#angrybritishconservative

The headlines today should make every decent, clear-headed Brit sick to their core. Israel has accused the UK of harming efforts to secure a Gaza ceasefire, and they are absolutely right to do so. Our so-called “leaders” in Westminster, under this mad left-wing government, have crossed a line they had no right to cross.

Prime Minister’s announcement? The UK will recognise a Palestinian state unless Israel meets certain conditions. Let me be absolutely clear we have NO RIGHT to threaten Israel like this. None. What this government is doing is nothing short of political blackmail against one of our closest democratic allies in the Middle East, at the very moment they are fighting for their very survival.

And let us not forget the undeniable truth: It was not Israel that started this war. It was not Israel that launched an unprovoked massacre of civilians. It was not Israel that kidnapped women, children, and the elderly, parading them through the streets like trophies.

On October 7, 2023, Hamas, along with other Palestinian terrorist groups launched a coordinated armed invasion from the Gaza Strip into southern Israel. This was the first large-scale invasion of Israeli territory since the 1948 Arab–Israeli War. And they didn’t just target soldiers. They targeted families celebrating Simchat Torah, a Jewish holiday. That day wasn’t a “resistance” it was a deliberate, calculated act of terrorism.

And now, somehow, in the twisted logic of our “woke” political class, the response to that atrocity is to reward these terrorists by talking about recognising a Palestinian state. We are bending over backwards for groups whose very charters openly call for the destruction of Israel and the death of Jews.

This is not diplomacy. This is a weakness. This is moral cowardice dressed up as foreign policy.

Let’s not mince words, recognising a Palestinian state now is not about peace. It’s about appeasing the far-left radicals, virtue-signalling to international bodies, and pretending to “solve” the problem while stabbing Israel in the back. The terrorists who run Gaza will see it for what it is: a victory. Proof that violence and slaughter get results.

Our government should hang its head in shame. The people of the UK deserve leadership that understands the difference between a democracy defending itself and a terrorist organisation that thrives on bloodshed. Israel is not perfect,

no country is but it is the only liberal democracy in the region, the only place in the Middle East where Jews, Christians, and Muslims can live under the same legal rights.

And yet, we threaten them.

While ignoring the barbarity of Hamas.

While whitewashing terrorism into “freedom fighting.”

So this is where we are now.

We live in a political age where outrage is treated like a personality trait, shame is seen as oppression, entitlement is framed as justice, and contribution is… optional. The modern progressive left has managed to invert one of the oldest moral equations known to civilisation. Responsibility used to come before reward. Duty used to precede rights. Now, apparently, the only prerequisite for receiving is feeling.

And no, I’m not speaking in vague abstractions here.

Ilhan Omar has become something of a symbol for this wider cultural posture. A public figure who seems perpetually offended by the very nation whose institutions have given her a global platform. Criticism is treated as persecution. Accountability is reframed as bigotry. Disagreement becomes violence. Yet the expectation of deference, protection, and provision remains permanently intact.

Offended by everything.

Ashamed of nothing.

Entitled to everything.

But contributes nothing.

And before someone inevitably reaches for the tired accusation that this is merely about one politician, it isn’t. She is a case study in a broader ideological export that has now spread across Western institutions from Washington to Westminster. A worldview that insists the system is illegitimate, even while living comfortably within it. That denounces the past, yet benefits from the stability it created. That demands change without offering construction. Revolution without responsibility.

We are now told that gratitude is regressive. That national pride is dangerous. That cultural inheritance is exclusionary. The very things that built functioning societies are rebranded as moral failures. Meanwhile, productivity, self-restraint, discipline, and service are quietly replaced with visibility, grievance, and narrative.

The result is a politics of permanent adolescence.

Rights without duties.

Voice without sacrifice.

Recognition without contribution.

The left, not just in America but across Europe and here at home in Britain, increasingly operates on the premise that society owes them validation simply for existing within categories of perceived disadvantage. Economic systems must be reshaped, cultural norms rewritten, historical figures dismantled, language reconstructed… all to accommodate a moral framework that rejects the very notion of earned standing.

And still, nothing is ever enough.

Because this ideology is not driven by outcomes, but by perpetual dissatisfaction. Its currency is outrage. Its engine is resentment. Its end state is not equality, but endless negotiation for more.

Civilisations cannot function like this.

A healthy society depends on contribution. On the quiet, unglamorous virtues that built the West in the first place. Work. Family. Faith. Service. Gratitude. The understanding that inheritance carries obligation as well as privilege.

Strip those away, and what you are left with is noise.

Noise that shouts loudly.

Demands constantly.

Builds nothing.

Not every blog I write is about politics, tech, or society. Sometimes, it's just raw emotion. Just me sat here in the garden, 3:30am in the morning. Cool air brushing past me like a ghost of something long gone. I think. I reflect. And sometimes, I write.

Being an only child teaches you a few things. And not in the fairy tale way people imagine spoiled, pampered, coddled. No, it teaches you how to survive silently. It shows you what it means to be independent out of necessity, not out of choice.

When you grow up without siblings, you learn early on: you’ve got no backup. No brother to step in when someone’s giving you hell. No sister to confide in when your heart breaks at 17. You are your own team, your own lifeline. And that reality hardens you in places most people never even realise.

You notice things others overlook. Every smirk someone throws your way. Every twitch of discomfort. Every shoulder shrug, foot shuffle, eye roll  it's all data. You become fluent in body language, because when you’re alone, you have to read the room like your life depends on it. That’s how you know if someone’s real… or if they’re just wearing a mask.

You learn to make every moment count because you don't get the luxury of a “next time.” That friend you talk to might vanish tomorrow. That one phone call could be the last. So you pour yourself into it, into them. Because part of you knows it could all go silent again.

I’ve had many of those late, late nights. Trust me. Too many. Like right now. Just me, my thoughts, and a quiet world that doesn’t know or care that I’m still awake. No texts. No footsteps coming down the stairs. No laughter echoing from another bedroom. Just me.

Was there a time I wished I had siblings? Yeah, there was. Especially growing up. When I saw kids arguing and then hugging five minutes later, I envied that. When I saw brothers sticking up for each other, or sisters planning sleepovers together, I felt that ache. That little voice in my chest whispering, Why not me?

But now? No. I’m happy with the silence. It’s made me who I am. It’s not a life for everyone. But it’s mine. It’s lonely sometimes, sure. But it’s taught me resilience, empathy, observation, and above all self-reliance. You learn to handle yourself. Because, quite frankly, you have no other choice.

So this blog isn’t just a post. It’s a piece of my heart. A rare one. Not polished or political. Just honest. If you’re reading this and you’ve ever felt alone  really alone  know that I get it. And know that being alone doesn’t mean being lost. It means being tested. Sharpened. Seasoned.

And if you're out there tonight, wide awake like me, staring into the dark... you're not the only one.

Hey everyone,

I wanted to give you a proper heads-up about something I’ve been thinking about for a while.

This Monday, 4th May 2026, I’m deleting the entire back catalogue of my Angry British Conservative podcast — all 293 episodes.

It’s not because I’m embarrassed by them or because I’ve changed my views. It’s simply because the show has become a complete mess. The episodes are all over the place with no proper seasons, inconsistent titles, missing dates, and zero organisation. New listeners would have no idea where to start, and even I find it frustrating to look at.

So I’ve made the decision to wipe the slate clean.

From Monday 4th May, Angry British Conservative will relaunch as a properly organised podcast with real seasons, consistent naming, and the same no-holds-barred ranting style you’re used to — just much cleaner and easier to follow.

The old video versions will stay up on my YouTube channel as an archive, so if you ever want to go back and listen to the chaotic early days, they’ll still be there. But the main audio feed is getting a full reset.

Why now?

Because I’m heading off to America on my big road trip at the end of May, and I want everything sorted before I go. When I return in July, the show will already be running the new way with no mess left behind.

Man and the Machine and Totally Mad Citizen already run with proper structure, so it only feels right to bring Angry British Conservative up to the same standard.

Thank you to everyone who’s listened over the years — old and new. I’m genuinely excited to start this fresh chapter.

New era begins Monday 4th May.

See you then.

So after wrestling with upload bars that move at the speed of a civil service queue… you’ve finally decided not to donate half your life expectancy to YouTube processing times. Sensible. Revolutionary, even. Let’s put it into something actually fit to publish.

Over the past few months, I have been taking a long, hard look at the direction of the Angry British Conservative podcast and how best to continue delivering content in a way that is both sustainable and effective moving forward.

After careful consideration, I have come to the conclusion that there is no longer any real practical benefit in continuing with the video aspect of the podcast on YouTube. While producing video content has allowed for an additional visual dimension to the show, the time it takes to render, process and upload full-length video episodes has become increasingly impractical.

Put simply, the amount of time required to upload each episode to YouTube is time that could be better spent researching, writing, recording and improving the content itself. The focus of Angry British Conservative has always been the ideas, the discussion and the message, not necessarily the visual presentation that accompanies it.

With that in mind, Angry British Conservative will continue as an audio-first podcast moving forward. This allows for more consistent releases, improved production quality where it matters most, and ensures that new episodes are delivered in a timely manner without unnecessary delays caused by lengthy video uploads.

All previously released video episodes will remain available on YouTube and will now be organised into a dedicated playlist titled “Angry British Conservative: Video Archive” for those who wish to revisit past content.

For all new and latest episodes, listeners are encouraged to check out Angry British Conservative on Apple Podcasts and other audio platforms, where the show will continue to be updated regularly.

Every author begins with a whisper, a thought that grows louder until it can no longer be ignored. For me, that whisper became A Conservative Call to Action!, the book that set my voice loose into the world. What began as an unapologetic statement of values has grown into a body of work that now spans twenty-six books. This is not just a bibliography; this is a story of evolution, identity, and the restless pursuit of truth.

This blog is not a list, but a journey through each stage of my publishing life from the raw energy of my early works, to the reflective depths of philosophy, and finally to the bold landscapes of speculative storytelling.

Part I: The Foundations

The opening works carried the energy of conviction. A Conservative Call to Action! was not just political commentary; it was a manifesto. It opened the door for A Northern Odyssey and A Southern Odyssey, explorations of place and culture, stitched with my perspective as both a critic and a wanderer. Then came A Wanderer’s Paradise, a more personal exploration of travel, solitude, and discovery.

Brushstrokes of Forgiveness: Unlocking Emotions marked a turning point the realisation that politics and philosophy alone were not enough. I had to confront emotion, memory, and the possibility of change. That spirit continued into Click, a sharp reflection on technology and its dissonance in human life, and Driven by Stereotypes, a challenge to the assumptions society makes about us and the labels we learn to wear.

Part II: The Fragments Series

Then came my longest sustained project: Fragments five volumes of fractured thought, memoir, philosophy, and story. These books were not meant to be neat or polished. They were snapshots, shards of a mirror in which I was still trying to see myself clearly.

Fragments gave me freedom. I could be autobiographical in one breath and poetic in the next, cynical on one page and hopeful on the following. Together, they represent not just a series, but the heart of my creative process.

Part III: Identity and Reflection

After Fragments came the steadying works of identity. How to Be English was both satire and sincerity — a look at heritage, habits, and the cultural DNA of a nation I love and critique in equal measure. Then came Late Night Wave of Nostalgia, a deeply personal dive into memory, sound, and the ghosts of nights long gone.

With I’m Out of Touch and I’m Out of Time, I gave voice to alienation in a modern world a candid confession of what it means to feel misaligned with your own era. My Apple Story followed, a mix of memoir and cultural critique, blending technology with personal narrative, proving that even the devices we hold can shape our sense of self.

Part IV: Subconscious and Philosophy

The next stage reached inward, peeling back layers of the mind. Subconsciously Lost and Subconsciously Found worked as twin reflections — one about wandering through the fog of identity, the other about reclaiming it. Then came Flow, a study in surrender and rhythm, and Know Thyself, the most direct attempt I have ever made at philosophy. Together, these four books chart the descent and ascent of the self, a dialogue between confusion and clarity.

Part V: Cold War and Beyond

Finally, the speculative turn. With The Cold War Across Dimensions, I began to blend history with imagination, creating a narrative where politics, myth, and science fiction converged. The Connection, The Lies Beneath, The White Abyss, and Tides of Tension expanded on that world, blurring the lines between thriller, allegory, and metaphysical speculation.

Here, I stopped simply telling readers what I thought and began asking them what they believed. The fiction was never escapism; it was a reflection of reality through the mirror of imagination.

Part VI: Tradition in the Modern Age

Most recently, How to Survive in the 21st Century as a Traditionalist brings my work full circle. It confronts the modern challenges of culture, technology, and ideology while offering a guide for those who wish to preserve the values that endure. This book is part manifesto, part survival guide a synthesis of all I have learned.

Conclusion: Twenty-Six Voices

Across twenty-six books, the themes repeat: conviction, identity, reflection, philosophy, speculation, and now survival. Yet each book is distinct, a voice that could not have spoken any earlier or later than it did. This collection of works is not an endpoint but a milestone. It is the mark of a writer who has moved from manifesto to meditation, from cultural criticism to personal confession, and from philosophy to fiction.

These twenty-six voices make up one journey. 

My journey and though they differ in tone, theme, and form, they are united by one truth: the search for meaning in a world that so often feels without it.

We live in a generation of emotionally weak people and I’m sick to death of it. Everything has to be watered down, softened, and sugar-coated because heaven forbid someone gets “offended.” Even the truth itself is treated like some sort of toxic substance that must be handled with gloves. Nonsense.

Since when did honesty become a crime? Since when did speaking plainly make you the villain? People today would rather be comforted by lies than challenged by reality. They demand “safe spaces,” censorship, and endless apologies for words that weren’t even hateful just inconvenient to their fragile worldview.

I will say this loud and clear: I will never water down the truth. Not now, not ever. If what I say offends you, that’s your problem, not mine. In fact, if you can’t handle it, I’ll save you the trouble GET LOST. I’m not here to babysit grown adults who act like toddlers throwing tantrums every time reality knocks on their door.

Here’s the brutal truth: life is not safe, fair, or politically correct. It’s harsh, it’s competitive, and it demands strength. Weak people want lies, comfort, and endless hand-holding. Strong people face reality head-on. Civilisations are built on strength, courage, and conviction not on fragility and fear.

Let’s be very clear: a society that worships weakness will collapse. If we keep pandering to the permanently offended, if we keep censoring speech to protect feelings, we’re not just destroying free expression we’re destroying the backbone of our culture.

Let’s cut through the niceties. I didn’t wake up last week because of a viral clip. I didn’t have some road-to-Damascus moment watching a podcast or reading some bloke on X (formerly Twitter) rant about masculinity, government control, or society going to hell. No. I’ve been awake since I was 14 maybe even earlier.

I didn’t take the red pill. I overdosed on it.

And let me tell you something most people won’t: it’s not glamorous. It’s not Instagrammable. It doesn’t come with a support group or a standing ovation. What it does come with is a permanent unease a knowing that makes it damn near impossible to live in the fantasy that everyone else clings to.

Teenage Clarity in a World of Noise

Most kids my age were obsessed with fitting in. I was obsessed with figuring out why we were being told to fit in to begin with.

I questioned authority. I questioned the media. I questioned education, for God’s sake where they tried to beat the curiosity out of us and replace it with state-approved obedience.

By the time most lads were just starting to think critically, I had already read Orwell, watched the world dismantle itself post-9/11, and realized our governments weren’t interested in truth. They were interested in control of thought, of speech, of dissent.

And while they handed out blue pills in the form of entertainment, empty sex, useless degrees, and TikTok filters I spat them out. I wanted the truth, even if it was ugly.

The Cost of Seeing Clearly

Here’s what the movies never tell you: waking up isn’t heroic. It’s lonely. When you see how broken everything is, it’s hard to smile at the fake news, the empty slogans, the people pretending they aren’t slaves to the machine.

You lose friends. You lose naivety. You lose comfort.

But what you gain? That’s where it matters.

You gain conviction. You gain grit. You gain a spine made of iron in a world full of jellyfish.

You gain the freedom to say, “No. I don’t consent to your lies.” And trust me, that’s a powerful thing.

Red Pill Britain

Now here I am, 32, still overdosed on the truth. Watching my country drown in political correctness, self-censorship, weak leadership, and open borders. Watching men lose purpose, children lose innocence, and the West loses its soul.

And what do they offer us in return? Another Netflix reboot. Another lockdown. Another shot in the arm.

The Red Pill isn’t a fad. It’s a curse and a blessing.

I’ll wear it like a badge because someone needs to stand up and shout, even if everyone else is too distracted by a stupid "Reality Show" or whatever mass media stunt to notice the fire creeping up their walls.

So here’s to the red pill junkies, the awake, the defiant.

We might not be many. But we’re real. And we’ll be the last ones standing when the illusion finally burns to ash.