Angry British Conservative Blog.

I’m Mr. TMarsh-Connors

Author, podcaster, social critic, and unapologetic British conservative.

I post about politics, culture, masculinity, Christianity, architecture, symbols, history, and whatever modern madness I feel like dissecting.

Expect blunt honesty, no-filter commentary, and the occasional philosophical swing into identity, truth, legacy, and the state of the West.

If you’re here for softness, I’m not your man.

If you want clarity, conviction, and a bit of fire, welcome.

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Today was one of those days that reminds you why travelling is so important.

I had the pleasure of spending the day in Morristown, Tennessee, with my good friend David, whom I have known for over twelve years. There is something special about seeing a place through the eyes of someone who lives there. You notice things that you might otherwise drive straight past.

As we toured the town, one of the first things that struck me was just how spread out everything is. Coming from Britain, where towns and cities are often packed tightly together and where roads can feel like they were designed for horses rather than modern traffic, Tennessee feels refreshingly open. There is space everywhere. The roads are wider, the buildings are larger, and there is a sense of freedom that is difficult to put into words.

We spent some time exploring the local area, including the mall, which I have to say is fantastic. In many parts of the world, shopping centres have seen better days, but here there was still a real sense of life and community. People were out enjoying themselves, families were spending time together, and there was a welcoming atmosphere that made you feel at ease.

What struck me most, however, was the character of the town itself.

Morristown feels like the kind of place that country singers write songs about. The sort of town where people know their neighbours, where life moves at a slightly gentler pace, and where community still means something. There is an authenticity to it that is becoming increasingly rare in many parts of the Western world.

As a visitor from Britain, I often find myself comparing what I see here with what I left behind. America has its problems, just as every nation does, but there is something undeniably appealing about these smaller towns. They possess a confidence in who they are. They are not trying to be something else. They simply embrace their own identity.

By the end of the day, I found myself smiling at how different everything felt. The scenery, the pace of life, the people, and the atmosphere all combined to create one of the most enjoyable stops of my journey so far.

Perhaps that is the magic of a road trip. It is not always the famous landmarks or the major cities that leave the biggest impression. Sometimes it is a day spent with an old friend in a Tennessee town that feels as though it has stepped straight out of a country song.

Tomorrow the journey continues, but Morristown has certainly left its mark on me.

Charleston, South Carolina to Thorn Hill, Tennessee.

Where do I even begin?

First of all, I am quite proud of myself. I drove the entire stretch across South Carolina and into Tennessee without ending up in a ditch, a lake, or accidentally joining NASCAR.

The day started in Charleston with an absolutely fantastic mushroom burger and fries before spending some time exploring one of the most beautiful and historic cities in America. I also crossed the incredible Arthur Ravenel Jr. Bridge, and I have to say, that thing is completely insane. It’s the sort of bridge that makes you wonder if the engineers were showing off just a little bit.

Then came I-26.

Now, I say this with love, America, but you people seem to have collectively decided that turn signals are merely decorative features installed by manufacturers for aesthetic purposes. The amount of lane-changing wizardry I witnessed today would make a Formula One driver nervous.

As the miles rolled by, the scenery became more and more stunning. The Blue Ridge Mountains were absolutely breathtaking. Some of those roads looked like they had been lifted straight out of Tokyo Drift. Every corner felt like Vin Diesel was about to appear in my rear-view mirror telling me about family.

I also found myself driving along the Billy Graham Freeway, which was a nice reminder that not every sign on an American highway is advertising lawyers, fireworks, or a giant truck stop.

379 miles later, I have officially arrived in Tennessee safe and sound.

The car survived.

I survived.

I say this with genuine love in my heart, but you American drivers would make the Pope start a road rage podcast. One minute somebody’s doing 95mph with the confidence of a fighter pilot, the next there’s a pickup truck drifting across three lanes like they’re auditioning for NASCAR: Civilian Edition.

Indicators apparently are considered a sign of weakness. Lane discipline? Pure mythology. And why is everybody either driving like they’re escaping federal agents or like they’ve just seen a particularly interesting cloud?

As I read the headlines saying the UK has recorded its hottest ever May day, with temperatures climbing to 34.8 °C in West London, I couldn’t help but think of something deeper beneath the sunshine and celebration. Beaches packed. Parks overflowing. Beer gardens full. Families out enjoying what feels more like southern Europe than Britain.

And honestly? Good. People should enjoy life.

But while many are lying on the sand listening to the waves roll in, we should never forget why we have the freedom to do so in the first place.

“YOUR DAY AT THE BEACH BROUGHT TO YOU BY THEIR DAY AT THE BEACH.”

That sentence alone says more than most speeches ever could.

Because for thousands of young men across history, their final day at the beach wasn’t relaxation. It wasn’t a holiday. It was Normandy. It was Dunkirk. It was Gallipoli. It was beaches stained with fear, smoke, blood, courage, sacrifice and duty. Some never even made it off the sand.

The sad truth is many people today will enjoy this weather without giving a single thought to the generations who defended this country, its freedoms, its culture and its future. That isn’t me trying to ruin anyone’s fun. It’s simply reality. Modern society moves fast, consumes fast and forgets even faster.

Yet remembrance matters.

Every warm summer breeze across the British coastline exists because others stood in storms we could barely imagine. Every child building sandcastles today does so under a Union Jack protected by those who never got the chance to grow old themselves.

That’s why I believe patriotism is not about blind nationalism or empty slogans. It’s gratitude. Real gratitude. Understanding that freedom is inherited, not guaranteed. Paid for by people whose names most of us will never know.

So enjoy the sunshine. Spend time with family. Walk the coast. Sit beside the sea. Britain can still be beautiful when the clouds finally stop auditioning for a Dickens novel for five minutes.

But somewhere in the back of your mind, remember them too.

Because while today may be our day at the beach...

There’s something slightly terrifying about technology finally catching up to the human imagination. For years we were told virtual reality was “the future,” and most of the time it ended up looking like blurry plastic goggles strapped to your forehead while a computer tried desperately to convince you a cube floating in empty space was revolutionary. Humanity spent billions reinventing disappointment.

But I have to admit, after using the Apple Vision Pro with the M5 chip, I finally understand what people meant all along.

As many of you who read my blogs already know, I own one, and recently I’ve been experimenting more and more with spatial video on YouTube. Today, though, I tried something different. I watched a spatial rollercoaster video.

Now, back in my younger years, you would have easily found me at places like Thorpe Park or Carowinds over in North Carolina during my travels in the United States. Rollercoasters were just part of the experience. The noise, the speed, the anticipation climbing that first hill before your stomach suddenly remembers gravity exists. Humans voluntarily paying money to be flung around like loose shopping bags in a hurricane. Remarkable species.

But I haven’t actually been on a rollercoaster in a very long time.

So when I loaded this spatial video through the Vision Pro, I expected it to be impressive. I did not expect my brain to completely buy into the illusion.

The moment the ride started, I genuinely felt like I was there. Not “watching” it. Experiencing it.

The depth perception is what changes everything. You’re no longer looking at a flat screen pretending to have immersion. The world actually surrounds you. As the coaster twisted and dropped, my body reacted instinctively. My stomach tightened. My balance shifted. I even caught myself leaning slightly into corners as though my brain had temporarily forgotten I was standing safely in my own room and not hanging upside down somewhere at 70 miles per hour.

After I took the Vision Pro off, I honestly felt a little wobbly for a minute. That’s how convincing it was.

And that’s the strange thing about this technology. The human mind is incredibly easy to fool when depth, motion, and sound all align correctly. We like to think we’re logical creatures, but apparently all it takes is a high-resolution headset and a simulated drop to send the nervous system into full “this is real” mode.

What fascinates me most is where this goes next.

Because if a rollercoaster video can create that kind of response already, imagine what spatial storytelling, education, documentaries, gaming, or even historical recreations will look like over the next decade. We are rapidly approaching a point where digital experiences stop feeling like “media” and start feeling like memory itself.

That is both exciting and slightly unsettling.

Still, I have to give credit where it’s due. Apple really has created something different here. The Vision Pro doesn’t feel like a gimmick to me anymore. It feels like the beginning of a completely different way humans are going to interact with content.

There’s something strangely powerful about a commencement speech when it stops sounding like a corporate HR seminar written by six consultants trapped in a beige meeting room. Most of them blur together eventually. “Dream big.” “Work hard.” “Believe in yourself.” Humanity really does love repackaging the same five phrases with different background music. Yet every now and then, one cuts through the noise and actually feels human.

That’s exactly how I felt watching Eric Church deliver the 2026 commencement speech at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill.

Now, I’ve watched many commencement speeches over the years. Two that always stood out to me were Steve Jobs and his legendary 2005 Stanford commencement speech, alongside Tim Cook with his “Be Fearless” speech at Duke University in 2018. Those speeches carried weight because they came from people who had actually built something, suffered for it, and understood what it meant to stand apart from the crowd. They weren’t polished motivational slogans wrapped in applause. They were reflections from people who had stared failure, uncertainty, and pressure directly in the face.

But after watching Eric Church’s speech, I genuinely have to say it was one of the most impactful commencement speeches I’ve heard to date.

What struck me most was its honesty.

Eric Church didn’t come across as someone trying to impress the audience. He spoke like someone who understood life beyond headlines, fame, and curated perfection. There was grit in it. Reflection. Humanity. The kind of realism people are starving for in an era where everyone online pretends they’ve got life perfectly assembled while, internally, operating like a laptop with 73 browser tabs open and a dying battery.

The speech carried something deeper than career advice. It spoke about identity, purpose, failure, and having the courage to remain authentic in a world constantly trying to sand away individuality. That resonated with me heavily because, truthfully, too many people today are terrified to stand firm in who they are. They bend themselves into whatever shape gains approval the fastest.

Church’s words reminded me that success without authenticity eventually becomes hollow.

That’s also why the Steve Jobs Stanford speech remains timeless. Jobs spoke about connecting the dots, love, loss, and mortality. Tim Cook spoke about fearlessness and moral courage. Eric Church, in his own way, carried that same spirit forward. Different industries. Different personalities. Same underlying truth: life means very little if you spend it trying to become what everybody else expects.

Another thing I appreciated was that the speech felt grounded. It wasn’t obsessed with status. It wasn’t screaming about becoming rich or famous. It focused far more on becoming real. There’s wisdom in that. The modern world encourages people to build brands before character, influence before wisdom, image before substance. Then society acts surprised when everything feels artificial and emotionally bankrupt.

The older I get, the more I value people who speak plainly and sincerely.

That’s why this commencement speech stayed with me enough to write about it.

Not because it was flashy.

Not because it went viral.

Not because it was perfectly polished.

But because it felt true.

Recently, while visiting the library in London, I came across a collection of old technology magazines and promotional material, and tucked away amongst them was an original 1999 iBook brochure. Naturally, as the Apple loyalist that I am, I had to stop what I was doing and flick through every single page.

The moment I saw that Tangerine Orange Clamshell iBook again, it instantly took me back to an era where technology still felt exciting in a completely different way. The late 90s and early 2000s had this optimism about them. Companies were not afraid to experiment. Devices had personality. They looked bold, futuristic, playful, almost rebellious. Modern tech today is refined and beautiful, but back then it felt imaginative.

The Apple iBook G3 Clamshell in Tangerine Orange was, in my opinion, peak industrial design. That translucent plastic shell still looks incredible even now. It felt approachable and futuristic at the same time. Apple somehow managed to make a computer look friendly without making it look cheap. The curved edges, the built-in handle, the colours, the glowing Apple logo, it all screamed confidence. It was technology with character.

Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely love my modern Apple MacBook Pro. The silver unibody design is timeless, elegant, minimal, and unmistakably Apple. But there was something about the Clamshell era that represented pure creativity. It was Apple returning from the brink, daring to stand out while the rest of the computer industry was busy producing endless grey plastic boxes that looked like microwave ovens designed by accountants.

As I sit here writing this in Gaucho Covent Garden, surrounded by the noise of London life and the smell of steak drifting through the restaurant, I can’t help but think how rare genuine design confidence has become. Modern devices are thinner, faster, more powerful, but very few feel iconic in the same emotional way the Clamshell iBook did.

That old brochure reminded me that technology is not just about specifications and benchmarks. It is about feeling. Inspiration. Identity. The best designs become attached to moments in your life. They become memories.

And honestly, the late 90s Apple aesthetic still holds up remarkably well today. Which is both impressive and mildly irritating for every other tech company that spent decades trying to imitate it.

The Six Articles of 1539 stand, in my view, as one of the last great attempts by King Henry VIII to preserve the spiritual backbone of England while still asserting English sovereignty over the Church. Many modern historians paint the Six Articles as harsh or reactionary, but I see them differently. I see them as a declaration that England would not completely surrender itself to theological chaos during the storms of the Reformation.

At a time when Europe was tearing itself apart with radicalism, division, and endless doctrinal warfare, Henry VIII chose a middle road rooted in authority, order, and continuity. The Six Articles defended traditional Christian teachings such as transubstantiation, clerical celibacy, and confession. To many today these may seem old-fashioned, but to the England of the 16th century they represented stability, reverence, and moral discipline in an age rapidly losing all three.

What I admire most is that Henry VIII understood something many leaders today fail to grasp: a nation without spiritual foundations eventually becomes a nation without identity. The Six Articles were not merely about religion. They were about protecting the soul of England itself. They affirmed that faith was not to be endlessly reshaped by trends, political factions, or foreign influence. There was a line, and Henry drew it firmly.

Critics call the Six Articles oppressive. Yet history shows us what followed when societies abandoned shared moral frameworks entirely. Confusion. Fragmentation. Endless ideological conflict. The Tudor period was brutal by modern standards, certainly, but it was also an era where leaders believed truth mattered enough to defend publicly and unapologetically.

I fully support the principle behind the Six Articles because they represented strength, conviction, and cultural continuity. They were an attempt to anchor England during one of the most unstable periods in European history. Whether one agrees with every punishment or policy attached to them is another matter entirely, but the central idea remains powerful: a civilisation must know what it stands for, or eventually it stands for nothing at all.

Digital ID was sold to the British public the same way every overreaching policy is sold. Convenience. Safety. Efficiency. The holy trinity of modern bureaucracy.

“Just make life easier.”

“Just verify who you are.”

“Just one app.”

“Just one scan.”

Until suddenly your face becomes your password, your movements become data points, and your existence becomes permanently tied to systems you never voted for, never designed, and cannot truly audit.

I already have identification.

I have a passport.

I have a driving licence.

I have a National Insurance certificate.

That is enough.

I hereby say clearly and without apology:

“No. I do not give you permission to use my identification on any recognition portal, facial recognition database, behavioural tracking system, or digital identity framework.”

Because freedom is not merely about whether you have something to hide. Freedom is about whether you still possess the right to exist without constant verification.

The United Kingdom is sleepwalking into a culture where proving who you are becomes more important than who you actually are. A country once associated with liberty, common law, individual rights, and scepticism of state power now flirts with creating an infrastructure of permanent authentication.

Every transaction.

Every login.

Every movement.

Every interaction.

Verified.

Tracked.

Logged.

All wrapped in the smiling language of “security” and “modernisation.”

History teaches one brutal lesson repeatedly: powers granted during one political era never stay confined to that era. Systems built for “protection” inevitably become systems of control once the wrong people inherit them. And governments change. Laws change. Definitions change. The database remains.

Digital ID is not just technology.

It is infrastructure for dependency.

Once society requires a centralised digital identity for banking, travel, employment, healthcare, online access, or public services, refusal itself becomes a form of exclusion. You are no longer a citizen exercising caution. You become an obstacle to the machine.

That should terrify anyone who values civil liberties.

And spare me the tired argument:

“If you’ve done nothing wrong, you’ve got nothing to fear.”

That phrase has poisoned public discourse for years. Privacy is not criminality. Curtains on your house do not make you suspicious. Locks on your door do not make you dangerous. Personal boundaries are part of human dignity.

The same political class telling people to trust massive digital identity systems cannot stop data leaks, cyberattacks, banking fraud, illegal migration failures, or institutional incompetence across half the country. Yet somehow we are expected to believe they can safely centralise the identity infrastructure of millions of citizens forever.

No system is unhackable.

No government is incorruptible.

No database is eternal.

Once biometric data is compromised, you cannot reset your face the way you reset a password.

Britain should be moving toward stronger personal freedoms, decentralisation, and respect for private life, not constructing a technocratic checkpoint society where every citizen must constantly authenticate their own existence to algorithms and scanners.

I believe in sovereignty.

National sovereignty.

Personal sovereignty.

The right to live as a free human being without becoming a permanent entry on an always-active surveillance grid.

So again, clearly:

I have a passport.

I have a driving licence.

I have a National Insurance certificate.

That is sufficient identification for a free citizen.

I will not quietly surrender privacy, autonomy, and human dignity for the illusion of convenience.

Not now.

Not later.

There’s a strange feeling sweeping across England right now. Not just frustration. Not just protest. Something bigger. Something colder, sharper, more focused. A sense that millions of ordinary people have finally decided they are done being ignored by the polished managerial class who spent years speaking at the public instead of listening to them.

More than 1,400 council seats gained by Reform UK is not a protest vote anymore. That is a political earthquake. A turquoise revolution has begun. And Westminster can hear the walls cracking whether they admit it or not.

For years people were mocked for raising concerns about immigration, national identity, free speech, crime, economic decline, cultural erosion, and the growing distance between ordinary Britons and the political elite. The establishment treated voters like awkward relatives at Christmas dinner. Smile politely, ignore them, then carry on dismantling the country behind closed doors. Human politics in the 2020s became less about representation and more about PR management. Grim little focus groups pretending to be democracy.

But this result sends a message in giant turquoise letters across England:

“We are still here.”

People want borders. They want pride in country. They want safe streets. They want functioning services. They want a government that puts Britain before global vanity projects and corporate talking points. They want politicians who sound like actual people instead of HR departments wearing suits.

And whether critics like it or not, Nigel Farage has tapped into that mood better than anyone else in modern British politics. The establishment spent decades trying to bury him politically, socially, and culturally, yet somehow he keeps coming back stronger each time. Like a bloke at the pub who refuses to leave after last orders because he’s still halfway through explaining sovereignty. 🇬🇧

If Reform can turn local momentum into national structure, 2028 suddenly becomes very interesting. Council victories alone do not guarantee a general election win. History is littered with movements that exploded locally and collapsed nationally. But this feels different because the anger now cuts across class lines, generations, and regions.

The old political loyalties are dying.

Labour increasingly looks like an urban managerial machine disconnected from traditional working-class patriotism. The Conservatives, meanwhile, spent years promising conservative government while governing like exhausted accountants terrified of their own shadow. Voters noticed. They always do eventually.

What we are watching may be the early stages of a full political realignment in Britain. Not left versus right in the old sense, but establishment versus national identity. Globalism versus sovereignty. Managed decline versus cultural renewal.

And for millions of people watching these results come in seat by seat, council by council, there is finally something that British politics has lacked for a very long time:

Hope.

Not the soft, corporate slogan kind of hope. Real hope. The dangerous kind. The kind that makes people believe change might actually be possible.

2028 is still a long road away. But after these results, nobody can laugh Reform off anymore. The turquoise wave is no longer approaching the shore.

There is something strangely therapeutic about mining virtual blocks while the real world keeps demanding passports, flight plans, hotel bookings, budgets, logistics, and enough tabs open in Safari to make a MacBook sound like a jet engine. Humanity invented “rest” and then immediately attached Wi-Fi, bureaucracy and stress to it. Spectacular species, honestly.

One thing I have been absolutely hooked on recently is using my Apple Vision Pro (M5 Chip) to play Minecraft.

I know some people still look at VR and spatial computing like it is some strange gimmick, but sitting there with Minecraft stretched across that massive display genuinely feels like the future. It turns the game into something completely different. The scale of it all is incredible. Worlds feel bigger, builds feel more immersive, and somehow you lose track of time without even realising it.

There is something calming about it too. Just putting music on, loading into a world, planning out a city build or exploring caves while the outside world slows down for a few hours. It almost becomes a form of therapy in its own weird way. A digital escape hatch from the constant noise of modern life.

With all the planning recently for my U.S. road trip, and now potentially looking at China and the Philippines at some point this year as well, it has been nice to step back from all the organising and just relax for a bit. Airports, visas, routes, bookings, travel costs, time zones… eventually your brain starts feeling like an overloaded operating system.

Then suddenly you are sitting in a giant Minecraft world wearing the Vision Pro and everything becomes simple again. Just blocks, creativity, exploration, and peace. Funny how a game people once dismissed as “that little cube game for kids” has become one of the best ways to unwind in modern life.

Technology gets criticised constantly these days, and sometimes rightly so, but moments like this remind me that tech can still create experiences that genuinely improve your mood and mindset. Sometimes all you really need is a quiet evening, a good headset, and a world made entirely out of blocks.

Happy Jazz Day 2026!

There’s a strange thing about leadership in the modern age. Everyone wants strength, but very few understand what it actually looks like when it isn’t shouting, posturing, or trying to win the room in ten seconds flat. Then along comes King Charles III on a U.S. state visit, standing beside Donald Trump at a White House state dinner, and quietly reminds everyone how it’s really done.

No theatrics. No desperate need for applause every other sentence. Just composure, timing, and that rare quality modern politics seems allergic to, restraint.

What made the speech land so well wasn’t just the words themselves, though they were carefully chosen, as you’d expect from a man who has spent a lifetime preparing for moments like this. It was the tone. Charles didn’t speak at America, and he certainly didn’t speak down to anyone. He spoke with them. There’s a difference, and it’s one most leaders either don’t notice or don’t care to learn.

Standing alongside Queen Camilla, there was a sense of continuity, of quiet confidence. No scrambling for approval, no need to dominate the stage. Just presence. That alone carries more authority than half the noise you see elsewhere.

And here’s the uncomfortable truth people don’t like admitting. Diplomacy isn’t weakness. It’s discipline. It’s knowing when to speak plainly and when to let silence do some of the work. Charles managed to acknowledge shared history, mutual respect, and future cooperation without turning it into a lecture or a performance. That balance is harder than it looks, which is probably why so many fail at it.

You could see the contrast as well. Trump, for all his force and personality, operates in a completely different register. Direct, assertive, often blunt. And yet, instead of clashing, Charles adjusted the tone of the room. Not by overpowering it, but by refining it. That’s influence without force, and frankly, it’s a dying art.

There’s also something deeply British about the whole thing. A sense of tradition meeting modern reality without losing itself. Charles didn’t try to be something he’s not. He leaned into history, into culture, into the long thread that ties the UK and the US together. No gimmicks. Just clarity and conviction.

People will call it “a good speech” and move on. That’s fine. Most miss the point anyway. What they witnessed wasn’t just a speech, it was a demonstration. Tact over ego. Diplomacy over noise. Substance over spectacle.

There comes a point where frustration stops being a feeling and starts becoming a principle. That’s where I am with Parliament right now.

Watching MPs vote against a parliamentary inquiry into Keir Starmer over the vetting of Peter 

Mandelson is not just disappointing, it’s insulting. Not to me personally, not even to voters in general, but to the very idea that accountability still exists in this country.

We are constantly told that Parliament is the great guardian of democracy. That it holds power to account. That it represents the people. Yet when a moment arrives where it can actually prove that, what does it do? It closes ranks. It protects its own. It votes to look the other way.

This is the pattern now, isn’t it?

If the issue is inconvenient, bury it.

If the scrutiny is uncomfortable, block it.

If the questions are too sharp, silence them.

And then, with a straight face, they lecture the public about trust.

Trust.

That word gets thrown around like confetti by politicians who seem to have no interest in earning it. 

You don’t build trust by dodging scrutiny. You don’t restore faith in institutions by refusing to investigate potential failures in judgment, especially when those failures concern individuals as politically loaded as Mandelson.

This isn’t about left or right anymore. That’s the cheap framing they rely on to keep people arguing with each other instead of looking up at them. This is about standards. About whether the people in charge are willing to be examined by the same system they claim to uphold.

And right now, the answer looks like a firm “no.”

What makes it worse is the predictability of it all. The vote wasn’t shocking. It wasn’t dramatic. It was procedural, controlled, and almost dull. That’s how decline really happens, not with explosions but with quiet decisions that chip away at accountability piece by piece.

A vote here. A refusal there. Another inquiry denied.

Until one day you realise the mechanism that was supposed to check power has become part of it.

Parliament should be the place where uncomfortable truths are dragged into the light. Instead, it’s starting to feel like a place where those truths are negotiated away behind closed doors.

And people notice.

They notice when questions aren’t asked.

They notice when investigations don’t happen.

They notice when politicians protect each other instead of serving the public.

You can only run a system like that for so long before the gap between the governed and the governing becomes too wide to ignore.

I’m fed up with it. Not in the casual, “roll your eyes and move on” kind of way, but in the deeper sense. The kind that makes you step back and ask whether the system still deserves the benefit of the doubt it keeps demanding.

Because accountability shouldn’t be optional. It shouldn’t depend on who is in power or who might be embarrassed by the outcome. It should be automatic, relentless, and unavoidable.

Today is ANZAC Day, which honours the members of the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps (ANZAC) who served and died in all wars, conflicts, and peacekeeping operations.