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Right Wing Watch 👀Written by Peter Montgomery.


Self-proclaimed Christian nationalist podcaster Joshua Haymes interviewed far-right Christian nationalist Florida gubernatorial candidate James Fishback last week. The two agreed that the U.S. was founded “by Christians and for Christians,” and Fishback said that he would have a duty to promote Christianity as governor.

Fishback said he would make classes on the Bible mandatory in Florida schools, though he did not embrace Haymes’ call for the government to suppress “demonic false religions,” saying he believes it is more effective to evangelize Christianity rather than censor its competitors. He called for a moratorium on immigration to keep “foreign ideas” out of the country.

Haymes staked out his Christian nationalist position early in the interview:

I believe that our nation was founded by Christians and for Christians, and I believe that our civil magistrates have a responsibility, a duty before God, to promote true religion, which is to say Christian religion, and to demote, and even in some cases suppress, demonic false religions.

Fishback responded:


We are called to fully obey our Lord and Savior. Jesus Christ is the way, the truth, the life. Not one way of many, not one truth of many . . . 

Continue @ RWW. 

Joshua Haymes And James Fishback Talk Christian Nationalism And Abolishing Abortion

Lynx By Ten To The Power Of Two Thousand And Forty Four

 

Pastords @ 54

 




A Morning Thought @ 3217

Pádraig Drummond ✊ There is something rotten in the soul of a society when it looks at an empty pub and worries more about the taps than the man who owns them.


For four years, The Waterside has sat idle, and now the familiar chorus begins again: "Someone should get Conor McGregor to reopen it." As though the greatest crisis facing this community is the absence of overpriced pints and celebrity selfies.

Have we learned nothing? This is a man whom an Irish High Court jury found liable for raping Nikita Hand, awarding her substantial damages after hearing weeks of evidence. During that trial, the court heard harrowing medical evidence, including that Ms Hand required the surgical removal of a tampon lodged inside her body following the assault. The jury listened. They weighed the evidence. They reached their conclusion.

Yet somehow, for some people, the only lingering question is whether he'll pull a decent pint. That should shame us.

Communities are defined not by who has the deepest pockets, but by who we choose to welcome through the front door. Every invitation extended to McGregor sends another message to survivors of sexual violence: that wealth, celebrity and notoriety can outweigh accountability. That if you're famous enough, eventually people stop talking about what you've done and start talking about your business ventures instead.

We should be asking ourselves a different question. What message does it send to every woman in this town if the answer to an abandoned building is to roll out the red carpet for a man found liable for rape?

Across Ireland, women's refuges, rape crisis centres and frontline support organisations spend every day helping survivors rebuild lives shattered by violence. Their staff and volunteers carry burdens most of us cannot imagine. They believe victims when others do not. They offer shelter, counselling, legal support and dignity.

Those are the people deserving of our admiration.

Those are the people we should be backing.

Not a man whose public persona has become a grotesque monument to aggression, domination and the kind of performative masculinity that mistakes intimidation for strength.

Strength is not shouting louder than everyone else.

Strength is not throwing punches at an elderly man sitting on a bar stool.

Strength is not building an identity around fear, excess and the cult of the untouchable alpha male.

Real strength is found in the women who walk into a refuge with nothing but the clothes on their backs. It is found in survivors who tell their stories despite knowing they will be attacked, doubted and ridiculed. It is found in the workers who answer crisis calls at three o'clock in the morning because someone, somewhere, has nowhere else to turn.

That is courage.

The mythology surrounding McGregor has always depended on confusing violence with virtue. Too many have mistaken swagger for leadership, notoriety for achievement, and spectacle for substance. But communities should aspire to something better than celebrity worship.

An empty pub is an inconvenience.

A culture that excuses violence against women is a catastrophe.

If The Waterside is destined to stand empty for another four years, then so be it. Empty buildings can be restored. Broken trust is far harder to rebuild. A community that welcomes a man found liable by an Irish High Court jury for raping Nikita Hand tells every survivor that commerce matters more than conscience, that celebrity outweighs accountability, and that enough money can buy a second chance before justice has even had time to settle.


We should be better than that. Let The Waterside wait. Let someone with integrity breathe life back into its walls. Our community deserves more than another shrine to ego, and every woman who has ever feared, endured or survived violence deserves to know that when we are forced to choose between profit and principle, we will choose principle every single time.

⏩Pádraig Drummond is an anti-racism activist.

Not Every Empty Building Deserves Its Owner Back

Geordie Morrow ðŸ–Œ with a painting from his collection of art work. 


⏩Geordie Morrow is a Belfast artist.

Home Thoughts From Abroad

Kate Rice ✍ I have been to the north of Ireland many times in my life, mostly when I was too young to remember anything other than souvenir shops and shamrock green trinkets packed into my bag. 

Every time I have visited, it has been with a guiding hand on my shoulder to remind me which areas are “ours”, and which areas are “theirs.”

At the age of 25 (now 26), I decided to make the big and terrifying leap into the North on my own, into the fray of those yellow taped areas. When making my bookings, I felt something of a brave explorer hurtling inevitably towards an unsatisfying ending - Alexander Supertramp excitedly spotting that abandoned bus on the Sushana River. The city centre ignited little sense of adventure within me on arrival. High street shops and people rushing to and from work to lunch and back again is ten a penny in England. Was this the great big bad my dad had warned me about? Teenagers mooching around outside McDonalds, blocking the doors? I could find that anywhere. Ten years ago, I would have been that.

I confess, I got cocky. I had peaked Everest, I had looked into the belly of my father’s imagined great beast and seen only metropolitan life and a Glider system my own city would envy. We crossed the Westlink, and a man speaking loudly into his phone stopped my partner (in his Norway shirt) and asked if they were playing England. On confirmation, the man shook his hand and told him he hoped they’d win. Friendly, but the first hint I’d had since arriving that there had ever been a time of historical significance here at all.

The memorials came quickly then. Walls and electrical boxes painted and trussed up and faded and painted again - faces that had been gone from this world since before I was born. Signs written as Gaeilge, tricolours in windows. Surely this must be the beast, then? The refusal to let their dead fade out of memory, rampant and rainbow splattered support for political struggles all across the world? But still, no. The big bad shadow of West Belfast had been made clear to me from childhood, and yet I hadn’t seen it.

We stopped for a moment outside Divis Tower. If you’ve read my previous works, you might know that I have a historical interest and fascination with Brendan Hughes - when I first started looking into Irish history for myself without parental blinkers on, each “side” was an amalgamation of clay and belief and gun. Brendan Hughes was the first person to take shape, my first real awakening that it had been a conflict of people and not just ideals. It was sobering to see the Tower he spent his final years in, which feels silly to say, but I have charged myself to be truthful with my travel diary.

We then briefly slipped into the D Company memorial, which was beautifully kept. There were flower arrangements on the stone plinth, and a tricolour flying overhead beside a Palestine flag. There is an unexplainable peace that comes over most people when they enter a memorial space, and I am no exception. However, I’ve never experienced such a peace-less peace. Constantly asking myself if I should feel guilty for it, if I should be holding up a sign that says “please be patient, still learning.” That feeling still hasn’t quite gone away.

I’m an emotional person by nature, and the countless amounts of mural art in West Belfast took my breath away at each and every turn. The Peace Wall, the famous mural of Bobby Sands MP. Such a famous face, painted with great care on the side of a building in a thoroughly working class community felt almost comical in a way. I think I had expected fanfare, or to find these murals on the sides of palaces and great big museums. Thinking on it, the people depicted in this art may prefer it the way it is.

One day I got the notion to walk to Felons by myself. In my studies, it had been mentioned a couple of times for the pieces of history inside and the pictures on the walls. My attempt to visit on an earlier day with a local friend had ended in a swift rejection at the door - apparently, he was barred. We’d ended up in PD on that day. As I walked, navigating the physical boundaries of the road, a voice called out from a bus stop. It was an old man named Charlie, remarking on the brilliance of the weather. When I asked him for directions to the Felons, he didn't just give me a route; he gave me an itinerary. He told me to stop at the Rock Bar first, assuring me of the friendliness inside, all while making sure to mention - several times - that he wasn't much of a drinker himself. He was a tea man. He gave me a piece of survival advice for the local pubs, wrapped in dry wit: "Don't buy anyone a drink, or you'll find yourself the friend of every man in the bar."

He laughed about how he couldn't spell or pronounce the name of the street he lived on. Then, with the same casual cadence, he pointed across the road. He spoke of the 1970s. He described the gunmen who used to crouch in the upper levels of the buildings opposite us, and the ambient, suffocating fear of knowing you could be shot at any moment just for existing on the pavement. He recounted the slurs flung at him by British soldiers and Loyalist faithfuls. The casual nature of his delivery was gutting, in a way. This was just the backdrop of his youth.

Hearing him mention the army, a lump formed in my throat. I decided to take another terrifying leap into the truth. I told Charlie that my dad had been one of those British soldiers. I told him I was here to learn on my own, bracing myself for the shift in his eyes, waiting for him to shrink away or tell me, rightfully, to fuck off.

Yet, the legacy of that conflict hadn't hardened him to the stranger standing in front of him. He looked at me, the child of a regiment that had policed and belittled him, and he chose to be kind. He looked at the door my dad had always held closed, and he opened it wider for me. He assured me that everyone would be kind, and friendly. They’d respect my presence as long as I respected theirs.

Before we parted, this man, who had survived the worst of the city's history looked at me, an English outsider, and made a promise. He told me he would sit at that bus stop until midnight if he had to, just to wait and see me walk back down the street safe and happy before he went home. I had spent my life being warned about the dangers hidden in these streets, inheriting a fear of a beast that didn't exist. But standing there, I realized the only thing waiting for me in the shadow of the Westlink was an old man offering to guard the safety of a soldier’s child over an imaginary cup of tea.

⏩Kate Rice is a peace baby.

Belfast 🪶 The Tale Of The Pope In The Pub Garden 🪶 Act Ⅰ

Lynx By Ten To The Power Of Two Thousand And Forty Three

 

A Morning Thought @ 3216

Frankie McKillen ✍ Imagine two men sitting in separate prison cells. 

Both swore the same oath. Both accepted the same risks. Both know that cooperation could dramatically improve their circumstances. One talks. The other remains silent. Why? That question has fascinated me for years. Not because some people become informers. There is nothing particularly mysterious about that. Human beings have always sought to avoid suffering when they can. The real mystery to me at least, is why so many people refuse. Take examples from two very different organisations. 

In the American Mafia, Sammy Gravano Sammy Gravano became one of the most famous informers in Mafia history. Faced with life imprisonment, he chose cooperation. He later justified his decision by claiming that John Gotti had betrayed him and was prepared to sacrifice him to save himself. Yet in the same world there were men such as Sonny Franzese, who spent decades in prison and never became a government witness. Whatever else can be said about him, he repeatedly chose silence over self-interest. 

The same contrast can be found within Irish republicanism. 

Republicans such as Raymond Gilmour and Christopher Black informed. Thousands of others did not. Men such as Brendan Hughes served long years in prison without abandoning the principle that informing was unacceptable. The same pressures. The same dangers. The same possibility of freedom. Entirely different decisions. 

The Mafia provides another interesting contrast. Gregory Scarpa Jr. cooperated with the FBI while imprisoned alongside convicted terrorists, including Ramzi Yousef. Rather than informing on the Mafia, he passed intelligence about terrorist activities and alleged plots he learned about in prison. Scarpa has maintained that he drew a clear distinction between betraying his own organisation and providing information he believed could save innocent lives. 

Gregory Scarpa Sr spent decades secretly informing for the FBI while remaining one of the Colombo family's most feared captains. His case illustrates the other end of the spectrum from his son: where Gregory Scarpa Jr. drew a line at informing on the Mafia, Scarpa Sr. crossed it repeatedly. 

Most discussions focus on the people who talk. The reasons people inform are generally easy enough to identify - Fear. Greed. Revenge. Disillusionment. Exhaustion. The desire to return to family. The desire to avoid prison. The instinct for self-preservation. None of these require much explanation. Human beings are wired to survive. Given a choice between freedom and confinement, comfort and hardship, most people will naturally gravitate towards whatever benefits them. That is not a mystery.

Why do people refuse opportunities that appear entirely rational? History is filled with examples. Men facing life sentences. Men facing the prospect of dying in prison. Men offered reduced sentences. Men offered witness protection. Men offered money. Men offered freedom. Yet they refused. Why does honour or their political belief matter more to some people than freedom? Why would a person willingly accept years, perhaps decades, of imprisonment rather than break an oath? 

For some people, an oath eventually ceases to be something they have taken and becomes something they are. Breaking an oath is no longer merely changing a position. It becomes an attack on their own sense of self. To inform would not simply betray others; it would betray the person they believe themselves to be. 

For some the answer appears to be belief. They continue to believe in the cause, organisation or values they embraced when they first joined. For others it is loyalty. The oath remains binding regardless of changing circumstances. For others it is identity. They simply cannot imagine themselves becoming an informer. To do so would fundamentally alter how they see themselves. 

For others it may be something more difficult to define - A personal code. A sense of dignity. A refusal to betray comrades. A conviction that some lines, once crossed, can never be uncrossed. 

History provides countless examples of people who shared similar beliefs and values but arrived at opposite conclusions. Some remained silent. Others talked. Even informers themselves rarely explain their decisions purely in terms of self-interest. Many insist they were betrayed first. Sammy Gravano's explanation is a good example. His account was not that he suddenly became disloyal. Rather, he argued that loyalty had already been broken by others. Whether one believes him is beside the point.

The important thing is that few informers view themselves as villains. Most have explanations. Most have grievances. Most tell stories in which cooperation became justified, necessary or unavoidable. 

Yet many others have experienced the same grievances without informing. John Gotti believed he had been betrayed by bosses and still remained silent. Many republicans believed they had been betrayed by leaders and still remained silent. 

The same experience often produces entirely different responses. Which brings me back to my original puzzle. Two people can swear the same oath. Fight for the same cause. Belong to the same organisation. Endure the same prison. Face the same incentives. One talks. The other remains silent.

No political theory adequately explains it. No criminal code adequately explains it. No psychological theory completely explains it. 

The answer appears to lie somewhere deeper within the individual. Some people eventually decide that freedom is worth more than loyalty. Others decide that loyalty is worth more than freedom. Some place self-preservation first. Others place honour, belief or identity above self-preservation. What separates them remains unclear. 

The real mystery is not Sammy Gravano. History contains countless examples of people choosing their own interests. The real mystery is Sonny Franzese. The real mystery is Brendan Hughes. The real mystery is the thousands of unnamed prisoners, republicans, gangsters, soldiers, spies and revolutionaries who could have improved their own circumstances by cooperating but refused. 

Perhaps the answer lies in the words that Bobby Sands often quoted from John 15:13: "Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends." 

Whether expressed through faith, loyalty, honour or conviction, perhaps that is what separates those who refuse from those who cannot. What gives some people the strength to place loyalty, honour or belief above even their own survival? After centuries of prisons, wars, revolutions and criminal conspiracies, I am still struggling to answer that question.

🕮 Frankie McKillen is a Belfast Rockabilly

The Real Mystery Is Not Why Some Men Talk

Heartlands Tribune ☭ Written by Paul Knaggs.

It Took Geneva To Remind Westminster That Women Have Rights

Women’s rights in Britain are not owned. They are held on licence, revocable whenever a man claims the female identity. July 2026 was the month the licence nearly got called in.

On 14 July, in an office in Geneva, the United Nations Special Rapporteur on violence against women and girls sat down and drafted a press release about the United Kingdom.

Not about Afghanistan, where girls are barred from school. Not about Iran, where women are beaten for their hair. About Britain, the country that gave the world the suffragettes, the Equal Pay Act and the Sex Discrimination Act.

Reem Alsalem’s statement urged British politicians to uphold a ruling of their own Supreme Court, and observed that the backlash against it showed “how fragile the protection of women’s rights remains”. She closed by calling on the Government and the devolved administrations to state clearly that the law is clear and must be complied with.

The law is clear and must be complied with. A UN official had to say that sentence to the British Parliament. Every word of this article exists to explain why she had to, and to name the people responsible.

Continue @ Heartlands.

The UN Had To Tell Britain, Women Have Rights

Christopher Owens ðŸ”– with a super review of a super game.

 

Christmas, 1994. Relatives have been and gone; presents have been opened, briefly appreciated, and thrown aside. But after the last aunt is waved off home and my stepbrother and I have been roped into shovelling discarded wrapping paper into a bin bag and clearing the table, my dad exclaims that something’s been forgotten down the back of the sofa.
I jump on the cushions and lean over, my brother close behind, my hands tightening on the well-worn fabric as I catch sight of a large, rectangular mystery object wrapped up behind it. Could it be . . .?
Inside is a Super Nintendo Entertainment System, bundled with Super Mario All-Stars – a gift beyond our wildest six-year-old dreams. If you’ve ever seen that early viral video of a pair of siblings screaming with joy as they unbox a Nintendo 64, you’ll have a fair idea of our reaction. Within ten minutes the box is raided, the chunky grey machine has been connected to our little CRT television (by us, not Dad, who insisted on performatively studying the manual even as we were plugging it into the TV and turning it on), and we are playing one of the greatest video games ever made.

📚📗📕

45 years since Donkey Kong first appeared in arcades in Japan, Nintendo have been a stalwart in the gaming industry.

Giving us iconic games like Super Mario Bros, The Legend of Zelda, Metroid, Pokémon and Animal Crossing as well as helping to legitimise the concept of family gaming through the likes of the Game Boy and the Wii, the near 140-year-old company keeps delivering time and time again when their peers have disappeared (Sega, Atari).

So it would seem that the time would be right for a book looking at the history of the company, the development of the games that are known the world over and where the company is in 2026.

And we get this in Super Nintendo: How One Japanese Company Helped the World Have Fun.

Currently working as a games editor for The Guardian as well as having written for IGN, Edge and Eurogamer, Keza MacDonald seems like a suitable choice for such a task. She’s a few years younger than me, which is crucial as my generation would have spent the 90’s playing the likes of Mortal Kombat, Doom and Half-Life and so the likes of Pokémon and Mario Kart were for our younger siblings.

Cards on the table moment: I was a gamer throughout the 1990’s (from the age of five to fourteen) before losing interest when I became a teenager. This roughly coincided with the runaway success of the aforementioned Pokémon and Mario Kart so the position I take in reviewing this book is as someone who was more than aware of these games/trends but was a little too old for them.

Written with unconcealed joy, MacDonald tells the story of company that began life producing Japanese playing cards (karuta) before producing toys, arcade games and then video games.

Although there is not a terrible lot know about the early years of the company, what we do know is fascinating: Japan had banned most forms of gambling in 1882, a particular type of playing card known as hanafuda was tolerated and had become a favourite in areas run by the Yakuza. After several other companies stopped producing them (not wanting to be associated with gangsterism), Nintendo had cornered the market. By the 1920’s, the company was the largest company in Japan producing playing cards.

Funny how such a family friendly operation has its roots in organised crime but that’s history for you!

Each chapter deals with a different aspect of Nintendo history (Mario, Zelda etc) and MacDonald goes through her journalistic back catalogue to bring us interviews with the creators, game developers and executives responsible for these games and consoles. What comes across to the reader is how Nintendo is both representative of and different from traditional Japanese society: youth very much respect their elders but both young and old are involved in the creation of games and consoles. Indeed, seemingly everyone in the company has played the product before it has gone on sale!

As a result, Nintendo can legitimately claim that their items are timeless and family friendly but also still allow room for innovation.

📚📗📕

I have to admit that this is an odd book for me.

There’s no doubt that I enjoyed the hell out of it (if you can enjoy a book around a subject you’ve not much interest in, that makes it a winner). However, despite MacDonald’s mixture of positive musings and autobiography, I remain unconvinced by her overall cases for Nintendo being art and Pokémon being something akin to religion.

Maybe I just missed the boat, in which case I can live with that. At the same time, I can’t help but think of something Ross Benes wrote in 1999: The Year Low Culture Conquered America And Kickstarted Our Bizarre Times:

Capitalism may lead to the creation of rather silly and useless commodities, but it also encourages people to indulge in their fantasies. Guardian editor Joe Stone received an ‘inordinate amount of joy from hoarding pop merch.’ He had ‘no regrets’ about covering his adult bedroom with wallpaper featuring the Spice Girls…Although consumption is materialistic, it’s often joyous. Marketers might sway them, but by and large, entertainment sucks a large portion of many people’s budgets because they find it rewarding, at least in the short term. For all its faults, materialism keeps dopamine rolling, which can be a gratifying aspect of living in a capitalistic society.

There are one or two moments that reinforce this comment: when discussing the Pokémon Go phenomenon, MacDonald writes about how it took people’s minds off the “horrors of 2016: Brexit and Trump” (yawn). Retreating into childhood gaming may have been good for the mental well-being of such people, but it hardly changed the world, unlike Brexit and Trump which genuinely did (for better and worse).

Indeed, when I read about how the game was bringing disparate groups of people together to socialise outdoors, I couldn’t help but think of those notions people had in the late 90’s of having shopping centres integrate exhibitions, historical displays as well as having them featured in the high street in order to bring culture and history to the unwashed masses.

Likewise, there’s a moment where the author recollects how some gamers used Animal Crossing to signify their disgust at the murder of George Floyd and the subsequent Black Lives Matter protests. Easily the most 2020 moment in the book and I couldn’t help but cringe. Once again, capitalism serves as a replacement for genuine political action and offers up dopamine hits for saying the right thing while keeping you glued to the product.

Despite these telling moments, Super Nintendo is a genuinely enthralling read that will help you see and understand the longevity and ubiquity of Nintendo.

Keza MacDonald, 2026, Super Nintendo: How One Japanese Company Helped the World Have Fun. Guardian Faber Publishing. ISBN-13: 978-1783353057

⏩ Christopher Owens was a reviewer for Metal Ireland and finds time to study the history and inherent contradictions of Ireland. He is currently the TPQ Friday columnist and is the author of A Vortex of Securocrats and “dethrone god”.

Super Nintendo 📚 How One Japanese Company Helped The World Have Fun

Lynx By Ten To The Power Of Two Thousand And Forty Two

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