Observador - O que está em causa é mais importante do que Trump

 

(sublinhados pessoais)

https://observador.pt/opiniao/o-que-esta-em-causa-e-mais-importante-do-que-trump/

O que está em causa é mais importante do que Trump

Quem preza o Ocidente e a democracia liberal deveria desejar uma vitória americana, independentemente do que pense de Donald Trump.

Rui Ramos 

10 abr. 2026, 00:25

A ditadura iraniana esteve sujeita, durante mais de um mês, a uma campanha aérea que eliminou quase todos os seus líderes e uma grande parte dos seus recursos militares. Ficou sem defesa aérea, e os mísseis e drones com que atacou foram, de modo geral, anulados pela defesa dos países vizinhos. Sofreu mesmo a humilhação de nem ter conseguido impedir os EUA de resgatarem dois pilotos bem dentro do seu território. Mas a ditadura mantém-se, e criou insegurança suficiente no golfo Pérsico para interromper a circulação marítima. Agora, aproveita a pausa da guerra para simular vitória. Era de esperar. O que talvez seja de admirar mais é a precipitação com que uma parte das elites políticas ocidentais deu razão aos mullahs nessa reclamação espúria. Porquê?

Porque desde o início que, para essas elites, o que esteve em causa nesta guerra não foi a teocracia sanguinária e corrupta de Teerão, mas a presidência de Donald Trump. Por isso, embora não tivessem torcido pelos mullahs, torceram para que as coisas corressem mal e Trump, com os preços a subirem, tivesse de desistir. No New York Times, escrevia-se ontem que este tinha sido o “Suez” de Trump. Era uma alusão à operação militar que, em 1956, confirmou o eclipse do poder da Inglaterra e da França no Médio Oriente. Seria desejável isso acontecer aos EUA, só para Trump perder as legislativas de Novembro?

Valerá a pena repetir que não é Trump que está em causa? Que é a ditadura clerical do Irão, um regime apocalíptico que matou em Janeiro milhares de iranianos, que prometeu destruir Israel, que tem atacado e subvertido a vizinhança, que é um aliado crucial de Putin, e que é o foco do radicalismo islâmico que inspira o terrorismo entre os muçulmanos? O Ocidente tentou lidar com a ditadura iraniana através de sanções. Inutilmente. Resta-lhe a força militar. Se agora se concluísse que também essa não é suficiente, por relutância dos EUA em suportar os custos da guerra, o problema não é só de Trump nem só para Trump. Não é só de Trump, porque se os EUA não podem ganhar esta guerra sob Trump, nunca a ganharão sob nenhum outro presidente, a quem, além de faltar os meios, faltaria também a vontade. O problema não é só para Trump, porque é a Europa quem já está ao alcance dos mísseis iranianos, uma Europa quase sem armas e com grandes populações muçulmanas, a quem os jihadistas não deixariam de tentar mobilizar com um insucesso americano. Talvez mais gente saiba isto do que parece. Talvez por isso não tenhamos tido as marchas contra a guerra de 2003.

Se nada correr bem, terá sido culpa de Trump por ter tentado desarmar agora os tiranos de Teerão? A guerra é uma opção terrível, mas a inacção teria sido apenas um caminho mais silencioso para a derrota. Os que dizem que só se deveria atacar o regime iraniano quando dispusesse comprovadamente de armas nucleares nem percebem que nesse momento já não seria possível atacá-lo sem arriscar uma guerra nuclear. O sucesso também não estaria garantido se o presidente dos EUA fosse menos bombástico. Nenhuma conversa mais gentil teria persuadido os governos europeus, paralisados pelo medo da imigração muçulmana e dos custos do rearmamento, a ajudar.

Repito: o nevoeiro da guerra ainda não se levantou. A ditadura iraniana certamente que não está mais forte. Trump pode ter alcançado, ou vir a alcançar, os seus objectivos (acima de todos, degradar a capacidade do Irão de projectar poder). Quem preza o Ocidente e a democracia liberal deveria desejar isso, independentemente do que pense de Donald Trump. O que está em jogo é muito mais importante do que o número de congressistas e senadores que o partido de Trump pode eleger em Novembro.

The Spectator - Will colonialism’s psychological legacy ever cease to be a source of pain?

 (personal underlines)

https://spectator.com/article/will-colonialisms-psychological-legacy-ever-cease-to-be-a-source-of-pain/?utm_medium=email&utm_source=CampaignMonitor_Editorial&utm_campaign=WEEK%20%2020260319%20%20AL%20%20HENRY%20POOLE+CID_0093559c7ecbe1f132328e5988aa2763

Will colonialism’s psychological legacy ever cease to be a source of pain?

The British Empire’s abiding bequest has not been infrastructure and administrative systems but a memory of repression that continues to pass down through generations, says Simukai Chigudu

Michela Wrong

Whenever the legacy of colonialism comes up for debate, a Monty Python sketch springs to mind. It’s the one from Life of Brian in which Reg, the leader of the People’s Front of Judea, exclaims: ‘What did the Romans ever do for us?’ Corrected, he eventually concedes: ‘OK, apart from the sanitation, the medicine, education, wine, public order, irrigation, roads, a fresh water system, and public health, what have the Romans ever done for us?’

It’s a brilliant exchange. But as Simukai Chigudu’s beautifully written memoir testifies, one that misses an essential point, in that colonialism’s bequest extends beyond infrastructure and administrative systems. Its most abiding – if tantalising – legacy has been psychological and emotional. And just like the railways, roads, universities and hospitals, those traces have been passed down through the generations, often barely definable to those inheriting them, yet undeniably there.

Chasing Freedom is a bellow of ancestral pain written by a man who, while moving from the privileged private schools of the former Rhodesia to the boozy student halls of Newcastle and quads of Oxford, attempts to digest and reconcile the contradictions of his family history. He often fails, repeatedly hovering on the verge of breakdown.

For those who don’t share the author’s skin colour, very particular experience or political views, this account could easily have felt like a hectoring sermon. Amazingly, Chigudu manages to avoid that trap, perhaps because he’s as merciless on himself as the long-dead colonial figures and occasional Reform supporters he encounters.

He was born in Zimbabwe only six years after the end of that country’s war of independence. His father, Tafi, is a war veteran, who fought against white-run Rhodesia’s army and still cannot bear to hear a bad word said about Robert Mugabe. His Ugandan mother, who met Tafi while studying at Makerere University, belongs to a generation of budding African feminists who believed that education held the key to freedom. She was determined that her son should grow up fully ‘exposed’: ‘My child must get everything I didn’t get… You must travel, you must see the world.’ Chigudu was already boarding international flights, solo, at the age of six.

An anxious-to-please only child, he became the most dogged of academic high achievers, getting marks that won him acceptance into schools once earmarked for white ‘Rhodies’. There he was taught by masters whose views Nigel Molesworth would have recognised. His parents assumed they were equipping him for middle-class life in a proud postcolonial African state. In fact, Chigudu now recognises, ‘my education was priming me for life outside Zimbabwe’.

As Mugabe’s rift with the British government over compensation for the appropriation of white farms widened, Zimbabwe’s economy collapsed and inflation soared to stratospheric levels. Chigudu’s path out of the country is set – first to a private school in Lancashire, then to Newcastle University, where he is flabbergasted by the student body’s yobbishness and feels ‘like a misplaced peppercorn in a bowl of salt’. Lost and bewildered, he is swallowed up by a Christian group – ‘I doubled down on my commitments to Christ, the way a closeted gay man might perform hypermasculinity’ – before realising his fervour was just one in a series of attempts to blank out his underlying malaise.

From there he moves to the University of Oxford. Shifting from medicine to political science, he plays a key role in the unsuccessful campaign to topple the statue of Cecil Rhodes overseeing Oriel College, deemed by Chigudu and fellow campaigners an unacceptable glorification of empire.

While the removal of a Cecil Rhodes statue from its plinth in Cape Town in 2015 always seemed both fitting and overdue, the attempt to extend the ‘Rhodes Must Fall’ campaign to Oxford felt – to me, at least – like a case of arrogant overreach. I reassessed that view after reading Chigudu’s memoir, so convincingly does he convey how historic repression and inherited trauma worm their way into the mindsets of succeeding generations.

Honesty is key to his tale. While he lacerates Rhodes and his contemporaries, Chigudu is under no illusions as to more recent horrors perpetrated by his father’s liberation heroes. Those include Gukurahundi, the massacres committed in Matabele in the 1980s by a Zimbabwean army unit, and the slum clearances in 2005 which left at least 700,000 homeless and 2.4 million facing starvation and disease. Chigudu readily admits that he only learned about many of these crimes once abroad, such is the sanitising of history practised by Mugabe aficionados inside Zimbabwe.

His reckoning extends to his parents, whose loveless and at times abusive relationship is exposed to the same nuanced but remorseless gaze as his own obsessive-compulsive personality. That’s brave, given that both these ‘flawed and astonishingly scarred’ individuals were still alive at the time this book went to press, and none too happy about his approach.

‘What I’ve been investigating is how personal history is linked to larger history,’ he explains at the end; ‘how political liberation from oppressive rule is not the same as freedom of the self from the burdens of the past.’

Great biographers need to be both lacerating and humane: Chigudu certainly has those qualities. To understand all is not necessarily to forgive all; it is simply, well, to understand. The even-handed empathy he displays throughout to all the players in his life’s story makes this a truly compelling read.

Desporto - Sumo (torneio de Março 2026)

Kirishima won!

 

Classificação antes do torneio

Desistência de Midorifuji

Cartoons - Jim Unger 4th treasury

 

The Spectator - Americans are erasing European culture

 (personal underlines)

https://spectator.com/article/european-culture-is-being-erased-by-the-americans/?utm_medium=email&utm_source=CampaignMonitor_Editorial&utm_campaign=BLND++20260213++HOUSE+ADS++AG+CID_13d9eb43b7a45e5bcaf107d7e7898fb7

Americans are erasing European culture

From music to food, Uncle Sam’s influence is everywhere

Gavin Mortimer13 February 2026, 4:59am

Mariah Carey performs at the opening ceremony of the Milan Winter Olympics. (Photo: Wang Zhao/AFP/Getty)

Did Mariah Carey mime or not when she headlined the opening ceremony of the Winter Olympics in Milan? That was the main takeaway from last Friday’s jamboree. Organisers have since suggested that the US singer did indeed lip-sync to Domenico Modugno’s ‘Nel Blu, dipinto di Blu’ and the song that followed, her very own, ‘Nothing is Impossible’. ‘The technical, logistical and organisational complexities of an Olympic ceremony are not comparable to a live performance by a single artist,’ said a spokesperson for the organising committee.   

Was there also a linguistical complexity in the decision? Perhaps Carey didn’t feel confident singing live in Italian in front of 75,000 spectators in the San Siro Stadium, plus the 9.2 million Italians watching the ceremony on television. Nevertheless, Maria Laura Iascone of the organising committee called Carey’s performance ‘exceptional’, adding that the board was ‘very honoured’ she had agreed to top the bill. 

The French were honoured in 2024 when Lady Gaga was the headline act at the opening ceremony of the Paris Olympics. The American also pre-recorded her song, ‘Mon Truc En Plume’, the cabaret song made famous in the 1960s by Zizi Jeanmaire. Lady Gaga said she was ‘humbled’ to perform the song, which she did to ‘honour the French people and their tremendous history of art, music and theatre’. 

Madame Gaga wasn’t the only American star flown in by the French. Rapper Snoop Dogg was invited to carry the Olympic flame through the suburbs of Paris en route to the stadium. According to the French media, the American rapper provided the Games with an ‘indispensable source of energy’.  

Olympic opening ceremonies are supposed to showcase all that is wonderful, quirky and unique about the host nation. Danny Boyle did it brilliantly with the opening ceremony of the 2012 Olympics in London, a show that ranged from Mr Bean to David Beckham and the Arctic Monkeys to the London Symphony Orchestra.   

But the reliance on American stars underlines how Italy and France are being inexorably ‘Americanised’ to the point where they now lack confidence in their own culture. Britain has also been Americanised – but because we share the same language there was less cultural difference to start. Not so in France, where the cultural invasion by America is now everywhere: language, the arts, ‘woke’ ideology and even the names chosen by parents. 

Increasing numbers of French children are christened Kevin, Cindy, Dylan and Jordan. Indeed, there is a chance that next year the French will elect as their president Jordan Bardella. 

One of France’s leading social scientists is Jérôme Fourquet, who has written extensively about the Americanisation of the Republic. ‘[It] began in the 1950s-1960s in cinema, music and fashion, and continued in the 1980s-1990s with the appearance of new first names…before spreading to food,’ he explained. 

The number of fast-food restaurants in France – most of them American – has rocketed this century. In 2006 there were 18,600 fast food outlets in France; today there are 47,000. After the USA, France is McDonald’s biggest global market. Bistros, on the other hand, are in crisis. There were approximately 200,000 village bistros in France in the 1960s; today there are 30,000. On average, 25 traditional restaurants close each day. 

Italian cuisine is also being Americanised. McDonald’s is currently investing €800 million in expanding its operations in Italy. The chain opened 51 new restaurants in 2024 and plans to have 900 restaurants up and running by the end of 2027, an increase of 145 on 2024. 

Italian politicians try to put a positive spin on this culinary conquest. Francesco Lollobrigida, the Minister of Agriculture and Food Sovereignty, praised the partnerships between McDonald’s and suppliers of local products. It is a ‘synergy’ he said, ‘that can enhance Italian products … with a re-education on ancient flavours that are being rediscovered’. Lollobrigida cited Montasio cheese as something a ‘young person is unlikely to eat’ were it not in a McDonald’s burger. 

From Mariah Carey to McDonald’s, Italy has no answer to the soft power of America. At least Prime Minister Giorgia Meloni is a friend to Donald Trump, unlike Emmanuel Macron, the arch-enemy of his American counterpart. Earlier this week the French President renewed his call for ‘a more sovereign Europe’ to counter the threats and intimidation of America. But it’s too late for that. 

Last December Trump warned Europe that it faced ‘civilisational erasure’ because of mass immigration from the developing world. He has a point. But what about the cultural erasure of Europe that is almost complete? Blame Uncle Sam for that. 

The Spectator - Driving isn’t fun any more

 (personal underlines)

https://spectator.com/article/driving-isnt-fun-anymore/?utm_medium=email&utm_source=CampaignMonitor_Editorial&utm_campaign=LIFE%20%2020260225%20%20SG+CID_da0f023bc6e9fc6bf113055ffe5d4de8

Driving isn’t fun any more

Robotic cars are the final insult

Matt Donnelly23 February 2026, 5:00am

It is almost inconceivable that we used to live in a world where people would ‘go for a drive’. Not to get to a destination, but simply for the pleasure of driving. Sunday afternoons were the time of choice for this activity and would see car owners take to the road simply because it was good fun to be behind the wheel. The idea that driving was anything other than functional now seems absurd.  

That world has vanished, partly due to the sheer volume of cars. In 1971 (the year my dad learned to drive), there were roughly 15 million cars on UK roads. Today, on those same roads, there are 34 million. Driving was more pleasurable when there was space to breathe — empty ribbons of tarmac where you might encounter another car every five minutes. Now, the ‘drive’ is spent in a metal conga line, with journeys that should take 15 minutes routinely taking 50.  

Motorway driving may be the worst sub-category of driving. These days, the M25 is more a car park than a road, where one can enjoy the experience of watching their fuel gauge descend simultaneously with their will to live. If you’re lucky enough to actually move, you’ll be tailgated by a BMW, cut up by an HGV, and then get stuck behind a Nissan Micra (not overtaking) in the middle lane.  

There is also the matter of modern technology. Modern cars come equipped with LED headlights so bright they could double as anti-piracy searchlights. Using your rear-view mirror requires similar precautions to be taken as viewing a solar eclipse. Fail to take these precautions, and you’re subjected to retinal warfare that’s comparable to staring into the detonation of an atomic bomb, leaving you forced to navigate the roads by braille. These lights may well help their users see better, but this is at the expense of temporarily blinding everyone else. We’re led to believe that this is automotive progress. 

What’s most peculiar is what cars do to their occupants. The moment some people’s posterior makes contact with a driver’s seat, they undergo a Jekyll and Hyde-style psychological transformation that is actually just as fascinating as it is horrifying. These are ordinary people — the type that would apologise for being bumped into — who become snarling, hostile beasts the moment they’re encased in metal. The car seems to provide a moral soundproofing that renders the normal rules of human interaction null and void, and road rage, the default setting.  

This anonymous aggression is driving’s answer to online comment sections. I can only guess that our windscreens create just enough detachment from reality for people to feel comfortable with unleashing behaviour that would be unthinkable in a face-to-face interaction. The problem is, road warriors pilot actual weapons. In the hands of someone in the tight grip of automotive sociopathy, a two-tonne Audi Q7 is considerably more dangerous than an angry tweet.  

It doesn’t take long to need a break from driving, forcing road users to descend into what must be the most depressing place on earth and the seventh circle of driving hell: the motorway service station. I stopped at Leigh Delamere Services recently and, on entry, was nearly rendered unconscious by the stench of the lavatories from a good 60 feet. After a wait that was similar in duration to the construction of Cologne Cathedral, I was rudely served a weak coffee and a sandwich that tasted like it had been assembled from materials found down the back of a radiator. For the privilege, I was charged £10. The irony is exquisite, however. The place that was created to provide welcome refuge from the unpleasantness of motorways has become far more unpleasant than the motorway itself. I’d just keep driving if I were you. 

And if the current state of things isn’t miserable enough, we can expect the arrival of driverless cars by the end of the year, which will presumably deliver the final blow. Any remaining vestiges of motoring pleasure, dead. Technophiles don’t shut up about how these vehicles will be safer, more efficient, more rational. They will — in other words — remove our autonomy entirely from the equation and take us one step closer to rendering humans completely useless. There will be no more spontaneous decisions to take the scenic route, no more stumbling upon a charming village that you didn’t know existed. Instead, we’ll be passengers in our own cars, transported along predetermined routes by robots that can only ever prioritise efficiency. We’ll be no more than delivered to our destination — like a parcel. The ‘Sunday drive’ will be replaced by the ‘Sunday algorithmic transportation experience’. Even worse, these ‘robo-taxis’ will presumably observe speed limits religiously, making them absolutely insufferable to share the road with. 

I don’t expect we’ll see a return of driving for pleasure. There are too many of us out on the roads, and we’re all too unpleasant to each other. But if we could occupy the roads with a touch more courtesy and dim our lights to something short of nuclear intensity, we might salvage some enjoyment from what has become a modern misery. 

Livros - A Revolução Trump

 

Youtube - Despolariza com Miguel Morgado

 Continua a ser o maior pensador contemporâneo.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6ccQUSOmryI

#108 MIGUEL MORGADO - Conservadorismo, Política, TROIKA, Pedro Passos Coelho, Religião, Austeridade

YouTube - Matemática

Recordar a Matemática  

(ANÁLISIS MATEMÁTICO para pensar - Lic. María Inés Baragatti - Parte 2 de 3)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZEvUDcr8LDw

Youtube - Douglas Murray: "Something BIG Is About To Happen To Europe.."

Two main features: understand English and be intelligent!...

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6Je2HN1nlFk

Música - Roger Glover And Guests - Love Is All

Roger Glover And Guests - Love Is All

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BR6pYICqZT0

The Spectator - The doctor who wanted me dead

 (personal underlines, silent reflections...)

https://spectator.com/article/the-doctor-who-wanted-me-dead/?utm_medium=email&utm_source=CampaignMonitor_Editorial&utm_campaign=BLND++20260113++HOUSE+ADS++AG+CID_0ed6ee4f3fec69ba8df1a630b2e03793

The doctor who wanted me dead

I know I want to be resuscitated

13 January 2026, 5:00am

(Getty)

On New Year’s Eve, at about 3 p.m., I phoned for an ambulance. The pressure sore on the weight-bearing surface of my right amputation stump – one of three on that stump – had torn open, exposing bone: specifically, the cut end of the fibula.

Although it was a pain to have to go into A&E, it wasn’t unusual. I had last been discharged from hospital a week before in Glasgow for infection of said pressure sore. The first two of my armoury of autoimmune illnesses – scleroderma, antiphospholipid syndrome, hypothyroidism, autoimmune uveitis and Sjögren’s syndrome – have caused me to have hundreds of hospital admissions over the past 26 years, and around 45 to 50 operations in theatre.

The first assessor on 111 briskly ran through the questionnaire – this would subsequently be repeated three times by other assessors. I told her the pressure sore was on the weight-bearing surface of my right stump, and explained that I was a double below-knee amputee. ‘Any change in colour of your lower leg, ankle, foot, or toes?’ she rattled off from the script. I stopped myself from saying, ‘It’s incredible – since both amputations, my lower legs have been completely transparent.’

This was the usual bizarre dance with 111. As I wasn’t having difficulty breathing or hosing out blood, I was phoned back by a ‘medical supervisor’. She didn’t sound hugely experienced, but that isn’t necessarily a problem – I’ve seen young doctors who have been exemplary. After several phone calls from 111, paramedics were despatched. They were, as ever, cheerful, competent and kind. Because it was New Year’s Eve, I couldn’t be taken to St Mary’s, where my excellent surgeon Mr Wordsworth (yes, a relative) works. All the central hospitals were reserved for revellers, and I would be taken elsewhere.

Everyone I saw on that night was lovely, including a female consultant. But the next morning I was visited by a different female consultant. She told me that as well as the osteomyelitis – bone infection – I also had aspiration pneumonia, a form of infection where stomach contents enter your lungs. I had known that: I told the overnight consultant I had coughed strangely two nights previously, so I had asked for the chest XR.

I have had aspiration pneumonia many times, so I recognise the symptoms. Usually it affects the right lung, specifically the right lower lobe, because the right main bronchus is, in most humans, more vertical and wider than the left. When I was in the high-dependency unit in Glasgow (superlative staff), both lungs became infected because I was heavily sedated and didn’t sit up promptly to stop the surge from the stomach.

This consultant was immensely patronising. I asked her which lung had been affected, in case both had been, like last time. ‘Aspiration affects the right lung,’ she said primly, pedagogically. ‘I know!’ I laughed. ‘I was a consultant anaesthetist.’ I kicked myself metaphorically (no feet) for asking a question I knew the answer to just to make conversation.

She ignored my comment and crouched by my bedside. In a lowered voice, she said, ‘There is an important question we ask every patient on admission.’ She went on for a bit without revealing the question, so I smiled and said, ‘Yes, I’ve already been asked. I’m for resuscitation.’

But the consultant remained where she was, and continued as if I hadn’t spoken. ‘In my opinion, you should not be for CPR,’ she said, as my jaw muscles slackened. ‘CPR only has a 20 per cent chance of success. Even in those cases where it is successful, quality of life afterwards is very poor. I think that if you had a cardiac arrest, it would not be in your interests to resuscitate you. The quality of your life now is very bad, and if they succeeded in resuscitating you, it would be even worse.’

‘But I really enjoy my life,’ I said, finding myself pleading for it. ‘I’m still productive. I write for The Spectator, and…’ Unhearing, unrelenting, she continued in a steely voice. ‘It’s something to think about. I have given you my opinion. You are weak, you have heart problems. Your quality of life is poor and would be worse if you were resuscitated from a cardiac arrest.’ 

‘It would be worse if I wasn’t resuscitated,’ I muttered. What a contrast with my regular consultants, who are positive and actively trying to better the lives of their patients. The Angel of Death wanted to curtail it. I’m still on that ward, being looked after by excellent, kind, compassionate nurses and, thankfully, different doctors. Apart from the noise, night and day, it has been fine. I don’t just rage, rage against the dying of the light, but also against clinicians who think they’re God and that a disabled person at 61 has lived long enough.

The Spectator - I’ll take a country walk over the gym any day

(personal underlines) 

https://spectator.com/article/ill-take-a-country-walk-over-the-gym-any-day/?utm_medium=email&utm_source=CampaignMonitor_Editorial&utm_campaign=BLND++20260113++HOUSE+ADS++AG+CID_0ed6ee4f3fec69ba8df1a630b2e03793

I’ll take a country walk over the gym any day

I know by now that I'll never stick to my new year’s resultions

13 January 2026, 4:59am

(iStock)

Despite having eaten my own body weight in chocolate over Christmas – and vowing to do better in the new year – my inner Augustus Gloop means I still feel duty-bound to finish what’s left. Self-control when it comes to eating has never been one of my strengths. My New Year’s resolution about a healthier diet will have to wait. In addition to buying the usual tubs of festive favourites – Heroes, Quality Street and Roses – I got a ton of confectionery as Christmas presents. I reason that it would be ungrateful not to enjoy it.

My New Year’s goals are perennial: eat less and exercise more. I fail every time. I mean, I do a reasonable amount of exercise anyway: at least 10,000 steps a day with the dog, yoga every evening and a martial arts class once a week. But I really need to do more cardio. I bought a pair of running shoes last year with the intention of joining the local parkrun, but never quite made it: 9 a.m. on a Saturday seemed just that bit too early. I did road-test the new joggers a few times, but swiftly lost interest. So dragging my 58-year-old carcass along to the park is back on my to-do list.

January is notoriously the time when gym membership peaks. I’ve belonged to several over the years and, typically, after the initial burst of enthusiasm, my attendance has tailed off dramatically. Quite apart from feeling slightly intimidated by the serious bodybuilders, I find the hot, sweaty, artificially lit environment unconducive. I’d much rather be outside in the fresh air. I also find it boring. Running on a treadmill – never reaching a destination – like a hamster spinning on its wheel in time to techno music – feels like an exercise in futility. A country walk listening to a radio play on my AirPods is far more appealing.

Dry January doesn’t really affect me, as I tend not to drink at home anyway unless we have guests. But Christmas was a bit of a washout: our youngest spent three days in hospital after an extreme allergic reaction caused her to blow up like a pufferfish. As a result, my opportunities for tippling were scant. So I feel that I’m owed a couple of trips to the pub this month. Besides, January’s not the best time to go alcohol-free: it’s cold, dark and nobody has any money.

Veganuary has never appealed. While on holiday in Sri Lanka once, my then girlfriend and I were invited to dinner by some vegans. It was one of the strangest experiences of my life. The evening didn’t get off to a great start after they revealed they were from Dresden and then looked at us with narrowed eyes as if expecting an apology (thanks, Bomber Harris!). We were offered a mixture of berries, fruits and nuts, which, while undeniably healthy, didn’t make for a particularly satisfying meal. Maybe they grazed all day like herbivores. When we asked for water, the head vegan smirked and said they got all the liquid they needed from the food they ate. Apart from being decidedly odd, what was most off-putting was their appearance: emaciated and listless, with a strange, faraway look in their eyes as if they were party to some cosmic truth the rest of us didn’t share. A positive advertisement for veganism, they were not. After making our excuses, we returned to the hotel and – still being in time for the evening meal – sat down at the all-you-can-eat buffet. I’ve rarely eaten with greater relish.

Reading more is always high on my self-improvement list at the start of any year. Being something of a bibliophile, I’ve accumulated a half-decent collection of books. However, I’m now beginning to worry I might not live long enough to read them all. I used to keep a pile by my bed, reading from a selection every evening. Now I struggle to manage two. Those Penguin Classics that I’ve never quite got round to – Aristotle, Cicero, Edward Gibbon – have become little more than dust magnets. But I have set myself the task of reading Meditations by Marcus Aurelius this year. I’m still on the introduction.

After Christmas, the wife and I sat down with the cookery books and made a long list of healthy recipes. We also bought ourselves a smoothie maker and have been enjoying effortless fruit-laden drinks. It’s a welcome antidote to the cloying richness of Christmas food. However, the leftover cake is almost begging to be eaten. And I’ve already made two trips to Greggs since the year started.

Irresolute I may be, but I bumble along doing the best I can, self-aware enough to realise that setting myself lofty goals will only lead to even greater failure. Hence the same resolutions each year. At least I know I’ll fail to keep them, which will lessen the disappointment in myself. In Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Augustus Gloop falls into the Chocolate River, gets sucked up a pipe and emerges much thinner, having been squeezed by the machinery – which, as a weight-loss method, doesn’t seem too bad. I’ll try to walk that bit faster and further, watch the calories and, perhaps, if you’re in my part of Bristol this spring, you may just see a large, middle-aged man bringing up the rear as he huffs and puffs his way to the end of a 5 km run.

The Spectator - The end is drawing near for Iran's mullahs

 (personal underlines)

https://spectator.com/article/the-end-is-drawing-near-for-irans-mullahs/?utm_medium=email&utm_source=CampaignMonitor_Editorial&utm_campaign=BOCH%20%2020260110%20%20AL+CID_c138867fa0350f217ec3f53ccd72f370

The end is drawing near for Iran's mullahs

Mani Basharzad9 January 2026, 6:07am

Buildings and cars were set on fire in Tehran (Credit: BBC)

As a wave of protests swept across Iran last night, the internet was completely shut down. I have no idea what is happening to my friends, my family, or anyone else. My best friend Champ was at the demonstration. I desperately hope he is safe.

Overnight, there were protests throughout Iran. From Qom and Mashhad, the most religious cities, to Rasht and Anzali, the most secular, people took to the streets. In Tehran, there were protests in the poorest parts to the richest parts of the city. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw the huge crowd in Pol-e-Roomi, a neighbourhood in Tehran where prices are comparable to London.

One reason why so many took to the streets is Crown Prince Reza Pahlavi’s call to action for the first time. When he invited people to protest at 8pm on January 8 and 9, his message received 3.2 million likes and 88 million views – a historic record on Persian Instagram.

Why are the richest and poorest parts of Iran, the most religious and the most secular parts, revolting together? Because this revolution isn’t about the left or right. It is about people wanting to be a nation, rather than an ummah. We want to be citizens, not soldiers of a reactionary Islamist cause. 

Iran is a nation wanting its soul back. Protesters burn the Islamic Republic flag and replace it with Iran’s real flag: the Lion and Sun. It is a nation reclaiming the soul of civility, not Islamic barbarism; patriotism, not IRGC internationalism. This is a national revolution to take back what was stolen from us by Islamists: our history, our culture, our way of life. This is the revolt of Persian culture against political Islam.

I hate to be a victim, and I hate victimhood politics as a Thatcherite, but I can’t stop crying when the Islamic Republic attacks hospitals in Ilam to arrest protesters in their beds, and the human-rights mob do not react. They only seem to worry about hospitals when Hamas stores ammunition in them. Normal Iranian citizens? They can’t be bothered. So far, 36 protesters have been killed in just ten days. Western activists don’t seem to care.

The Iranian protesters’ strategic mistake is that they want to be friends with the West. For this reason, the pro-Palestine mob is silent.

Donald Trump, at least, has spoken up. The US president has said the regime will be hit ‘very hard’ if it acts violently against protesters. As a result, demonstrators are changing the names of streets in Tehran to ‘Trump Street’. The Crown Prince has said he is ready to lead the transition to democracy. People chant: ‘This is the final battle – Pahlavi will return.’ It certainly feels like the end is near. No one can predict the exact date the regime’s leaders will leave my country, but it is obvious that it is a matter of time.

The Islamic Republic has used every tool of repression to prevent people from protesting. Since September 2022, dozens of children have been killed by the regime. Nika Shakarami, a 16-year-old, was tortured, raped, and then killed by the IRGC. Her final moments were spent resisting her attackers.

I wish Shakarami was alive so that she could hear the chants of ‘death to the dictator’ and ‘Akhoond bayad gom beshe’, which means ‘the mullahs should f–k off’. In a new Iran, those like Shakarami could live a normal life: wearing what they want, protesting without the risk of being raped by Islamist terrorists. I wish Shakarami, and all those who gave their lives fighting the terror state of the Islamic Republic, could see this day.

The Spectator - Life is more complex than we like to admit

 (personal underlines)

https://spectator.com/article/life-is-more-complex-than-we-like-to-admit/?status=Active&utm_medium=email&utm_source=CampaignMonitor_Editorial&utm_campaign=BLND%20%2020260106%20%20HOUSE%20ADS%20%20LEB+CID_c51f99f79fb3cc7f63f088a49ddafbfd

Life is more complex than we like to admit

Our culture is addicted to absolutes

G.V. Chappell6 January 2026, 5:01am

Sitting on the fence is fine (iStock)

In this strange new world we inhabit, where many people appear to struggle with nuance, the oversimplification of complex problems means that any shades of grey are ignored. This informal logical fallacy, in which every situation is presented as having only two possible options when, in reality, more exist, is now standard in politics and across mainstream and social media. However, rather than being seen as a sign of intellectual weakness, taking entrenched positions is considered perfectly reasonable.

Think 7 October was depraved and insane? You’re Zionist sympathising scum. Appalled by images of children in Gaza made homeless by the conflict, struggling to lift a spoon to their mouth because they’re shaking so violently from the cold? You’re a pathetic Hamas apologist.

Think Brexit hasn’t exactly been a great success? You’re a sad, embittered remoaner. Wonder where all the unaccounted-for billions overseen by unelected EU officials have disappeared to? You’re a Faragist nutjob. And so on.

I’d like to think – although I have no evidence for this – that there is a silent majority who, like me, inhabit the middle ground on most things. Human beings are a mass of contradictions, and I’m no exception. Part liberal, part centre-right, I simultaneously hold contradictory positions on many topics. For example, I don’t believe in the death penalty, for the simple reason that, in my opinion, the average politician shouldn’t be left in charge of a doughnut stand at a car-boot sale, never mind being allowed to legislate back into existence the state’s right to kill people, usually in a macabre fashion. But do I read stories about people I think deserve to be shot? You bet. And if someone had harmed a loved one of mine, I’d want to be the person pulling the trigger.

My position on the introduction of gay marriage was unequivocal – I was entirely in favour. Why would you deny two people of the same sex who love each other the same right as everyone else to solemnise their union, and I’m glad that homosexuality is now hardly worthy of comment. But I take a dim view of encouraging children who are confused about their gender down a path that is potentially harmful to both their minds and their bodies.

Do I believe in uncontrolled immigration? No – it would lead to economic and social catastrophe. Do I think a certain level of immigration is not only necessary, but also desirable? Without doubt. You only have to look at our most successful immigrant communities to see the benefits. You get the idea.

However, many seem unable to cope with cognitive dissonance and instead seek the security of moral absolutes. The inability to deal with ambiguity – whether in themselves or in life generally – is leading to a world in which people hold a completely binary view of everything and are unable, or unwilling, to reach consensus. The consequences are potentially devastating, and we’re already seeing examples of the damage this causes, such as extreme political polarisation leading to violence.

To move beyond this age of false dichotomies, which is causing serious societal harm, we need to reach a point where finding common ground is once again considered the most desirable outcome. To do so, people must relearn how to accept life’s complexities. Life isn’t simply a matter of either-or – right versus wrong – it is, and always has been, more subtle than that. These distinctions should be embraced, not rejected. They add depth and meaning to our existence. Without them, we become myopic, miss the bigger picture, and rob ourselves of a more complete understanding of the world.

Plato sought to overcome false dichotomies through dialectical rhetoric. Rather than accepting mere opinion or belief, he advocated pursuing genuine knowledge through rigorous questioning, dialogue, and logical argument to arrive at episteme – true knowledge. He sought a comprehensive understanding of a subject rather than limiting himself to a single point of view, and he accepted the limits of his own knowledge. Education in private and grammar schools was once heavily classical, with students studying the works of Aristotle, Cicero, Plato, and others. They learned structured argument, moral reasoning, and how to distinguish persuasion from truth. These skills have now all but disappeared. To reverse the emotional manipulation, moral absolutism, and factionalism we see all around us, they desperately need to be taught again as part of every school’s curriculum.

Instead of sleepwalking towards a future in which we are unable to think critically, we must once more embrace life’s complexities to recover depth, meaning, and perspective. Nuance is essential for that journey, guiding us towards a clearer view of the world as it actually is.

Polémia - Vers un coup d’Etat médiatique contre Viktor Orbán, comme en Roumanie ?

 (soulignés personneles)

Bruxelles et les médias subventionnés préparent-ils pour la Hongrie un coup d’Etat démocratique comme en Roumanie au prétexte d’ingérence ? C’est la question que pose Lucas Chancerelle, porte-parole de Polémia, dans le texte ci-dessous.
Polémia

Sommaire  masquer 

1. Hongrie : quand le « journalisme d’investigation » devient un instrument d’ingérence

2. La fabrique du soupçon permanent

3. Du contre-pouvoir à l’arme politique

4. L’érosion de la confiance médiatique

5. Réhabiliter l’exigence de preuve

Hongrie : quand le « journalisme d’investigation » devient un instrument d’ingérence

À l’approche des élections hongroises, un phénomène inquiétant se confirme : la dérive d’une partie du journalisme européen vers une logique de guerre informationnelle. Le récent communiqué de l’Observatoire des ingérences démocratiques (OID), initiative du MCC Bruxelles, met des mots sur une réalité de plus en plus difficile à ignorer : sous couvert d’enquêtes, certains médias participent activement à la construction de récits politiques orientés, au mépris des principes fondamentaux de cette profession.

Au cœur de cette controverse, une cible privilégiée : Viktor Orbán. Depuis plusieurs semaines, une avalanche d’accusations spectaculaires s’abat sur le dirigeant hongrois : ingérence directe des services russes dans sa campagne, manipulation des élections, voire scénario extravagant de tentative d’assassinat montée de toutes pièces. Autant d’allégations graves, mais systématiquement fondées sur des “sources anonymes” ou des documents impossibles à vérifier.

La fabrique du soupçon permanent

Ce qui frappe dans cette séquence, ce n’est pas seulement la gravité des accusations, mais leur mode de diffusion. Des médias occidentaux de référence relaient des informations issues de circuits opaques — “sources de renseignement européennes”, “rapports internes”, “contacts sécuritaires” — sans jamais fournir au public les éléments permettant d’en juger la crédibilité.

Le mécanisme est désormais bien rodé : une première “révélation” surgit dans un média spécialisé, souvent lié à des réseaux transnationaux ou financé par des organismes étrangers ; elle est ensuite reprise par de grands titres internationaux ; enfin, des responsables politiques s’en emparent pour lui donner une caution institutionnelle. Ainsi se construit une vérité médiatique, indépendante de toute démonstration factuelle.

Le problème n’est pas l’existence de sources anonymes — parfois nécessaires — mais leur transformation en fondement quasi exclusif du récit. Lorsque des accusations aussi lourdes reposent uniquement sur des témoignages invérifiables, le doute devrait être la règle. Il devient pourtant l’exception.

Du contre-pouvoir à l’arme politique

Le glissement dénoncé par l’OID est majeur : le journalisme d’investigation, censé incarner un contre-pouvoir, tend à se transformer en outil d’intervention politique. En période électorale, cette mutation est particulièrement préoccupante. Car il ne s’agit plus seulement d’informer, mais d’influencer.

En jetant le soupçon sur la régularité du scrutin hongrois, ces récits contribuent à délégitimer par avance ses résultats. Peu importe, au fond, que les accusations soient prouvées ou non : leur simple circulation suffit à fragiliser la confiance dans le processus démocratique.

Ce phénomène s’inscrit dans une dynamique plus large au sein de l’Union européenne, où la question de la “désinformation” est devenue centrale. Mais le paradoxe est saisissant : alors que Bruxelles investit massivement pour lutter contre les manipulations informationnelles, elle reste largement silencieuse face à des pratiques médiatiques qui relèvent elles-mêmes de la désinformation par insinuation.

L’érosion de la confiance médiatique

Les conséquences de cette dérive dépassent largement le cas hongrois. En brouillant la frontière entre enquête et militantisme, ces pratiques alimentent une crise de confiance déjà profonde envers les médias. Le public, confronté à des informations contradictoires et invérifiables, finit par douter de tout — y compris des faits établis.

Cette défiance généralisée est le terreau idéal de toutes les radicalités. En prétendant défendre la démocratie contre des ingérences supposées, certains acteurs médiatiques risquent paradoxalement de contribuer à son affaiblissement réel.

Réhabiliter l’exigence de preuve

Le rappel formulé par l’OID est, à cet égard, salutaire : plus les accusations sont graves, plus le niveau de preuve exigé doit être élevé. Cette règle élémentaire semble aujourd’hui oubliée, au profit d’une logique de l’urgence et du sensationnel.

En période électorale, cette exigence devrait être absolue. Car une information infondée ne se contente pas d’être erronée : elle peut altérer durablement le jeu démocratique. Accuser sans preuve, c’est déjà intervenir.

La question posée est donc simple, mais décisive : le journalisme européen veut-il rester un outil de connaissance ou devenir un instrument d’influence ? De la réponse dépend non seulement la crédibilité des médias, mais aussi la solidité des démocraties qu’ils prétendent servir.

Lucas Chancerelle
29/03/2026