

I found his performance a tad bizarre. He seemed to mix up the role of public prayer with that of a wizard in Tolkien warding off the hordes of Isengard. But that is a matter of taste. And I can’t help noticing that various bishops of the established church were not available last Saturday. Perhaps like the bishops of Dover, Southwark and Barking, they were too busy denouncing the event to bother praying anywhere near it, or even speaking to the sort of people attending.

Still, it is noteworthy to me that two movements within a week, at the very edge of the cultural and political struggles of our time, should end up leaning so heavily into the Christian element. Especially in Britain, where the role of Christianity in public life has become no more distinct than a whistle in the midst of a hurricane.

It is perhaps inevitable. The concern that many people have about the levels of legal and illegal migration over recent decades has a great deal to do with the fact that many people arriving into the West have no desire to integrate into our traditions and a distinct desire to spread their own way of doing things. Prominent historians, including Tom Holland, have noted entirely correctly that Islam seems to have things about it which make it uniquely indigestible to the modern secularised state.

In reality it is a double whammy. The deep cultural concerns of our time are caused both by the challenges which Islam poses to a secularised society and the push that a new religion of ‘progressivism’ has made into the space where Christianity once was. The concerns are by no means dampened by the way that elements of these two other faiths have found a way, for the time being, to march together, creating a hybrid that might be summed up as ‘Trans for Palestine’: a clown-car which will inevitably come off the road.

Amid this fog it is probably inevitable that people will try to return to their firmest orientations. This is what R.R. Reno, the editor of the Catholic magazine First Things,has described as ‘the return of the strong gods’. Though deeply moving at times and slightly comical at others, there is something significant going on here.

A sensible society and a wise Church would do something to speak to these urges. But I don’t expect it. The Bishop of Barking, the Rt Revd Lynne Cullens, could be found this week claiming that Robinson’s rally showed it is time for a ‘refreshed, contemporary and broad-based understanding of British values’. Treading wisely and treading timidly are not always the same thing.

The Spectator - There’s something vulgar about Freemasons

( personal underlines)

no news!


There’s something vulgar about Freemasons

The Met Police ought to disclose membership

(Getty)

Goodness, isn’t there something a bit hoary about the notion that members of the Metropolitan Police may have to declare if they’re Freemasons? The idea has come up recently in the context of discussion on ‘declarable associations’ – those organisations you’re obliged to admit to belonging to if you’re a London copper. 

A spokesman for the Mayor of London, Sadiq Khan, who is in charge of the Met, has previously ruled out a compulsory register of Freemasonry in the force, but a spokesman for the mayor said improving standards in the Met ‘involves looking at organisations, including the Freemasons, and consulting to see if membership of these groups could call impartiality into question or give rise to any conflicts of loyalty when it comes to investigations, misconduct and promotions’.

So, senior police officers will be sitting down with the United Grand Lodge of England, presumably in its grandiose building in Great Queen Street, to talk things over. On the one hand, there’s the principle of transparency; on the other, the contemporary pieties about freedom of association… human rights, in other words. The panel that looked into the very murky inquiry into the death of the private investigator Daniel Morgan in a pub car park in Sydenham in 1987 has recommended that full disclosure be considered.

Personally, I can never repress a thrill when it comes to Freemasonry, chiefly because, even if they’re letting in women, I wouldn’t be able to belong to it. Catholics aren’t allowed to be Freemasons, a) because the organisation was for quite a long time pretty well a synonym for anti-Catholicism (lots of Orange lodges were associated with the movement), and b) because it’s a secret organisation and, as the nun at school explained, if you’re bound by an oath taken when you join you may be obliged to do something against your conscience.

I don’t know whether b) is true, but what I do know is that for absolutely ages it was a given that half the coppers in London belonged to the Masons and ditto half the movers in the City. In the rather grand stockbroking firm where I misspent two years after university, it was common knowledge that one of the senior partners was a Mason and he’d occasionally sound out promising young men about whether they fancied coming along. In fact, as I understood it, you didn’t even need to ask if someone was a Freemason; merely a handshake would do it. I was thrown as a young journalist when a Labour MP asked me, after shaking hands, whether I was a Mason… plainly I’d gripped him in some significant way.

Anyway, the combination of prohibition, alleged influence, mysterious ritual and exciting symbolism was sufficient to give the thing, for me, a certain allure. That was until I found out some years ago that the Grand Lodge in Great Queen Street was, mirabile dictu, throwing open its doors to the general public. How odd, I thought, as I hastened to the opening. But what a mistake that was. 

It turned out that the temple, or whatever, is not like, as I imagined, the inside of a pyramid or thrillingly reminiscent of Solomon’s Temple. It was quite remarkably dull and in horrid taste; the central hall was more like a 1930s Odeon, and you half expected an organ to rise from the floor. The symbolism was all right, but I was used to that in the context of religion generally. 

The trappings were – how can I put this? – vulgar. It was a lesson, if ever there were one, that you should never let daylight in on the magic. Once you open up the ritual to outsiders, the spectacle of men hopping around blindfold with aprons and rolled-up trousers (this is probably a travesty of more exciting activities) starts to look silly rather than reminiscent of The Magic Flute, an opera which is meant to be stuffed with Masonic symbolism.

But back to the question of full disclosure. Of course the Met should be obliged to say that its officers are Masons, because it would help determine whether promotion, for instance, could be affected by a superior officer being in the same lodge as the subordinate. It’s the secrecy which is potentially troubling. And since the Freemasons now maintain that they’re a body engaged in tireless charitable work, there can’t be much to hide. Because there are still concerns about its influence. I can’t say Freemasonry scares me any more than the Rotarian Association nowadays, but I was troubled by James Tidmarsh’s report for this paper recently that President Macron had received some sort of endorsement from the organisation… why? To what end?

Once the police admit to being in the Freemasons, the thing becomes unthreatening. Trouble is, it also becomes humdrum and commonplace, but that may be a price worth paying.

sexta-feira, 24 de outubro de 2025

Música - Chimène Badi - Je viens du sud


 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pYv_oP5F7GI&list=RDpYv_oP5F7GI&start_radio=1

Música - Flunk Blue Monday




https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wbgd2ZpZWBU&list=RDwbgd2ZpZWBU&start_radio=1




The Spectator - cartoons

 O roubo do Louvre...

Os media...

E o resto...








The Spectator - Why the row about the England flag matters

 (personal underlines)

Why the row about the England flag matters

At the end of Sky News’s coverage of last year’s Notting Hill Carnival, its correspondent recited the usual list of arrests, stabbings and so on before concluding her piece to camera by saying: ‘But overall it’s been a really peaceful and enjoyable day.’ This year the honour of summing up the beauty of the event was left to Sky’s arts and entertainment correspondent, Katie Spencer. The reason it is important for two million people to gather in the tight streets of Notting Hill over the August bank holiday, she said, is because of ‘resistance to racism’. ‘This is a place where community comes together,’ she went on, ignoring all the shops in the area that had been boarded up. ‘You don’t walk around constantly looking over your shoulder.’

This year, over the two-day event, there were 423 arrests, 32 assaults on police, only a couple of stabbings (down on last year), fewer than 50 guns, machetes and knives seized, and a mere 18 sexual offences. Safe spaces, which were introduced last year, were back. As one female Metropolitan Police officer explained: ‘Women and girls who might feel sort of vulnerable in Carnival – unfortunately there are incidents of sexual assaults – can go and be supported in those areas.’ It is hard to think of another cultural event in this country where dedicated areas have to be set aside in advance for people who will be sexually assaulted. The BBC Proms, for instance, do not have an area set aside for people who have been raped by other Prommers.

‘Does [the Notting Hill Carnival] feel any unsafer than being at, say, Glastonbury?’ asked Spencer, before answering herself: ‘Not particularly.’ Which, if true, is another reason never to go to Glastonbury.

The gated institutional narrative around events such as the Notting Hill Carnival is that ethnic minorities need a ‘safe space’ in order to have a day or two off from the racist nightmare that is life in the UK. What is interesting about this year’s Carnival is that it comes at a time when a different grass-roots movement is springing up – and attracting a very different response. That is the decision by a large number of people, mainly in England, to start flying our national flags more prominently. One part of this movement is called Operation Raise the Colours, and of course the people involved have already come in for the usual smears and guilt-by-association.

The BBC this week ran a report on the phenomenon of people flying our nation’s flag. As you might expect, the subject was approached in the manner of a hanging judge who’s donned the black cap before asking for the first defence witness. Indeed, the BBC outsourced its expertise on this matter – as on all matters to do with anything patriotic – to the radical leftist campaigning group Hope Not Hate (a group which, as I have said here before, has its name precisely the wrong way around). As the BBC said: ‘According to the research group Hope Not Hate, Operation Raise the Colours was co-founded by Andrew Currien, otherwise known as Andy Saxon, who has allegedly had links with the English Defence League and Britain First.’

One might note that this is a textbook effort at smearing an entire people. First of all, the radical activists at Hope Not Hate are described merely as a ‘research group’. And then they say that someone involved in one of the organisations that has encouraged flag-raising is someone who has been ‘alleged’ to have had links with the defunct EDL. This is the journalistic version of the 1920s hit song ‘I’ve danced with a man, who’s danced with a girl, who’s danced with the Prince of Wales’.

Yet Operation Raise the Colours brings to mind the occasional times in recent decades when MPs from the Labour and Conservative parties have talked about the importance of having more pride in our culture and about how we should ‘reclaim’ our national flag. Here is a movement that is responding to some of the downsides of mass migration by showing pride in our flag. And the response from much of the media is to say: ‘The flag you’re flying is the flag that is flown by someone who we’re told might have links with groups we deem unsavoury.’

So we return to that age-defining question: what are you actually allowed to do or say if you don’t like the direction this country is going in? If you join a rally against the rape of young British girls, you will be marked as a racist. If you go to a demonstration against putting up illegal migrants in expensive hotels, you will be branded far right. If you put up a flag, you will be smeared by the most distant possible association with someone you’ve never met who might have put up the same flag for the ‘wrong’ reasons.

Perhaps it is just about possible that the public could be kept down forever, our national story trashed and our flags said to be toxic. The problem is trying to maintain that stance while at the same time encouraging everybody else to have a whale of a time with their own emblems and traditions, even traditions where laws are broken.

We are informed that some migrants may feel concern at going down a street festooned with our national flag. But it’s an odd thing to move to a country and then say that its emblems scare you. Still, I find the argument unconvincing. I felt concern recently going down a street in east London where every lamppost was bedecked with signs saying ‘Trust in Allah’. But I never heard of anyone caring about my feelings.

I suppose people can vote Reform. But the next election is four years away. And just guess what the media will do to voters who even think of putting their cross in that box.