Monstrosity of Filth

Western Democracy: Fertile Soil for the Marxist Weed

Western Democracy, that bloated, self-congratulatory corpse of Enlightenment optimism, has long ceased to serve any purpose other than providing the perfect compost heap for Marxism to flourish. If it were a living organism, it would be something between a syphilitic goat and a bloated toad — spewing platitudes about freedom and progress while choking on its own contradictions.

It should come as no surprise to anyone with two brain cells left unseduced by social media dopamine hits that Glastonbury 2025 once again delivered its usual parade of hysterically naïve utopianism and performative activism. The BBC coverage practically wept with joy as overpaid influencers in biodegradable glitter pretended to “raise awareness” between lines of coke and Instagram posts. The tone was so far left it made Lenin look like a centrist. And yet people act shocked — as if Glastonbury hadn’t always been a haven for middle-class guilt wrapped in a fair-trade poncho.

Let’s rewind: the inaugural Glastonbury in 1970 was a fundraising bash for the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament. Not so much a gig. Not so much a cultural moment. A political rally with music wrapped in the stink of patchouli oil. And it’s never really changed — it’s just become slicker, more corporate, and somehow even more nauseating. The modern attendee is less peace-loving hippies and more iPhone-wielding narcissist who thinks recycling a cup absolves them of flying in on EasyJet for the weekend to guzzle imported beer and listen to pseudo-revolutionaries who charge £500 a ticket to hear them tell the proles to rise up.

Because I live depressingly close to this annual vomit of faux-radical bacchanalia, it’s impossible to avoid. Unless, like me, you've trained your digital consumption to ruthlessly filter out the dross, you’d be forgiven for thinking some kind of cultural renaissance was underway, rather than a glorified camping trip for people who mistake indulgence for enlightenment. It’s hard not to dry heave at the sight of middle-aged marketing executives in Che Guevara t-shirts, nodding earnestly to anti-capitalist spoken word poetry on a stage sponsored by Vodafone.

It was in the midst of this cultural sewage overflow that I found solace, paradoxically, in the brittle yellowing pages of a nearly century year old book — one I first read nearly three decades ago when I still harboured some illusion that history was a guide rather than a warning. Much of it is the kind of overwrought geopolitical drivel you'd expect from a man locked in a room with his own thoughts for too long, but every so often a line leaps out, incandescent with clarity. This one, in particular, has begun to haunted me:

“The Democracy of the West today is a forerunner of Marxism, and without it, Marxism would be unthinkable. It alone gives this plague the surface on which to grow. Its outer form — the parliament style of government — is a 'monstrosity of filth, and fire', but the creative fire seems to me burnt out at the moment.”

It’s hard to argue with that — even if one is acutely aware of who wrote it. Like a malignant prophecy, it perfectly captures the sickly relationship between Western “liberal” democracy and the very forces that seek to dissolve it. Parliamentary democracy — with its sound-bites, its polling gimmickry, its fetish for compromise — has long since lost the will to live, let alone lead. It is the open wound into which Marxism seeps like gangrene.

There is no coherent right any-more. Only career politicians jockeying for absolute centre left, and that is a stage-managed oscillation between technocrats and performative ‘nationalists’ along with the rainbow parade ever-bolder pronoun laden leftist fantasists. Every institution — from academia to the arts, civil service to corporate boardrooms — has become a hostage to ideological purity tests written by people who still live with their parents and think “capitalism” means paying rent.

Western democracy today doesn’t resist radicalism — it incubates it. Worse, it celebrates its own dissolution. It elevates narcissistic adolescents to the level of sages and reduces wisdom to whatever slogan can fit on a cardboard sign. If Marxism is a virus, then democracy has offered itself as the willing host — no immune system, no defence, just open arms and a welcome mat that reads “inclusion.”

In case you are wondering what this has to do with Glastonbury, well I’m getting there. Among the lowlights of Glastonbury 2025 — and there were many — the performance by Bob Vylan stood out as particularly venomous. Not because they are especially talented or relevant (they aren't), but because they represent the distillation of a modern trend: performative anti-white invective packaged as revolutionary art and eagerly devoured by a crowd too narcotised by ideology and SSRIs to notice, or care, that they are the target.

Bob Vylan are hardly a household name. They’ve made the rounds at various festivals — including previous Glastonburies in 2022 and again this year — but remain largely obscure outside niche activist-music circles. Obscure, that is, unless you’re Sadiq Khan, the Muslim mayor of London, who, tellingly, follows them on X. Because of course he does.

The Telegraph, in its usual neutered fashion, offered a summary of Bob Vylan’s career and lyrics this weekend, but curiously omitted any mention of what was actually performed on the Pyramid Stage. The song in question, “I Heard You Want Your Country Back”, was first released in February 2021 — the peak of the BLM hysteria after the Summer of Floyd — and it is, by any fair reading, a snarling, openly racialised attack on native Britons. Here are just a few lines:

“I heard you want your country back

Shut the fuck up

You stole it right outta my hands

…Got the gammons on retreat

And their blood boils over when we speak”

Backed by a video screen declaring that “This country was built on the backs of immigrants”, the two frontmen spat their lyrics at an audience that was — let’s be honest — over 90% white and overwhelmingly middle-class. Tickets to Glastonbury this year cost £380, making it about as “grassroots” as a Davos summit, and its audience comprised the predictable cocktail of university-educated millennials: wine aunts, cat ladies, pink-haired enbies, vegan anarchists with trust funds, and the soyfaced bugmen they’ve dragged along.

And they lapped it up.

The crowd sang along to lyrics that celebrate the dispossession of the very people attending. They smiled through lines sneering at their heritage, cheered at the idea of “gammons on retreat,” and clapped like trained seals at the claim that their homeland was never theirs to begin with. If Stockholm Syndrome were an Olympic sport, Glastonbury would be a gold medal event.

What makes this worse — infinitely worse — is that it was broadcast live by the BBC, the same taxpayer-funded body that once censored patriotic lyrics at the Proms and now shovels this kind of cultural poison into every living room in the country under the guise of “representation.” No challenge. No context. No rebuttal. Just obsequious praise for the “bravery” of two men attacking their host country from a stage paid for by that same host country’s indulgence and infrastructure.

Now, a sane country, confronted with this sort of performance, would have responded with a swift and simple choice for the perpetrators:

Apologise to the British people, or spend ten years in prison. Either way, you’re getting deported.

Because no society with even a shred of self-respect tolerates open incitement, racial abuse, and the celebration of national humiliation on state-backed platforms. No society that wants to survive permits this level of inversion — where guests mock their hosts, and are rewarded with applause.

But this is not a sane country. It is a country where middle-class whites — hollowed out by decades of ideological propaganda, terrified of being called “racist,” and numbed by consumerist self-distraction — now revel in their own replacement. They don’t just tolerate it. They fund it.

Let’s be clear: “I Heard You Want Your Country Back” is not some edgy new protest anthem. It’s a calculated, deliberate middle finger to Britain, and Bob Vylan pulled it from their back catalogue knowing it would be heard by millions. They wanted the confrontation. They wanted the moment. And they got it.

And they were rewarded. Not just with cheers, but with glowing press coverage, new followers, and cultural capital. They’ll be on Newsnight next, explaining their “lived experience” while sneering at the plebs in Sunderland who were born here and actually build things. This all While innocent people like Lucy Connolly are locked up in prison for pointing out this kind of vile cultural crap.

This is where we are: an anti-nation with no red lines, no spine, and no sense of outrage. A country that funds its own defamation. A nation of people so desperate to appear virtuous, they will hand their enemies a microphone, a stage, and a camera — and thank them for spitting.

And if you think it can’t get worse — just wait.

Kneecap’s Glastonbury 2025 performance was precisely what one might expect in a country that now treats sedition as an aesthetic. The Belfast-based rap trio — whose entire act is built on IRA cosplay, anti-British sentiment, and the aesthetic of a pissed-off sixth-form history student — were given not just a stage, but prime billing, BBC coverage, and the full-throated adulation of a middle-class English crowd too politically neutered to even register they were being mocked to their faces.

Kneecap’s set leaned hard into their usual shtick: tricolours waving, slogans in Irish Gaelic most of the crowd couldn't understand (but clapped anyway), and lyrics that amount to little more than a Molotov cocktail hurled at the concept of a United Kingdom. This wasn’t protest music — this was open provocation. Their set included chants of “Up the Ra” and references to Northern Irish conflict-era mythology, all delivered with the smug, adolescent glee of men who know they will face no consequences because the people they’re insulting are too ashamed of themselves to push back.

Social media reactions were polarised, but predictably filtered by the algorithmic tilt of online discourse. Left-leaning culture critics called the performance “vital,” “disruptive,” and “necessary.” Those who raised concerns about glorifying sectarian violence – especially given the heavily pro-Palestinian sentiment of this set and this year’s festival more generally - were quickly shouted down or ignored. It’s a familiar dynamic: historical amnesia, selective moralising, and the equation of anti-British sentiment with edgy cultural cool.

And what of the crowd? I want to remind you all aga

in of jut who it was cheering and chanting along with this seditious dross. Tens of thousands of mostly English, mostly white, mostly university-educated festival-goers cheered like trained dogs. Few seemed to understand — or care — that Kneecap were mocking them, their history, and their very identity. That’s Glastonbury 2025 in a nutshell: a field full of people chanting slogans against their own country, paying £380 for the privilege, while the BBC beams it into homes with a self-satisfied grin.

Now, unlike the breathless chorus of pearl-clutching pundits and professional damage-control merchants currently polluting the airwaves, I’ve got a very different response to the Glastonbury spectacle. While they scramble to frame this year’s display of cultural self-immolation as either “brave” or “deeply concerning but ultimately harmless,” I find myself neither scandalised nor surprised. In fact, I’m entirely unshocked. This is precisely what you get when a civilisation trades in its heritage for hashtags.

You see, while the mainstream commentariat wrings its hands and clutches its ideological pearls, equating politically hostile, bile-spewing “music” with atrocities of historical record, I find myself with no energy left to pretend. There’s no outrage here, only grim amusement. I’ve spoken at length recently about Yuri Bezmenov, that wonderfully bleak Soviet defector who sketched out, with eerie precision, the ideological erosion of the West through slow-motion cultural sabotage.

And here’s where the threads knot together: Bezmenov, Glastonbury, and the ghost of that Austrian painter — whose book, banned and decried, nonetheless understood the power of narrative warfare. We are witnessing not the revolution, but the normalisation phase of ideological collapse — in glorious technicolour, with overpriced cider and biodegradable glitter.

These people — these supposedly “educated” cultural consumers — are not engaging in rebellion. They are the final product of an educational conveyor belt that now produces nothing but emotionally brittle ideologues in novelty sunglasses. They’ve been marinated in Marxist theory without ever having to read a single line of Marx. Because let’s be honest — universities don’t educate any-more, they reprogram. Four years in the ideological blender of grievance studies, race-essentialism, post-structural word salad, and hysterical utopianism, and voilà: a generation allergic to reality and high on moral absolutism. Of course the real irony of it all is that Marxism by it’s very nature was a product of Jewish Zionism, but that’s a discussion for another time.

The mainstream media, that hollowed-out husk of what once passed for journalism, doesn’t report on this cultural descent — it celebrates it. From The Guardian’s glowing reviews of bile-disguised-as-art to the BBC’s live-streamed love letter to ideological self-hatred, the organs of our once-proud society now function as the PR wing of its executioners. We are governed by the aesthetics of dissent and the economics of decay.

And while the usual suspects pace the Twitter stage in horror — shrieking about antisemitism, chantinging “Israel is our greatest ally”, pleading for national unity, or declaring this whole thing a "misunderstood protest" — I’m simply sat back with a bowl of popcorn and a look of grim satisfaction. Because here it is: the long-term consequences of a century of leftist creep, now so embedded in every crevice of public life that most people can’t even see it any-more.

This isn’t a crisis. It’s the harvest.

What else did you expect after decades of hollow slogans, institutional cowardice, and mass gaslighting disguised as “progress”? You raised a generation to believe that history is oppression, identity is everything, and rebellion is retweetable. You got what you asked for. Every shout of “progress,” every tearful TED Talk, every sermon on inclusion — it all led here: to a field of expensive mud where overpaid radicals sneer at the very civilisation that funded their microphones.

If you're genuinely shocked by what Glastonbury has become — by the fact that a supposed music & arts festival is now an ideological auto-da-fé — then I have bad news: you are the problem. It has always been ideological, and I’m tired of pretending it’s not. Because none of this happened overnight. It was a slow, creeping rot. A death by a thousand cowardly concessions. And if you're looking for the culprits, you won’t find them on stage. You’ll find them in the mirror.