A reckoning stirs in the streets of Britain. Across the land, from the industrial heartlands to the capital’s cobbled squares, thousands march—not with violence, not with destruction, but with a righteous demand that those in power would rather ignore. They march for the freedom of a man whom the establishment has sought to silence, a man whose only crime was to tell the truth that Britain’s rulers found too uncomfortable to bear.
The imprisonment of Tommy Robinson is not merely an injustice; it is a damning indictment of a government and a judiciary more preoccupied with preserving their own fragile reputations than with upholding the fundamental liberties of the people. They locked him away, believing they erase him from public consciousness, believing they stamp out dissent by branding it as extremism. And yet, in doing so, they have only confirmed what so many feared: that the guardians of justice have become its greatest perverters.
For years, Robinson was the lone voice in the wilderness, daring to report on the organised and systematic abuse that others refused to acknowledge. He was ridiculed, smeared, and dismissed as an agitator. But now, his greatest vindication comes not from his own words, but from the slow and reluctant admissions of the very institutions that once condemned him. The facts he laid bare—the horrific reality of rape gangs that preyed upon Britain’s most vulnerable—were not the fevered imaginings of a radical, but the cold, brutal truth that the political class had spent decades suppressing.
And so the people march, their voices rising against the silence that has been imposed upon them. The government, already fragile, reels from the sight of tens of thousands demanding justice. The judiciary, humiliated by the weight of the evidence that has proven Robinson right, clings desperately to legal technicalities to justify his continued imprisonment. They know what is at stake. To release him would be an admission of their own complicity, an acknowledgment that their grand narrative of moral superiority was built on deception and cowardice.
But the people will not be cowed. Their demand is simple: justice. Not just for one man, but for a nation betrayed. This is not the end of their struggle. It is only the beginning.
The storm gathers. The darkening clouds of Labour’s rule loom on the horizon, and yet those entrusted with the defence of Britain’s sovereignty, prosperity, and freedoms stand paralysed, mouths agape, devoid of strategy, devoid of will. Kemi Badenoch is not the problem—she is merely the latest, most visible symptom of a party that has surrendered before the fight has even begun.
Giles Dilnot, writing in Conservative Home, offers excuses for this dereliction of duty. He whispers soothing words to the weary faithful: “Patience,” he implores. “Do not announce policy too soon, lest the enemy steal it or take time to attack it.” What wretched cowardice is this? Does he not see that Labour does not need to steal Conservative policies? Labour will not repeal Net Zero mandates. Labour will not abandon the Refugee Convention. Labour will not dismantle the bureaucratic empire of DEI. Labour will not relinquish its grip on the courts, on the regulators, on the permanent state. Why would they? They are in command. They hold the field, and the so-called Conservative Party is in abject retreat.
The defining failures of the past two decades are plain to any who still possess the courage to see. Our economy is lifeless beneath the weight of punishing taxation, inflicted not by Labour, but by supposed Conservatives. Our justice system serves not the people, but the judges, who wield international law against the will of Parliament. Our borders remain open because those in power would rather appease foreign courts than defend British sovereignty.
And hanging over all, like a great, suffocating shroud, is the grandest folly of them all: the Net Zero doctrine. Our national grid is on the brink of collapse, not by accident, but by design. The Conservative Party, in its eagerness to be seen as “modern,” “progressive,” and “forward-thinking,” has shackled the nation to an energy policy dictated not by engineers or economists, but by activists and bureaucrats. We have dismantled the very infrastructure that kept Britain moving—replacing it with a fantasy built upon the unreliable whims of wind and sun.
Nothing can be built because of the NIMBY veto. Nothing can be done because of unaccountable judges. And now, nothing can be powered because we have abandoned the sources of energy that built this nation. We were once a land of steel, of coal, of enterprise and industry. Now we are a land of flickering lights and rolling blackouts, governed by those who believe wind turbines and solar panels will fuel the economic might of the future. It is a madness that would be laughable were it not so ruinous.
The only remedy is a full-scale reversal of Blair’s constitutional vandalism and the ideological capture that has ensnared our institutions. Parliament must once again be supreme over foreign courts, over quangos, over bureaucratic inertia. The apparatus of state must be torn down and rebuilt—not merely reformed, not tinkered with, but purged of the rot that has taken hold.
Yet we are told to wait. We are told that the time is not right, that policy must remain a secret until the last moment. It is not simply Badenoch’s failure, but the failure of the entire Conservative machine—a party that has become a hollowed-out shell, unable to articulate what it believes, let alone act upon it.
And so, the people turn elsewhere. They look to Reform, a party whose policies may be crude, whose platform may be incomplete, but which at least dares to stand for something. It has a direction, however ill-defined. The Conservatives, by contrast, are utterly adrift.
Labour is not failing because it lacks competence; it is failing because it represents a dying order. A major political realignment is coming, the unfinished business of Brexit, the long-awaited reckoning for those who have squandered Britain’s sovereignty and prosperity. There is a race to define what comes next, and the British people will not wait another four years for the Conservative Party to decide whether it intends to lead or to perish.
The time for silence has passed. The time for cowardice has passed. This is not the moment for a timid rearguard action, for another round of technocratic tinkering. It is the hour of decision. The party must stand and fight—or be swept into the dustbin of history, where all who lack conviction eventually belong.
Through fog-bound streets where shadows fold, The grey of dawn turns lifeless gold, A weary land, where dreams have fled, And justice lies among the dead. The echoes of their voices fall, Like muffled steps in endless hall, Each minister, each hollow name, A fragment of a broken game.
The Prime Minister walks a gilded line, A robe too rich, a lawless sign, His eyes, cold jewels, reflect no light, But hunger for a darker night. The Chancellor smiles with powdered grace, A mask to veil her truthless face, Her words, like ash upon the tongue, Her promises, a song unsung.
Here, corruption wears a polished crown, Its throne the rot of this dead town; An anti-corruption knight undone, The mirror’s work has just begun. The lawyer once who battled laws, Now pauses, burdened by the cause, A prophet silenced by his creed, His wisdom shackled by his need.
In distant lands, the borders weep, For foreign soil was sold too cheap. The Secretary, with careless hand, Has signed away what once was land. And here, a lie beneath the light, A Transport chief, in guilty plight; His falsehoods echo down the lanes, Where justice drips like autumn rains.
The streets grow cold, the lights decay, Where Safeguarding forgot her way. She spoke of fears, her own, not theirs, The victims left to climb the stairs Of grief alone. The countryside, Once vast, now swallowed by the tide Of concrete blocks and panels wide, Where energy’s green hopes have died.
The Home Secretary turns her gaze, And lets the tides bring in their haze. The laws are whispers, faint and low, No walls defend what oceans know. The Justice master sets them free, The guilty walk where saints should be. The clock strikes twelve in every school, And silence speaks of broken rule.
This is the realm of dreary days, Where leaders tread in shadowed ways, Where life is cold, the spirit thin, And failure reigns where hope had been. Oh Britain, once of burning flame, What sorrow clings to thy great name, What leaders mock thy weary plight, And drown thee in eternal night.
This is not going to be a popular post, but I have to tell my grandchildren the truth about my generation, and that is more important than your feelings.
It’s difficult to stay impartial when confronted with the absurdities often emanating from the so-called “climate scientist community”—a label that, in many cases, seems wholly undeserved. The self-determined authoritative UN appears to have completely lost its bearings, exemplified by Antonio Guterres himself delivering proclamations like “The oceans are boiling” with a challenging, arrogant stare, daring anyone in the room to disagree. The fact that no one challenges such ludicrous hyperbole says everything you need to know about the Climate Hoax. If you can think critically, speak freely, and notice the world around you, there’s really no other conclusion to draw.
But Wait! Why are you writing this blog? It will kill your SEO and get you thrown off Google! It will kill your income!
Look around this blog—no ads, no pandering to Google. Frankly, I couldn’t care less about them. Once upon a time, I ran a website that, for a few months, outpaced even theirs in traffic, so there’s nothing they can offer me that I can’t achieve on my own.
Am I a “climate change denier”? That’s the label they’ll throw at me, of course. It’s the tactic of the weak—those with nothing substantive to offer resort to name-calling and rhetorical attacks.
No, I don’t deny that the climate changes. Of course, it does. It’s a natural process. Humans certainly contribute to pollution, and we should absolutely tackle that, but our net impact on the climate itself is negligible.
This paper examines the man who started it all, his qualifications, and just how precise—or rather, imprecise—he has been. It’s taken five years of research and writing, and while he’s racked up a few more blunders since I began, you’ll find plenty here to understand why he is the most spectacularly unqualified and incompetent man ever to hold the office of Vice President of the United States.
Al Gore: A Biography Questioning the Nexus of Qualifications and Assertions
Albert Arnold Gore Jr., born March 31, 1948, in Washington, D.C., is a figure whose career has straddled politics, environmental activism, and business. While Gore is widely recognized for his decades-long advocacy on climate change—culminating in a Nobel Peace Prize and an Academy Award—his qualifications and professional trajectory raise questions about the alignment between his skills and the sweeping assertions he has made, particularly about environmental catastrophe. This biography examines Gore’s background, achievements, and the critiques that challenge the coherence of his qualifications with his claims.
Early Life and Political Ascent
Gore’s upbringing was steeped in politics. His father, Albert Gore Sr., was a U.S. senator from Tennessee, providing the younger Gore with an insider’s view of Washington. After graduating from Harvard in 1969 with a degree in government, Gore briefly worked as a journalist before enlisting in the U.S. Army during the Vietnam War. His political career began in 1976 when he was elected to the House of Representatives, followed by a Senate seat in 1984. Gore’s legislative focus during this period centered on technology, nuclear arms control, and environmental issues, though his work was largely administrative and policy-oriented rather than rooted in scientific research.
In 1992, Gore became Bill Clinton’s vice-president (vice being an operative word in that administration), a role that elevated his national profile. His tenure was marked by efforts to promote technological innovation, including advocating for early internet infrastructure—an issue far removed from climate science. While Gore later cited his government experience as foundational to his environmental advocacy, critics note that his political career provided no formal training in climatology, atmospheric science, or related fields.
Post-Political Career: Climate Advocacy and Celebrity
After losing the contentious 2000 presidential election to George W. Bush, Gore reinvented himself as a global environmental crusader. His 2006 documentary, An Inconvenient Truth, and accompanying book thrust climate change into mainstream discourse. The film’s success—paired with Gore’s Nobel Peace Prize in 2007 (shared with the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change)—cemented his reputation as a climate authority.
Gore’s qualifications to make definitive claims about climate science have been scrutinized. He holds no advanced degrees in science; his academic background is in government and law (he dropped out of Vanderbilt Law School in the 1970s). Unlike climate scientists who publish peer-reviewed research, Gore’s role has been that of a communicator and activist. This distinction has led critics to argue that his pronouncements—such as timelines for polar ice melt or hurricane frequency—often lack the nuance and caution characteristic of scientific discourse. For instance, his 2009 prediction that the Arctic could be “ice-free” by 2013 was criticized as alarmist when it failed to materialize.
Financial Interests and Hypocrisy Allegations
Gore’s financial dealings have further fueled skepticism about his motives. After leaving office, he co-founded Generation Investment Management, a firm focused on sustainable investing, and joined the board of Apple. His net worth, estimated at over $300 million, has drawn accusations of hypocrisy, particularly regarding his carbon footprint. Reports of his extensive energy use at multiple homes—including a Nashville mansion once reported to consume 20 times more electricity than the average U.S. household—undermine his calls for drastic carbon reduction. While Gore purchased carbon offsets and installed solar panels, detractors argue that his lifestyle exemplifies the elite disconnect often attributed to climate activists.
Moreover, Gore’s investments in green technology companies, such as those benefiting from government subsidies promoted during his advocacy, have raised concerns about conflicts of interest. Critics contend that his financial gains from policies he champions complicate the perception of his altruism.
Political Polarization and Scientific Critique
Gore’s transition from politician to environmental spokesperson has been inseparable from partisan politics. While climate change is a scientific issue, Gore’s framing of it as a moral imperative has deepened ideological divides. His rhetoric—comparing climate skeptics to tobacco industry defenders or insisting that “the science is settled”—has been criticized as dismissive of legitimate scientific debate. For example, his portrayal of climate models as infallible contrasts with the scientific method’s inherent uncertainty.
Prominent scientists, including MIT meteorologist Richard Lindzen and Nobel laureate physicist Ivar Giaever, have disputed Gore’s catastrophic narratives. Lindzen, a critic of climate alarmism, has argued that Gore’s presentations oversimplify complex systems, ignoring natural variability and overstating human influence. Similarly, An Inconvenient Truth faced legal challenges in the UK, where a court ruled in 2007 that the film contained “nine scientific errors” and required contextual disclaimers when shown in schools.
The Nobel Prize and the Limits of Authority
Gore’s Nobel Peace Prize, awarded for “disseminating greater knowledge about man-made climate change,” underscores his role as a communicator rather than a researcher. The Nobel Committee’s decision was controversial, as it blurred the line between science and advocacy. Unlike laureates in scientific fields, whose awards recognize specific discoveries, Gore’s prize honored awareness-raising—an activity that does not inherently validate the accuracy of his claims.
This distinction is critical. While Gore’s efforts expanded public engagement with climate issues, his authority derives from media influence, not academic rigor. His frequent use of apocalyptic imagery—such as drowning polar bears or cities submerged by rising seas—prioritizes emotional impact over empirical precision. Critics argue that this approach risks undermining public trust when predictions prove exaggerated.
Legacy: Influence vs. Qualifications
There is no doubt that Al Gore has shaped global climate discourse. His ability to synthesize scientific reports into digestible narratives mobilized millions and inspired international agreements like the Paris Accord. Yet, his legacy is bifurcated. To supporters, he is a visionary who sacrificed political capital to save the planet. To skeptics, he is a charismatic opportunist whose qualifications fail to justify his absolutism.
Gore’s case exemplifies a broader tension in modern advocacy: the rise of the “non-expert expert.” In an era where celebrity and credentials are often conflated, his profile raises questions about who holds the authority to speak on scientific matters. While scientists applaud Gore for amplifying their work, many caution that his simplifications can distort public understanding. Climate scientist Roger Pielke Jr. has noted that Gore’s “messaging” sometimes strays into “misrepresentation,” such as conflating weather events with long-term trends.
Al Gore’s biography is a study in contrasts. A career politician turned environmental icon, he leveraged his visibility to thrust climate change onto the global stage. Yet, his qualifications—rooted in law, government, and communication—do not directly substantiate his dire scientific assertions. This dissonance does not invalidate climate concerns, but it highlights the complexities of translating science into policy and public opinion. Gore’s story underscores the importance of distinguishing between expertise and advocacy, and the risks of conflating the two. Whether history judges him as a prophet or a propagandist may depend less on his résumé than on the unresolved trajectory of the planet itself.
How Many of Al Gore’s Predictions Have Been Correct?
1. “Arctic Summer Ice Will Vanish by 2013”
Source: An Inconvenient Truth (2006) and public speeches.
Claim: Gore cited NASA climate scientist Jay Zwally’s 2007 projection that Arctic summer ice could disappear by 2013.
Outcome: Arctic summer ice has declined but remains present. The 2013 prediction proved incorrect, with current projections estimating ice-free summers closer to mid-century under high-emission scenarios.
Context: Zwally later clarified that his estimate was a “conservationist” projection and acknowledged modeling uncertainties.
2. “Increased Hurricane Intensity Due to Global Warming”
Source: An Inconvenient Truth and 2006 interviews.
Claim: Gore linked rising ocean temperatures to stronger and more frequent hurricanes, citing Hurricane Katrina (2005) as a harbinger.
Outcome: The 2005–2023 period did not show a clear upward trend in global hurricane frequency or intensity. The IPCC’s 2021 report states low confidence in attributing hurricane frequency to human activity, though it acknowledges some linkage to stronger storms.
Context: Gore’s focus on Katrina as a climate-driven event was criticized for conflating weather variability with long-term trends.
3. “Polar Ice Caps Will Disappear by 2014”
Source: 2009 UN Climate Summit speech.
Claim: Gore warned that “the entire North Polar ice cap could be gone in the summer within five to seven years.”
Outcome: Summer Arctic sea ice hit a record low in 2012 but has not vanished. Ice extent fluctuates annually, with 2023 measurements showing approximately 3.3 million square kilometers of summer ice.
Context: Critics argue Gore conflated short-term variability with irreversible collapse.
4. “Climate Refugees by 2010”
Source: 2006–2008 speeches and interviews.
Claim: Gore asserted that climate change would create millions of refugees fleeing rising seas, droughts, and storms by 2010.
Outcome: While climate-linked displacement has increased (e.g., in Bangladesh and Pacific islands), the specific timeline and scale Gore described did not materialize by 2010.
Context: The UN estimates 20 million annual displacements since 2008 due to weather-related events, but direct attribution to climate change remains debated.
5. “Snows of Kilimanjaro Will Vanish Within a Decade”
Source: An Inconvenient Truth (2006).
Claim: Gore highlighted the melting glaciers of Mount Kilimanjaro as evidence of global warming.
Outcome: Kilimanjaro’s ice fields have shrunk since the early 20th century, but studies suggest local factors (e.g., deforestation reducing humidity) play a larger role than global temperature rise. The glaciers persist today, albeit diminished.
6. “10-Year ‘Tipping Point’ for Climate Catastrophe (2006)”
Source: 2006 interviews and speeches.
Claim: Gore repeatedly warned that humanity had “just 10 years” to avert irreversible climate catastrophe.
Outcome: The 2016 deadline passed without the predicted collapse, though scientists note that cumulative emissions since then have worsened long-term risks.
Context: Climate “tipping points” are theoretical thresholds, and timelines remain highly uncertain.
7. “Rising Sea Levels Flooding Coastal Cities by 2010s”
Source: An Inconvenient Truth (2006).
Claim: Gore’s film depicted animations of cities like New York and Shanghai inundated by 20-foot sea-level rises.
Outcome: Global sea levels have risen 3–4 inches since 2006, far below the film’s dramatic visuals. The IPCC projects 1–4 feet of rise by 2100, depending on emissions.
Context: Gore later clarified that the animations were illustrative of potential outcomes over centuries, not immediate threats.
8. “The Ocean Conveyor Belt Will Shut Down”
Source: An Inconvenient Truth.
Claim: Gore suggested that melting Arctic ice could disrupt the Atlantic Meridional Overturning Circulation (AMOC), triggering abrupt cooling in Europe.
Outcome: While the AMOC has weakened slightly, a shutdown is deemed “very unlikely” in the 21st century by the IPCC.
Context: The film’s portrayal drew criticism for oversimplifying oceanography.
9. “Mass Extinctions by 2010”
Source: 2006–2008 speeches.
Claim: Gore cited studies predicting up to 50% of species could face extinction by 2010 due to climate change.
Outcome: Biodiversity loss has accelerated, but the 2010 benchmark (part of the UN’s failed “Biodiversity Target”) was not met. Current extinction rates are 100–1,000 times pre-human levels, but Gore’s timeline was inaccurate.
10. “Global Cooling from Melting Ice Caps”
Source: 2007–2009 speeches.
Claim: Gore argued that Arctic ice melt would reduce the Earth’s albedo (reflectivity), leading to accelerated warming. While scientifically valid, he occasionally conflated this with regional cooling predictions (e.g., Europe freezing due to AMOC collapse).
Outcome: Regional cooling has not occurred, though Arctic amplification (faster warming at the poles) is well-documented.
Key Criticisms of Gore’s Approach
Overreliance on Worst-Case Scenarios: Many of Gore’s predictions were based on high-emission models or outlier studies.
Timeline Compression: He often presented long-term risks (e.g., 100+ years) as imminent threats.
Simplification for Dramatic Effect: Critics argue his messaging prioritized emotional impact over scientific nuance.
Conclusion
While Al Gore’s advocacy raised global awareness of climate change, his tendency to frame scientific projections as near-term certainties has drawn criticism. Many scientists acknowledge that climate models involve uncertainties and that Gore’s role as a communicator—not a researcher—led to oversimplifications. Nonetheless, his core argument—that human activity drives dangerous warming—remains supported by the overwhelming majority of the useful idiots employed in climate science. For a balanced and realistic perspective watch the video below and listen to real scientists whose income doesn’t rely on supporting public policy and the risks of conflating advocacy with academic rigor.
July 1803, aboard the USS Constitution, en route to the Barbary Coast
Henry Wadsworth leaned against the railing, the Atlantic wind tugging at his coat, his eyes fixed on the horizon as if the answers to all the questions tormenting his soul lay just beyond the endless stretch of blue. The ship’s crew bustled behind him, their voices a steady hum, but his mind was elsewhere—anchored not in the future battle against Barbary pirates, but in memories of another time, another war, and another ship.
A leather-bound journal rested in his hands, its pages worn with the impressions of his hurried writing. He opened it to a familiar passage and began to read. He had promised himself never to forget the events of 1779, no matter how bitter the memories. It was not just his story but the story of others—brave, foolish, young.
The creak of the ship’s rigging pulled him back to the present, but he resisted. No, he thought. Today, I’ll remember them. All of them.
August 1779, Penobscot Bay
The shouting of officers mixed with the clang of anchors being hauled aboard as the American fleet readied itself to sail upriver. Henry, just 18 at the time, stood on the deck of the Warren, clutching his musket and wondering why his stomach churned. It wasn’t seasickness—he’d grown used to the rocking of the ship. No, this was something deeper: a sense of dread.
“Wadsworth, are you going to stand there looking like you’ve seen a ghost, or are you coming to help?”
The voice belonged to Jacob Gage, another young militiaman from Massachusetts. Jacob’s eyes burned with the fervour of righteous indignation, his belief in the cause unwavering.
“I’m coming,” Henry replied, forcing his feet to move.
Jacob smirked. “Good. You wouldn’t want to miss the grand fight to throw those redcoats off our soil.”
Henry didn’t answer. Jacob’s words were as hollow as the speeches of the politicians who had sent them here. Their orders were clear: dislodge the British forces entrenched at Fort George, drive them back into the sea. But as Henry had overheard one officer mutter, “Clear orders don’t make for clear thinking.”
He watched the men around him—young farmers, fishermen, and tradesmen, some barely old enough to grow a beard. They joked and laughed as they loaded supplies, their enthusiasm masking the reality of what lay ahead.
“I wonder if they know,” Henry murmured.
Jacob frowned. “Know what?”
“That it won’t be a grand fight. It’ll be a slaughter. For us. For them. For anyone caught in the middle.”
Jacob grabbed Henry’s arm. “Don’t talk like that, Wadsworth. You’ve been reading too many of those pamphlets from Boston. This is our fight—our land, our people. We can’t let the British treat us like we’re still colonies.”
Henry yanked his arm free. “And what if they’re treating us like colonies because we act like them? Marching into battle without a clue what we’re doing? Does that make us free men or just fools?”
Jacob’s face reddened, but before he replied, a booming voice interrupted.
“Gage! Wadsworth! Quit flapping your gums and get to your post!”
Two Weeks Later, Near Fort George
The chaos of the battle was unlike anything Henry had imagined. Smoke choked the air, and the cries of wounded men echoed through the trees. The American forces, poorly led and ill-coordinated, were faltering against the disciplined British soldiers entrenched at Fort George.
Henry crouched behind a fallen tree, reloading his musket with trembling hands. Beside him, Jacob fired, his face streaked with soot and blood.
“Damn it, Henry, shoot!” Jacob shouted, his voice hoarse.
Henry hesitated, his eyes fixed on the British soldiers advancing through the smoke. They weren’t the monsters he’d imagined. They were just men—young, scared, and desperate to survive, just like him.
“I can’t—”
Before he finished, a musket ball slammed into the tree beside his head, showering him with splinters.
“Get your head out of the clouds!” Jacob snapped, grabbing Henry’s shoulder.
“I’m trying!” Henry shouted back, finally lifting his musket and firing into the haze. He had no idea if his shot found its mark.
The Jailer and the Midshipman
Captured during the retreat, Henry found himself aboard a British ship, his hands bound but his mind racing. He was thrown into the brig, where a young British officer sat on the floor, nursing a bloodied arm.
“Name?” the officer asked, his accent crisp.
“Henry Wadsworth,” he replied warily.
“Midshipman John Moore.”
For a moment, they stared at each other, two sides of the same coin.
“You look younger than me,” Henry said finally.
Moore smirked. “And yet here I am, guarding you.”
“Guarding or being guarded?” Henry shot back, nodding to Moore’s arm.
Moore’s smile faded. “We’re all prisoners of this war, Wadsworth. Some of us just don’t know it yet.”
Henry leaned back against the wall. “You think that justifies what your leaders are doing? Sending boys like you to die for a fort no one needs?”
Moore’s jaw tightened. “And your leaders are any better? They march you here to die for what—a principle? Freedom doesn’t come cheap, Wadsworth.”
Henry sighed. “No, it doesn’t. But maybe it doesn’t have to cost this much.”
Moore glanced at him, his expression softening. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, maybe we’re not as different as they want us to believe.”
For the first time, Moore didn’t reply.
Sarah Cobb
Later, as Henry and Moore were marched back toward the American lines as part of a prisoner exchange, they encountered Sarah Cobb. The daughter of General David Cobb, Sarah had accompanied her father to the battlefield, determined to witness the conflict first hand.
When she saw the young men, battered and weary, she approached her father.
“This isn’t victory,” she said, her voice trembling with emotion. “This is madness. We can’t keep doing this.”
Her father frowned. “War isn’t for the faint-hearted, Sarah.”
“No,” she said, her voice firm, “it’s for the foolish and the dead.”
Henry exchanged a glance with Moore, seeing his own thoughts mirrored in the young British officer’s eyes.
Sarah turned to them, her gaze piercing. “You’ve seen enough to know I’m right. Tell me—what would you do to end this war right now?”
Henry hesitated, then spoke. “I’d tell our leaders to stop fighting battles they can’t win. To stop sending boys to die for their pride.”
Moore nodded. “And I’d tell mine the same.”
Sarah’s eyes softened. “Then maybe there’s hope for us yet.”
Henry closed his journal, his hands trembling. The memories were fresh as ever, and the lessons he’d learned on that battlefield—about leadership, war, and the cost of pride—had stayed with him. He looked out at the horizon, wondering if the world had learned anything since those days. Will the Barbary Coast give an answer? Or will it only add to the questions?
Authors Note
The above is a work of fiction inspired by the few facts I’ve uncovered and my admittedly hazy recollections of Bernard Cornwell’s excellent book, The Fort. The story is shaped by my reflections on unsung heroes and the innocent individuals caught on both sides of wars throughout history. As the war in Ukraine (2022–?) unfolds, I feel a profound sadness for the soldiers and civilians forced to sacrifice their lives to satisfy the egos and poor leadership that seem endemic among politicians on both sides. Beyond the immediate loss of life, such conflicts rob the world of future generations and their potential contributions—who knows what solutions to humanity’s greatest challenges have been lost?
My interest in unsung heroes began in 2014 when I met Yuri, a Ukrainian mathematician and esteemed alumnus of the Faculty of Mechanics and Mathematics (Mekh-Mat) at Lomonosov Moscow State University (MSU). Yuri is also a historian and a historian of mathematics. We sat together in a restaurant at the prestigious Level 39, One Canada Square, Canary Wharf, ostensibly to discuss the then-pending release of Ethereum. (A topic riddled with amusing delays—it would take another year before it was finally launched.) Our shared passion for encryption and cryptography soon led the conversation to history, particularly the Crimean War and the legendary 1854 Charge of the Light Brigade.
Yuri’s eyes lit up as he interrupted me, exclaiming, “Amazing strategy that still resonates with the world’s warriors today!” His enthusiasm was infectious, though I couldn’t resist responding dryly, “It wasn’t so great for the Light Brigade.”
“No, but don’t you see?” Yuri continued, undeterred. “The Ukrainian army at the time was vast, and with Russian support, we had the latest artillery. The British had no hope, but still, they didn’t run from the field. They were ordered into battle and, predictably, we slaughtered them. But this created a legend!” His grin widened as he added, “A legend that burns into the minds of potential aggressors even today. Everyone knows that despite its size and lack of modern technology, the British Army is the most disciplined in the world. Facing them means entering the most ferocious fight of your life. It’s straight out of Sun Tzu—a strategy every army aspires to but never quite achieves.”
While I appreciated Yuri’s pride and infectious enthusiasm, my thoughts drifted to the individuals who had charged to their deaths—not because they wanted to, but because it was their duty. The irony struck me: if they had been more successful, I might not have been sitting there, enjoying a conversation with Yuri. That moment crystallised a wish I’d long felt—to write about the unsung heroes of history. Their stories deserve to be told. This work is my humble effort to honour them.
Below I distinguish the known heroes and the fictional characters who, from my imagination, existed, and needed to make the story whole, a list of short bios.
The Legacy of the Penobscot Expedition
The Penobscot Expedition ended in a devastating defeat for the Americans, with their fleet destroyed and their forces retreating in chaos. It was one of the worst naval disasters in U.S. history until Pearl Harbor, with poor leadership and lack of coordination often cited as the main reasons for its failure. Despite this, the expedition served as a harsh learning experience for the fledgling American Navy and militia, highlighting the need for better training, discipline, and strategic planning.
For the British, the victory at Fort George was a minor but strategically significant success, solidifying their hold on the region until the war’s end. Yet, for the soldiers on both sides, the battle was a brutal reminder of how easily they could be sacrificed in the name of political and military ambition.
The young figures in this story, both real and fictional, embody the human cost of war and the hope that lessons from the past one day prevent such tragedies from repeating.
Henry (Uncle of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)
Born: June 8, 1785, in Duxbury, Massachusetts Died: October 1804, Tripoli, North Africa
Henry Wadsworth, the uncle of poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, was a promising young officer in the United States Navy. He joined the Navy in 1800 as a midshipman at just 15 years old and quickly distinguished himself with his intelligence and bravery. His service took him to the Mediterranean during the First Barbary War, where the United States sought to suppress piracy by the Barbary States of North Africa.
In October 1804, at just 20 years old, Wadsworth volunteered for a perilous mission to destroy the captured American frigate Philadelphia, which had been taken by Tripolitan pirates. Wadsworth and his crew loaded a fire ship, the Intrepid, with explosives, intending to blow it up within Tripoli Harbour. Yet, the mission failed when the ship was intercepted before reaching its target. Wadsworth and his crew were killed in the explosion, becoming early heroes of the fledgling U.S. Navy. His sacrifice inspired his family, including his nephew, who later immortalised the name “Wadsworth” through his poetry.
Midshipman John Moore
Born: November 13, 1761, in Glasgow, Scotland Died: January 16, 1809, Corunna, Spain
John Moore began his military career in the British Royal Navy as a midshipman but later shifted to the Army, where he achieved renown as one of Britain’s finest generals. Moore served with distinction in the American Revolutionary War, the French Revolutionary Wars, and the Napoleonic Wars. Known for his commitment to his men, Moore revolutionised British military training by introducing the concept of light infantry, creating highly mobile and versatile troops.
Moore’s leadership was exemplified in the Peninsular War against Napoleon’s forces. During the retreat to Corunna in Spain, he successfully evacuated his army while holding off French forces, a feat achieved under brutal conditions. Still, Moore was mortally wounded during the Battle of Corunna in 1809, dying on the battlefield. His men buried him in Corunna, and his death was later celebrated in poetry and song, including Charles Wolfe’s famous poem, “The Burial of Sir John Moore after Corunna.” Moore’s early experiences, including those at Castine, shaped his tactical genius and empathy for soldiers.
Sarah Cobb
Born: Circa 1760s, Massachusetts Died: Unknown
Sarah Cobb, the fictional daughter of General David Cobb, symbolizes the voice of reason and moral clarity in the story. While General Cobb himself was a real figure—a Revolutionary War officer and aide-de-camp to George Washington—there is no historical record of Sarah, but her character provides a human and civilian perspective on the war. Women like Sarah often played crucial roles behind the scenes, whether as nurses, caretakers, or chroniclers of the human cost of war.
In a narrative sense, Sarah’s courage to challenge her father’s military priorities and question the futility of war serves as a counterbalance to the patriotic zeal of the young soldiers and the entrenched nationalism of their leaders. Her legacy in the story reflects the quiet but profound contributions of women to the broader understanding of war’s moral implications.
Jacob Gage
Born: Circa 1761, Massachusetts Died: Circa 1780s
Jacob Gage is another fictional figure, but he is emblematic of the many young American militiamen drawn into the Revolutionary War by a potent mixture of idealism and local loyalty. These young men were often farmers, blacksmiths, and labourers, unprepared for the brutal realities of war. Jacob’s unwavering belief in the American cause and his eventual disillusionment mirror the experiences of countless real-life soldiers who saw the human cost of leadership failures firsthand.
In the story, Jacob’s tragic arc—his transformation from an idealist to a casualty of war—honours the forgotten sacrifices of those whose lives were lost or irreparably changed by the Penobscot Expedition and similar conflicts.
General David Cobb
Born: September 14, 1748, Attleboro, Massachusetts Died: April 17, 1830, Taunton, Massachusetts
General David Cobb was a real historical figure and a prominent officer in the Continental Army during the Revolutionary War. As an aide-de-camp to George Washington, he played a crucial role in the war’s administrative and strategic planning. Cobb later served as a judge, legislator, and lieutenant governor of Massachusetts, maintaining a strong influence in the state’s post-war development.
Cobb’s involvement in the Penobscot Expedition, one of the most disastrous campaigns of the war, would have been a bitter memory. The poorly executed mission ended in retreat and heavy losses, and Cobb, like many officers, bore the burden of its failure. His fictionalised interactions with his daughter Sarah in the story allow us to explore the internal conflict of a man torn between his duty as a soldier and his love for his family.
The fire in the corner of the room sputtered, giving off a faint warmth. The smell of damp clothes drying on a makeshift rack mingled with the faint scent of soot, ever-present in their home. Mary Brewster’s hands trembled as she scrubbed at a stain on George’s work shirt. The fabric was so worn that one more wash will tear it apart, but the stains reminded her of where her boy went every day – places dark, dangerous, and suffocating.
“I can’t do this anymore,” Thomas said, pacing the room. He looked at his wife, his eyes burning with frustration. “We can’t keep sending him into those chimneys, Mary. He’s just a boy.”
Mary didn’t look up from her scrubbing. “And what should we do, Thomas? Tell me that. Sit here, watching him go hungry? Watching all of us go hungry? He’s proud to help us. You’ve seen it.”
Thomas slammed his fist on the table, the plates rattling with the force. “Pride? What pride is worth a broken body? You heard about the boy in Cambridge – stuck in the flue for hours until they dragged his lifeless body out. And what about the one in Norwich? Crushed when the chimney collapsed. Is that what you want for George?”
Mary’s hands froze mid-scrub. She closed her eyes and exhaled shakily. “Do you think I don’t know the risks? Do you think I don’t cry at night, wondering if this time will be the time he doesn’t come home?” Her voice cracked, and she stood abruptly, turning away from her husband.
Thomas softened, his anger melting into guilt. He walked over and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Mary, I know you worry. But we’re his parents. It’s our job to protect him.”
Mary turned to face him, tears brimming in her eyes. “And it’s our job to keep him fed. You’ve seen the look in his eyes when he hands me his wages. He’s so proud, Thomas. He knows we need it. And what choice do we have? Tell me that.”
Before Thomas answered, the door creaked open, and George stepped in. His face was streaked with soot, his shirt hanging loose on his small frame. Despite his appearance, he beamed with pride.
“What’s for dinner?” he asked cheerfully, wiping his hands on his trousers.
Thomas looked at his son, the words he wanted to say caught in his throat. Mary forced a smile, quickly brushing away her tears. “We were just talking about you,” she said, her voice steady despite the lump in her throat.
George grinned. “You shouldn’t worry so much, Mum. I’m the best climber Mr Wyer’s got. I can handle anything.”
Thomas stared at his son, his heart aching. “George,” he began, his voice faltering. “Do you ever think about… about how dangerous it is?”
George shrugged, his smile unwavering. “Course I do. But someone’s gotta do it, right? And it’s better me than someone who can’t fit in the flues. Besides, it’s not so bad. You get used to the dark.”
Thomas looked away, unwilling to meet his son’s eyes. Mary busied herself at the stove, her movements frantic. The room was thick with unspoken fears, each parent wondering how much longer their boy’s luck would hold out.
The marketplace was alive with the usual chatter, the air filled with the smells of fresh bread and damp earth. Thomas stood with a group of men near the blacksmith’s shop, their voices low and grim.
“Another boy got stuck in Cambridge last week,” said James, an older man with grey streaks in his hair. He puffed on his pipe, the smoke curling lazily around him. “Poor lad didn’t stand a chance.”
Thomas felt a lump form in his throat. He shifted uncomfortably, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. “And we still send our kids to do this,” he muttered. “It’s madness.”
“It’s survival,” James replied. “If we don’t send them, someone else will. And the masters aren’t about to pay grown men to climb those flues. Too big, too clumsy.”
A younger man, barely older than a boy himself, nodded. “The flues are getting narrower too. New houses, new chimneys – they’re built tight. Only the little ones can get in.”
Thomas clenched his fists, his jaw tightening. “And when they get stuck? When they don’t come home?”
James sighed heavily. “We bury them, same as always. And then we send the next one.”
Nearby, a group of women were engaged in their own hushed conversation. Mary stood among them, her face pale. “I try to keep him safe,” she said, her voice trembling. “I make him wear padding, tell him to take his time. But what can I do? He’s just a boy…”
One of the women, Sarah, placed a hand on Mary’s arm. “We’re all in the same boat, love. My Joe goes up the flues too. Every time he leaves, I say a prayer. It’s all we can do.”
“But it’s not enough,” Mary whispered. “It’s not enough…”
The workshop smelled of ash and damp wood, the air heavy with the residue of countless fires. George stood in front of William Wyer, his boss, a tall man with a thick beard and sharp eyes.
“Right, George,” Wyer said, holding a ledger in one hand. “You’re on the Asylum today. Narrow flues, lots of twists, but you’re small enough to manage.”
George nodded, his chest puffed out. “I can do it, Mr Wyer. I’m the best climber you’ve got.”
Wyer paused, his expression darkening. “You listen to me, boy. Those flues are tricky. You take your time. Don’t rush, you hear? One wrong move, and you’re done for.”
“I’ll be fine,” George said with a grin. “I always am.”
As he climbed into the first flue, the darkness closed in around him. The air was thick with soot, and every movement sent clouds of it swirling into his lungs. He coughed but pressed on, his small hands and knees navigating the narrow space with practiced ease.
At home, Mary was unusually quiet. She moved around the kitchen, wiping surfaces that were already clean, her hands trembling. Thomas sat by the fire, his eyes fixed on the clock.
“He should be back by now,” he muttered.
Mary didn’t reply, but her movements grew more frantic. She dropped a pot, the clang echoing through the room. “I’ll check the window,” she said, her voice tight.
When the knock came at the door, Thomas was the first to rise. A neighbour stood on the step, his face pale. “It’s George,” he said simply. “He… he didn’t make it out.”
Mary’s mouth opened in a silent scream, her knees buckling as she sank to the floor. Thomas stared at the man, his face contorted in disbelief. “No… no, not my boy…”
The room fell into a heavy silence, broken only by Mary’s sobs and the crackling of the fire. Outside, the village began to whisper, the news spreading like wildfire.
Legacy
Years later, in 2025, a crowd gathered at Fulbourn. A blue plaque was unveiled, commemorating George Brewster’s life and the impact of his death. Children from a local school read aloud the story of the boy who had helped end a cruel practice.
A young girl turned to her teacher. “He was brave,” she said. “But it’s sad he had to die.”
The teacher nodded. “It is. But because of him, no child will ever have to climb a chimney again.”
A Reflection on Injustice
In a modern-day solicitor’s office two lawyers discuss the legacy of protecting vulnerable children.
“George Brewster’s story changed the world for chimney sweeps,” said one. “But what about now? Look at the rape gangs in the North. The exploitation continues.”
The other lawyer sighed. “True. But just like George’s case, public outrage is building. Laws will change again.”
Epitaph
“To the memory of George Brewster (1864–1875), the last climbing boy to die in the line of duty. His sacrifice brought about the end of a barbaric practice and saved generations of children from similar fates. This plaque was erected to honour his life and the change he inspired. Located in Fulbourn, Cambridgeshire, near the County Pauper Lunatic Asylum where he worked his final climb.”
The story of George Brewster reminds us that progress often comes at a heartbreaking cost. But his legacy lives on, not only in the laws that protect children today but in the determination to end all forms of exploitation.
Authors Note: I was surprised to learn that some people don’t like Disturbed’s version of The Sound of Silence. Paul Simon, however, called it “very much accomplished” and “one of the greatest covers ever,” which reassured me—it’s not just me!
Reflecting on why I love Disturbed’s version, I realised it comes down to tone and politics (hear me out). While Simon and Garfunkel’s original is brilliant, it carries a youthful, almost ‘college’ quality. Disturbed’s rendition, on the other hand, injects grown-up depth and soul (sorry, Paul—I love your work too). Their version feels more relevant to today, telling a story for the current era rather than the 1960s.
This inspired me to adapt the song for the current mess in which the UK wallows. And honestly, I’d love to hear Disturbed sing it! If you haven’t heard their version yet, I’ve included the YouTube version below—you’re in for a treat. To be played at maximum volume.
Confounded Silence
Verse 1 Hello freedom, my old friend, It seems you’ve come to meet your end. Your voice once roared, but now it falters, Bound by chains and broken altars. And the vision of a nation free and brave, It cannot be saved— Drowned beneath the sound of silence.
Verse 2 In restless halls of power they scheme, To dim the light of freedom’s gleam. And leaders speak with voices hollow, Demanding truths that we must follow. And the words they spread are twisted, cold, and bare, But none dare declare— For fear of the sound of silence.
Verse 3 “Fools,” said I, “you do not see, Freedom dies in apathy.” Silenced cries and muted faces, Fear entrenched in public spaces. And the dreams of the people drift to ash, As shadows amass— And drown us in the sound of silence.
Bridge The prophets wrote in ink and fire, But now their voices conspire To echo only what they’re told, No dissent, no truths bold. And the walls of democracy begin to crack, As speech turns back— To whispers in the sound of silence.
Outro And the people bowed and prayed, To the lies their leaders made. And the truth was cast as treason, Bound and gagged without a reason. And the warnings flashed, “Freedom must be saved!” But no one was brave— Lost within the sound of silence.
In a small, foggy village nestled between jagged hills and an ever-receding horizon, lived Granny Harmer, a character so notorious for her incompetence that even the crows avoided her roof, fearing her bungling touch. Yet, Granny Harmer was oblivious to her reputation. She considered herself the lynchpin of the village—a solver of problems, a doer of deeds, a fixer of what wasn’t broken.
One misty morning, Granny Harmer awoke with a start. She had dreamed of eagles soaring majestically over the village and resolved that she, too, would achieve greatness by teaching her ducks to fly like those regal birds. She bustled about her cluttered kitchen, rummaging through dusty cupboards for anything that might aid her grand endeavour: some old string, a jar of glue, and a half-eaten biscuit.
With her “training kit” in hand, she waddled out to the pond, where her ducks quacked happily, blissfully unaware of their impending adventure. Granny Harmer began tying wings together, fastening feathers to beaks, and attempting to throw the ducks into the air like kites. The scene quickly descended into chaos. Ducks flailed, feathers scattered, and Granny Harmer, drenched in pond water, declared the day a success despite no duck ever leaving the ground.
The villagers shook their heads in despair. One whispered to another, “Why does she keep trying?”
Granny Harmer, undeterred by failure, marched back home. Her mind buzzed with new schemes—grand ideas to fix problems that didn’t exist. She decided to install a mechanical weather vane on her roof to “calm the storms.” She ended up electrocuting herself when she wired it to the lightning rod. She attempted to build a new bridge over the stream but diverted the water straight into the village square.
Her failures piled up like the heaps of broken contraptions in her garden. The villagers, initially amused, grew weary of cleaning up her messes. One day, the mayor knocked on her door.
“Granny Harmer,” he said, trying to keep his tone polite, “perhaps you should take some time to think things through before acting.”
She squinted at him. “Think things through? Why, that’s the job of Mr Common Sense!”
“Who’s Mr Common Sense?” the mayor asked, perplexed.
“Oh, he used to be my closest companion,” she sighed dramatically, “always there to tell me what to do. But he disappeared years ago, and I lost touch with him!”
The mayor didn’t know how to respond, so he left her to her delusions.
That night, Granny Harmer sat by the hearth, her apron singed from an earlier mishap with the kettle. She clasped her hands and stared into the flickering flames. “Mr Common Sense,” she whispered, “wherever you are, I need you. Please come back! I cannot fix things without you!”
The fire crackled, and the shadows danced on the walls. For a brief moment, Granny Harmer thought she heard a faint chuckle, as if the missing Mr Common Sense was laughing at her from inside her garage.
Days turned into weeks, but Mr Common Sense did not return. Granny Harmer, however, refused to accept this. She decided that if he wouldn’t come to her, she would find him. She packed a bag filled with mismatched socks, a leaky flask, and a broken compass, and she marched out into the wild.
The villagers watched her go with a mixture of pity and relief. “She’ll be back,” one said.
“No, she won’t,” said another.
Granny Harmer wandered for days, calling out for Mr Common Sense as if he were a wayward sheep. She stumbled through forests, across rivers, and into a barren wasteland where the wind howled like an unanswered question.
There, in the desolation, she realised something profound. She sat on a rock and muttered, “Maybe Mr Common Sense isn’t coming back because he’s tired of cleaning up my messes.”
At that moment, a bedraggled duck waddled into view, quacking plaintively. Granny Harmer stared at it, and a glimmer of clarity—faint as moonlight on a cloudy night—passed over her.
“You’re a duck,” she said. “And ducks aren’t eagles.”
The duck tilted its head, as if to say, “Quack?”
Granny Harmer returned to her village, a little humbler and a little wiser. She dismantled her failed contraptions, and stopped meddling in things she didn’t understand. Though she never quite mastered common sense, she learned one important lesson:
You shouldn’t send your ducks to eagle school.
And from that day on, the village grew a little quieter, the crows returned to her roof, and her ducks relocated to Clacton-on-Sea.
In a complex legal case involving employment litigation, I was engaged as an expert witness to address a critical forensic challenge: substantiating the potential nonexistence of a digital document. The defendant, currently detained in a Middle Eastern jurisdiction, faced substantial financial claims from a previous employer and was now confronting fraud allegations.
The case hinged on a nuanced digital forensics challenge: proving the nonexistence of an unsigned digital contract. The prosecuting lawyers asserted that the document never existed, while the defense sought to demonstrate the opposite.
During preliminary legal meetings, the opposing counsel presented their purported evidence with remarkable confidence. Their approach was strategic—they controlled the narrative, extensively explaining their perspective while notably avoiding direct questioning of my professional expertise. The singular query they posed was tellingly administrative: confirmation of my professional indemnity insurance.
Recognizing the fundamental impossibility of definitively proving a digital file’s nonexistence, I directly challenged their legal strategy. My response was succinct yet unequivocal: demonstrating absolute digital document nonexistence was fundamentally naive and legally unsound.
The subsequent interactions revealed the case’s complexity. I prepared a closing statement, which I recommended be shared with the prosecution, ultimately proved decisive. Upon reviewing the document, the opposing legal team elected to discontinue their prosecution.
This experience underscored the intricate challenges of digital forensic evidence and the critical importance of rigorous, logical analysis in legal proceedings involving digital documentation.
Ladies and gentlemen,
Today, I ask you to consider not only what is presented in this case, but also what is left out—the gaps, the blind spots, and the complexities glossed over by the sweeping assertions made by the opposing counsel. The claim that a digital document never existed because it cannot be found through their forensic investigation sounds definitive. But in reality, it is anything but.
Let me take you through why this notion, if accepted, becomes an oversimplification—a convenient but dangerous fallacy that disregards how digital evidence works in practice.
First, digital absence is not evidence of non-existence. Imagine walking into a library after a fire and failing to find a book. Would you confidently declare that the book never existed simply because it no longer sits on the charred shelves? Digital data is often more fragile than we care to admit, subject to deletions, overwrites, hardware failures, malicious tampering, and the ravages of time itself. A file can vanish, without a trace, under myriad circumstances—many of them beyond human control.
Second, we must discuss the limits of digital forensics itself. Forensic tools can be powerful, yes, but they are not infallible. There are countless ways data can evade recovery: encrypted files, corrupted drives, fragmented data clusters, obsolete storage formats, or even simple user error. A computer system is not a perfect archive; it is a dynamic, ever-changing entity shaped by software updates, file transfers, routine purges, and countless other interactions. No forensic team can guarantee recovery of every piece of data ever written and lost. The claim that “nothing was found, so nothing existed” disregards this reality entirely.
Third, let us reflect on human behaviour—an aspect inseparable from digital evidence. Files do not simply disappear without interaction. When documents are lost, altered, deleted, or concealed, there is often intent, or at the very least, human influence involved. The absence of a document does not exonerate or affirm innocence. Instead, it demands scrutiny of how it was handled, what procedures were undertaken, and what motives might be at play. To ignore these complexities is to risk overlooking the very essence of truth.
Moreover, consider this: digital footprints are complex trails, not straightforward paths. They can be altered, obscured, or even erased intentionally. The absence of a document in a forensic search could indicate deletion, tampering, or migration, none of which proves the document’s original existence or non-existence. Without more context, such claims hold no weight. Absence is not evidence. It is a shadow that requires light and context, not blind belief.
Lastly, let us remember what’s truly at stake. If we accept the claim that a file’s absence is definitive proof of its non-existence, we empower those who seek to manipulate data. We give cover to the destroyers of evidence and those who seek to shape narratives by erasing digital history. It sets a dangerous precedent that undermines justice, because the absence of evidence can be engineered. Letting such a claim stand risks turning justice into an arena for those most adept at making evidence disappear.
Ladies and gentlemen, justice is not a game of finding what is absent and calling it non-existent. It is a process of uncovering truths amidst complexity, human behaviour, and technical limitations. To rule in favour of this claim would not only be a mockery of truth—it would be an open door to future manipulations, erasures, and injustices that exploit what cannot be found.
I ask you to reject this facile and dangerous notion. Truth cannot and must not be found in what is absent alone, for it is a hollow foundation upon which no justice can stand.
What happened to the state system that garnered cross-party political and general public support? Once heralded as a bastion of anti-bias news and public education and entertainment has turned into the Reichsministerium für Volksaufklärung und Propaganda run by a veritable army of Goebbels.
Baroness Stowell, the chairman of the Lords communications committee, told Ms Turness that “BBC Verify is not necessarily seen universally as something that is helping the BBC’s reputation or building trust and confidence”.
“Die beste Propaganda ist jene, die sozusagen unsichtbar wirkt, das ganze öffentliche Leben durchdringt, ohne dass das öffentliche Leben irgendeine Kenntnis von der propagandistischen Initiative hat.” Joseph Goebbels
Goebbels would be proud of the BBC, his quote in English is a confirmation of BBC Verify’s aspirations “The best propaganda is that which, as it were, works invisibly, penetrates the whole of life without the public having any knowledge of the propagandistic initiative.”
The new BBC Verify department must be approaching it’s first anniversary and I confess I did not believe the former government would allow it to continue for more than a few weeks. It was, after all, offering it’s opinion as fact and opposing opinion’s as “misinformation” or “disinformation”.
I am thinking of writing a paper on BBC Verify but as I am in the middle of a real project have decided it will have to wait, nonetheless, for those fans of Michael Connolly’s “Lincoln Lawyer” Mickey Haller (my current alter-ego) here’s what I think he would think of Goebbels pride and joy, BBC Verify:
BBC Verify? That’s rich. More like a velvet hammer for smashing inconvenient truths. It’s not about finding facts; it’s about dressing up bias in a sharp suit and calling it gospel. If you can spin the lie well enough, package it with enough polish, folks will believe the sun rises in the west if you tell them it does. It’s like hiring a defence attorney not to prove your innocence but to convince the world that guilt is a virtue.
The real irony? They call it ‘Verify,’ but it’s got the credibility of a used-car salesman swearing that a lemon is a Ferrari. It’s not about truth—truth’s messy and inconvenient. It’s about control, about shaping the narrative so the big fish stay big, and the little ones keep swimming in circles. In my line of work, we call that a con. But when you’ve got the money and the power, you call it journalism.”
Verbal Alchemy 