The Political Songs of Iyah May: Pop Music in a Disoriented Moment

Iyah May’s late-2024 single Karmageddon didn't become an instant hit because of its musical originality. Instead, it resonated because it encapsulated, in just three minutes, the chaos an entire social stratum experienced. The song features a rapid succession of modern horrors: COVID-19, “Big Pharma,” Gaza, inflation, misogynistic violence, celebrity foolishness, and the ceaseless conflicts on social media. May (Marguerite Clark), who served as a hospital doctor during the pandemic, presents the track as a cry from someone overwhelmed by their experiences, a lament from someone who has witnessed institutions fail and people suffer. Its power comes less from technical mastery and more from its reflection of society’s fractured consciousness amid crises.

The way her song circulated reveals m middle-class frustrations rather than working-class ones from her manager and label, which is unusual in an industry that often censors political content. Ryan Fournier of Students for Trump then shared the music video and promoted it to his large following. Newsweek quickly called her “the new darling of the political right,” and outlets like the Epoch Times and ZeroHedge also picked up the story. Within days, her song criticising corporate greed and labelling Israel’s destruction of Gaza as genocide was being spread by political groups directly involved in those issues.

This is not a paradox, but a symptom of confusion when true anger lacks a political outlet. Without a large socialist movement to address social collapse, right-wing groups fill the void, co-opting any discontent that can be framed as “anti-elite,” “anti-establishment,” or “anti-media.” The political right didn't support Karmageddon because they agree with it, but because they can weaponise its mood. A song that hints at corruption and institutional failure can easily fit into the right’s narrative of cultural decline and moral decay, even if its lyrics criticise governments and billionaires those outlets defend.

The song’s structure enhances its message of ideological flexibility. Karmageddon functions as a list or scroll-song, presenting a catalogue of disjointed horrors. Each item is given equal prominence: Gaza is placed next to celebrity gossip; inflation beside misogynistic violence; pandemic profiteering alongside online outrage. The song offers no analysis, context, or explanation. The scroll reproduces it without questioning. This flattening of experience reflects the social media environment the song criticises: a realm where crises become interchangeable content, lacking causality and historical depth.

May’s account contains some truth: pharmaceutical monopolies profited immensely during the pandemic, millions died, working people bore the economic burden through inflation while billionaires’ wealth increased, and Israel’s attack on Gaza, supported by Washington, London, and Canberra, qualifies as genocide. However, the framework reflects a disoriented middle class, not the working class. It recognises corruption but not capitalism; suffering but not the social systems that cause it. The enemies are portrayed as “elites,” “the media,” and vague institutions, with the pandemic seen as a conspiracy rather than the consequence of deliberate state policies that prioritise profit over human life. This is why the right accepts it: critique without class analysis lacks direction, and despairing politics can shift toward resentment, conspiracy theories, and reaction.

Karmageddon’s popularity should not be dismissed, as it reflects a genuine mood of exhaustion, isolation, distrust, and powerlessness driven by collapsing health systems, falling wages, endless war, and austerity-driven politics. Iyah May deserves recognition for speaking out against censorship and addressing the Gaza genocide, unlike many in the music industry who remain silent. However, sincerity alone is insufficient. Critical art must align with social forces capable of meaningful change, and today, the working class, increasingly organised worldwide, represents that force. Artists aiming to address these dark times truthfully should look beyond social media and the confusing populism that Karmageddon both symbolises and perpetuates, toward this emerging power.

The songs

Currently, May’s musical output revolves around a single theme. Her earlier works on Island Records, including XO Girl (2021), MF ILY, and others, primarily featured typical pop anthems centred on self-empowerment, friendship, and resilience. These tracks fit well within mainstream pop: vibrant, polished, emotionally straightforward, and somewhat politically disengaged. The only exception was her 2019 debut, Pray, which hinted at social issues, especially reflecting on the pressures of constant online scrolling and the suffocating feedback loop of digital life. However, even this piece's critique was mostly personal, focusing on internal struggles rather than broader social commentary.

Karmageddon, self-released on November 13, 2024, and produced by Danny Duke, represents a distinct shift. It is a list song akin to Billy Joel’s We Didn’t Start the Fire but updated for a digital age where scrolls replace newspapers and feeds replace the world. The narrator wakes up, picks up her phone, and is immediately bombarded with headlines: Elon Musk’s latest stunt, outrage from “the left,” the Gaza genocide, celebrity antics, tax demands, and society's overall chaos. The chorus shifts to critique the pandemic, accusing pharmaceutical giants of profiting from an artificial virus while ordinary people contend with inflation and declining living standards.

May described the track as an anthem for turbulent times, born of despair at “a divided world and deceitful corporations.” Musically, it is competent and catchy, built around a glossy alternative-pop arrangement that makes its political message accessible to mainstream audiences. Structurally, however, the song reflects the chaotic experience it criticises. Items flash past in quick succession, each given the same weight, with no real connection. Gaza sits alongside celebrity gossip; inflation next to misogynistic violence; pandemic profiteering beside online outrage. The scroll isn't analysed; it is reproduced.

This simplification of experience is deliberate, highlighting the ideological boundaries of the social layer behind the song. Karmageddon conveys the feeling of living amid crises without understanding the forces behind them. The villains are portrayed as "elites,” “the media,” and corrupt institutions, with the pandemic depicted as a conspiracy rather than a result of deliberate state policies that prioritise profit over life. The listed catastrophes- war, disease, inflation, social atomization- are presented as separate symptoms rather than interconnected parts of a single social system driven by private profit.

This is why the song appeals to the political right even as it criticises crimes they support. A critique lacking class analysis loses direction. A politics of despair becomes easy to manipulate and reframe. Armageddon’s structure- its rapid succession of horrors and lack of connection- makes it ideologically vulnerable. It captures a real sense of exhaustion and distrust but cannot fully explain this mood, leaving it open to exploitation. Thus, the song is both a sincere cry of distress and limited, shaped by the confusion it aims to express.

What the song sees  and what it cannot

Karmageddon contains some truths. Pharmaceutical monopolies earned huge profits during the pandemic. Millions lost their lives. Working people bore the cost of inflation while billionaires' wealth increased. Israel’s attack on Gaza, supported by Washington, London, and Canberra, is a clear genocide. A pop song referencing this is significant.

However, the song’s structure centres on the frustrations of the middle class rather than the working class. It never mentions 'class,' 'capitalism,' or suggests that the listed catastrophes have a common origin in a social system driven by private profit. Instead, it blames a changing group of “elites,” “the media,” and corrupt institutions, framing the problem as a simple plot.

This is crucial. Laboratories or vaccines did not mainly cause the pandemic's widespread fatalities. Instead, they resulted from a calculated strategy embraced by governments across the spectrum: reopening workplaces and schools to let the virus spread so profits could continue. The anti-mandate and anti-vaccine movement that Karmageddon highlights did not oppose this strategy; rather, it vocally supported it on the streets, calling for the termination of all public health measures in the name of “freedom.”

The song’s professed even‑handedness between “left” and “right” serves the same function. To treat the official liberal establishment and the extreme right as two equal irritants on a phone screen is to leave the field open to the latter. Hence the spectacle of Students for Trump circulating a song denouncing a genocide their own patrons are financing.

Why it resonates

The popularity of Karmageddon should not be dismissed. It reportedly reached the UK singles sales chart, and its clips drew millions of views. It speaks to a real and widespread mood: exhaustion, isolation, distrust of official institutions, and a sense that nothing can be done.

This mood is objective, not psychological. Inflation has eroded wages, and the pandemic shattered health systems. Across political parties- Labour in Australia, the Democrats in the U.S., Tories and Labour in Britain- there has been oversight of war, austerity, and neglect of public health. In the void left by the lack of a strong socialist alternative, right-wing demagogues fill the space with resentment instead of explanations. May’s response to the controversy, claiming “God has a plan," highlights her limited perspective. She turns despair into resignation and faith. The narrative ends where it started: alone, scrolling, waiting.

Toward a genuinely critical art

Iyah May deserves credit for refusing to bow to her management and for naming the Gaza genocide when much of the music industry remains silent. In an environment where major labels, PR teams, and corporate sponsors exert enormous pressure to keep artists politically neutral, her insistence on retaining a single lyric is not trivial. It represents a small but real act of resistance against an industry that has spent decades depoliticising popular music and disciplining artists who step outside the narrow bounds of marketable sentiment. Artists should be free to write what they please, and the pressure brought to bear on her from managers, labels, and the right‑wing outlets that sought to appropriate her work should be opposed without qualification.

But sincerity is not enough. The great protest music of the past, from Woody Guthrie’s ballads of working-class struggle to the anti-war songs of the 1960s, drew its power from an orientation toward social forces that could change the world. Guthrie’s “union songs” were not simply expressions of outrage; they were tied to the organised movement of millions of workers fighting for wages, dignity, and democratic rights. The folk revival of the early 1960s gained its force from the civil‑rights movement, from sit‑ins, strikes, and mass demonstrations. Even the more ambivalent figures of that era, such as Bob Dylan, were shaped by a political landscape in which collective action was visible, tangible, and capable of altering the course of events. Protest music mattered because it was connected to a living struggle.

Iyah May’s refusal to alter a lyric in Karmageddon and her decision to part ways with her manager and label have been widely interpreted as an act of artistic integrity. In a music industry where political content is routinely softened, depoliticised, or buried under euphemism, her insistence on naming the Gaza genocide stands out. It is a small but genuine act of defiance: a young artist, without the protection of a major label, choosing to hold on to a political truth rather than submit to commercial pressure. Her stance is not programmatic or rooted in a coherent political worldview. Still, it is nonetheless a refusal- a moment in which an artist declines to participate in the sanitisation of reality.

Ed Sheeran’s conduct in the Macklemore affair reveals the opposite trajectory. When Macklemore was quietly dropped from Sheeran’s Loop Tour after expressing solidarity with Palestinians, Sheeran did not defend him. Instead, he retreated into the language of “inclusivity” and “different approaches to advocating for peace,” a formulation that treats genocide as a matter of tone rather than fact. His subsequent partnership with billionaire NFL owner Robert Kraft to fund a Gaza relief initiative was widely read as an attempt to launder the incident's optics without altering its political substance. Sheeran’s camp includes figures such as Casey Wasserman, whose name has resurfaced in Epstein‑related disclosures, and whose proximity to the entertainment‑industrial complex exemplifies the dense web of corporate, political, and financial interests surrounding global pop stardom.

The contrast between May and Sheeran is not primarily one of personal courage. It is a contrast between two positions within the cultural economy. May is a marginal figure, operating without the protective scaffolding of corporate sponsorships, stadium tours, and billion‑dollar intermediaries. Her refusal cost her a manager and a label, but she had little to lose beyond that. Sheeran, by contrast, sits atop a vast commercial apparatus. His tours are financed through sponsorship webs, insurance structures, and venue contracts whose ownership interlocks with the same financial interests underwriting arms manufacturers and occupation‑linked industries. An act of conscience from an artist at that level does not merely risk a cancelled broadcast; it risks the entire machinery that a nine-figure production depends on.

This is why Sheeran behaved exactly as the apparatus around him was built to ensure he would behave. His “stand” was not a stand at all, but a performance of neutrality designed to preserve commercial relationships. May’s stand, however limited, was a genuine refusal not because she is more virtuous, but because she is less integrated into the machinery that disciplines artists into silence.

The deeper comparison lies in what each act reveals about the era. Sheeran’s capitulation expresses mainstream pop's near-total integration into corporate and geopolitical interests. May’s refusal expresses the confused but real anger of a social layer that senses catastrophe but lacks a political outlet. One reveals the apparatus; the other reveals the vacuum.

In that sense, May’s stand, however modest, points toward the possibility of a critical art aligned with emerging working‑class struggle. Sheeran’s reveals the cultural dead end of celebrity liberalism under late capitalism.

Today, the working class is once again entering struggle internationally, from strikes across Europe and North America to mass protests against war and austerity. But this movement has not yet found clear artistic expression. Much contemporary “political” music, including Karmageddon, reflects the confusion of a social layer that senses catastrophe but cannot locate its source. It catalogues horrors without connecting them, expresses despair without pointing to agency, and gestures toward corruption without identifying capitalism as the organising principle behind the crises it describes. The result is a politics of mood rather than analysis, a protest the right can easily appropriate because it lacks a coherent orientation toward the forces capable of transforming society.

Artists who wish to speak truth about these dark times will need to look beyond the phone screen, and beyond the confused populism that Karmageddon both expresses and reinforces. The scroll, that endless stream of disconnected outrage, is itself a mechanism of political disorientation. To reproduce it is to remain trapped within it. The task of critical art is not to mirror fragmentation but to overcome it, to reveal the underlying social relations that produce war, inequality, and despair.

This requires an orientation toward the working class, the only force capable of confronting the capitalist system that generates the crises May describes. A genuinely critical art today would not simply list horrors; it would illuminate their common root and point toward collective action. It would reject the false equivalence of “left” and “right,” refuse the conspiratorial shortcuts of anti‑mandate populism, and insist that the suffering of millions is not the result of plots but of policies.

Iyah May’s defiance deserves recognition. But the path toward meaningful protest art lies not in isolated cries of distress but in aligning artistic expression with the emerging struggles of workers around the world the only ground on which despair can be transformed into clarity, and clarity into power.

Post Script

Iyah May’s Version of Wish You Were Here

Iyah May’s reinterpretation of Wish You Were Here is not simply a cover of a canonical rock lament. It translates Pink Floyd’s meditation on alienation into the fractured, crisis‑ridden landscape that shapes her own work. Where the original song mourned the psychic dislocation of the 1970s, the commodification of art, the pressures of fame, the loss of authenticity, May’s version speaks from within a world in which alienation has become total. Her performance is quieter, more intimate, and more exposed, as though she is singing not to an absent friend but to a society that has stopped recognising itself.

The most striking feature of May’s version is its emotional framing. Pink Floyd’s recording is spacious, almost resigned, its acoustic guitar lines drifting through a haze of studio ambience. May strips the song down further, reducing it to voice and minimal accompaniment. The effect is claustrophobic rather than expansive. She does not inhabit the song as a nostalgic reflection on a lost era of authenticity; she inhabits it as someone living through a present defined by fragmentation, misinformation, and political despair. The line “We’re just two lost souls…”  one of the few phrases she retains verbatim becomes less a poetic metaphor than a literal description of the social condition.

Her vocal delivery underscores this shift. Roger Waters sang the original with bitterness and weary detachment. May sings it with a tremor of exhaustion, as though the alienation described in the song is not a philosophical problem but a lived experience of scrolling through catastrophe. The emotional centre of her version is not the loss of artistic integrity but the loss of collective meaning. The “wish” in Wish You Were Here becomes a longing for clarity, solidarity, and connection in a world that has replaced all three with algorithmic noise.

This is where May’s political sensibility enters. Her version is not overtly political; she does not alter the lyrics to reference Gaza, Big Pharma, or the pandemic, but the context of her work infuses the performance. The alienation Pink Floyd described was artists' alienation within the culture industry. The alienation May expresses is the alienation of ordinary people living through overlapping crises: war, inflation, social atomisation, and the collapse of public trust. Her delivery suggests that the missing “you” is not a person but a political horizon, a sense of collective agency eroded by decades of neoliberalism and intensified by the pandemic.

In this sense, May’s version is a companion piece to Karmageddon. The latter catalogues horrors without connecting them; the former mourns the absence of connection itself. Karmageddon is frantic, breathless, overwhelmed. Wish You Were Here is still, suspended, almost paralysed. Together they form a dialectic of contemporary despair: the scroll and the silence, the noise of crisis and the numbness that follows.

Yet May’s interpretation also reveals the limits of her outlook. Her performance is sincere, vulnerable, and politically charged by implication, but it remains trapped within the framework of individual lament. The song becomes a personal expression of disorientation rather than a bridge toward collective understanding. Where Pink Floyd’s original hinted at the possibility of artistic rebellion against commodification, May’s version hints at resignation, a longing for someone, or something, that is not coming.

Still, her rendition matters. It shows how a younger artist, shaped by pandemic trauma and political confusion, hears one of the great songs of alienation. It is not a reinvention but a reframing: Wish You Were Here as sung from inside the crisis rather than after it. In doing so, May reveals both the depth of contemporary despair and the need for an artistic orientation that moves beyond lament toward clarity and struggle.

1. Northern Exposure: “Iyah May, When a Reel Becomes a Reckoning”

Core argument

This article presents Iyah May’s viral Instagram reel in which she explains that her manager tried to censor references to Big Pharma, genocide, and cancel culture as a moment of political rupture. The author frames May’s refusal not merely as a personal stand but as a movement, a disruption of the culture industry’s demand for silence and compliance.

Political framing

• May’s art is described as diagnostic: a reading of a world afflicted by misinformation, distraction, and systemic rot.
• Her refusal to “water down” her lyrics is treated as a manifesto against censorship and corporate control.
• The article emphasises her background as a frontline doctor, arguing that her political clarity comes from lived experience rather than ideology.

Significance

The piece positions May as a figure whose authenticity and refusal to self‑censor resonate with audiences disillusioned by institutional dishonesty. It is her most explicitly political profile to date.

2. Grokipedia: “Iyah May” (Fact‑checked profile)

Core argument

This encyclopaedic entry situates May’s politics within her dual identity as a doctor and independent musician. It emphasises her commitment to “uncompromised artistry” and her willingness to confront political division, media manipulation, corporate greed, and genocide.

Political framing

• Karmageddon is described as a protest song addressing political division, media manipulation, corporate greed, and the Gaza genocide.
• The article stresses that she refused to modify the song despite pressure, framing her stance as a principled rejection of commercial sanitisation.
• Her politics are presented as emerging from a blend of faith, truth‑telling, and accountability rather than formal ideological alignment.

Significance

This profile helps explain how May’s political identity is being codified in public reference sources: as a doctor‑artist whose work is shaped by crisis, empathy, and resistance to institutional narratives.

3. The Nordic Times: “Iyah May shakes up the music world with her fearless social commentary”

Core argument

This article frames Karmageddon as a socially critical intervention that “stirred the pot” by addressing political division, corporate greed, and public apathy. It emphasises her medical background and her experience on the COVID frontlines as central to her artistic worldview.

Political framing

• May’s critique of corporate greed and political division is foregrounded.
• Her refusal to alter lyrics is presented as a decisive break with her manager and a turning point in her career.
• The article highlights her dual role as doctor and musician, suggesting that her political clarity comes from witnessing institutional failure firsthand.

 

Destroy AI? Luddism Dressed as Socialism

 Tribune’s recent call to “destroy” artificial intelligence reveals a concerning trend. It reflects growing pessimism among parts of the modern left, which views technological progress not as a tool for human emancipation but as a threat to be feared, opposed, and ultimately eliminated. Although Matthew Cole’s article employs radical language, it ultimately channels valid concerns into a reactionary dead end. It highlights genuine social and environmental issues like carbon emissions from data centres, mineral extraction in the Global South, the concentration of computation in American monopolies, and the British government’s tendency to give land and water to tech oligarchs. It blames not the capitalist elite responsible, but the productive forces themselves.[1]

This is not socialism; it is despair- a despair that Marx examined over 150 years ago. In Capital, Marx scrutinised the Luddite movement and emphasised a key point: workers should distinguish between machinery itself and how capital uses it. Machines are not inherently neutral or oppressive; they become tools of exploitation only when capital controls them. Cole reverses this, viewing AI as inherently destructive, as if the technology alone causes social problems rather than the capitalist system governing its development and application. This mistake leads him to connect struggles from the Luddites to the Writers Guild of America, implying machine-breaking and modern trade unionism share the same strategy. They do not. The Luddites were defeated, but the machines remained. What improved workers’ conditions was not smashing the looms, but the rise of organised labour capable of negotiating over the wealth these machines created. To revive Luddism is to reject the very history that gave birth to the socialist movement.

Cole’s claim that AI differs from railways, electrification, or industrialisation because it offers no tangible benefit is simply inaccurate. Historically, major infrastructure projects under capitalism have involved bloodshed: railways were built through colonial conquest, with slave-grown cotton, and during famines in India. Electrification benefited monopolies and increased factory exploitation. Industrialisation destroyed artisanal trades and displaced communities. However, the socialist movement never called for dismantling railways or banning electricity; instead, it aimed to socialise these systems. The true enemy is capitalism, not the productive forces.

Cole’s dismissal of AI’s usefulness overlooks the facts. Even within capitalism, machine learning is already employed in protein structure prediction, medical diagnostics, weather forecasts, climate models, materials science, and drug development- significant applications that represent technological progress with substantial benefits for humanity. However, these are often used for profit, surveillance, or military purposes. In a socialist system, such technologies could reduce working hours, eliminate monotonous labour, and enable more rational production planning. The real contradiction isn’t the technology itself but private ownership of the means of production and the existence of competing nation-states.

Cole’s evidentiary claims fall apart under close examination. He references a small MIT preprint to argue that AI is “retarding our brains," but this study, with only 54 participants, cannot support broad civilizational claims. He also blames AI for falling OECD PISA scores, even though the tests were conducted before ChatGPT was available. The OECD links the score decline to pandemic-related school closures, a consequence of the ruling class’s negligent response to COVID-19, which kept workers employed while children lost years of education. His claims about carbon emissions are inconsistent: he states that the “global data cloud” emits more carbon than aviation but cites figures far below aviation’s actual footprint. While data centres do contribute to environmental harm, addressing this issue requires careful analysis rather than rhetorical exaggeration.

When Cole discusses strategy, his political class character becomes evident. He endorses anarchist sabotage, such as arson attacks on Tesla facilities and tactics like data poisoning and misinformation traps. Historically, the Marxist movement opposes such reckless actions, as they replace mass struggle with individual acts, risk provoking state repression, and leave ownership structures unchallenged. These acts also demonstrate disdain for the working class. Cole then suggests a state-led approach to dismantle data infrastructure, but given that the Labour government is influenced by finance capital and U.S. tech giants, expecting it to dismantle its own infrastructure is unrealistic. His notion of “digital sovereignty” overlooks the global nature of technology resources, from Brazil and Colombia to Kazakhstan and Taiwan's manufacturing. No single nation can “decompute” a worldwide system; only the international working class can seize control of these productive forces.

Workers involved in building data centres, mining cobalt, labelling training data, assembling GPUs, and dismantling e-waste are not foes of technology; they are its creators. The socialist vision is not about destroying, but about expropriating: bringing tech giants like OpenAI, Anthropic, Amazon, Microsoft, and Palantir under public ownership and democratic workers’ control. Only through this can decisions about energy, water, land, and automation serve social needs instead of private profits. Like previous technological leaps, AI's potential must be freed from capitalist ownership, not destroyed.

Cole’s article highlights a common pattern among the academic middle class: blaming social problems on productive forces instead of capitalist relations. It offers workers nostalgia instead of actionable strategies, advocates sabotage over organisation, and induces moral panic rather than critical analysis. This approach is not socialism; it is a retreat. It adopts a politics that attributes alienation to the machine rather than to the capitalist owner. Moreover, it fears the future instead of trying to control it.

The reality is that artificial intelligence, much like previous major technological advances, embodies a contradictory force. In a capitalist system, it often amplifies exploitation, reduces jobs, and supports warfare. Conversely, in a socialist framework, it can shorten working hours, remove monotonous tasks, and enhance human freedom. The core contradiction does not lie in the technology itself but in the social relationships that regulate its use. Eliminating AI also eliminates the chance to use it as a tool for human emancipation.

The socialist movement has consistently believed that the productive forces developed under capitalism, such as railways, electricity, industrial machinery, and computing, should be seized rather than destroyed. The goal is to advance modernity, not retreat from it. The working class must take control of these technologies to build a society centred on human needs rather than private profit. Cole’s call to “destroy AI” is therefore not a radical departure from capitalism but a surrender to it. It adopts the capitalist view that technology is inherently oppressive and that workers are powerless against it. It provides no plan for workers, no strategy for expropriation, and no vision of a socialist future. It only spreads fear.

WSWS Articles on Artificial Intelligence (AI)

A curated list with summaries

1. “The class issues in artificial intelligence”

A foundational WSWS analysis arguing that AI is not an autonomous threat but a product of capitalist social relations. It emphasises that the danger lies in private ownership, militarisation, and exploitation — not in the technology itself.

2. “Artificial intelligence and the future of work”

Examines how corporations use automation and machine learning to intensify exploitation, cut jobs, and suppress wages. Argues that AI could shorten the working day under socialism but is weaponised under capitalism.

3. “The militarisation of AI: US imperialism’s new frontier”

Discusses Pentagon and NATO investment in autonomous weapons, battlefield analytics, and surveillance systems. Frames AI as central to the drive toward world war.

4. “Tech layoffs and the restructuring of the global workforce”

Analyses mass layoffs at Google, Amazon, Meta, and Microsoft, linking them to automation, shareholder pressure, and the broader crisis of capitalism.

5. “The environmental cost of data centres: capitalism’s irrationality”

Explores water usage, energy consumption, and land grabs associated with hyperscale data centres. Argues that these problems stem from anarchic capitalist competition, not from computing itself.

6. “AI, surveillance, and the police state”

Covers the use of machine learning in predictive policing, biometric surveillance, and border control. Shows how governments deploy AI to suppress dissent and monitor populations.

7. “The Writers Guild strike and the question of AI”

Analyses Hollywood’s labour struggle, arguing that the WGA’s concerns about AI reflect broader contradictions between creative labour and corporate control of technology.

8. “ChatGPT and the crisis of bourgeois ideology”

A theoretical piece exploring how large language models expose the intellectual bankruptcy of academia and the media, while also revealing the enormous potential of automated knowledge systems.

9. “The global semiconductor supply chain and the drive to war”

Examines TSMC, Nvidia, ASML, and US–China rivalry. Shows how AI hardware is inseparable from imperialist conflict.

10. “Artificial intelligence and education: A capitalist catastrophe”

Discusses AI use in schools, testing regimes, and ed‑tech platforms. Argues that the crisis in education stems from austerity and privatisation, not from AI tools.

11. “The myth of ‘ethical AI’: Capitalism cannot be regulated”

Critiques liberal calls for AI regulation, arguing that no ethical framework can restrain profit-driven corporations or imperialist states.

12. “Automation, productivity, and the socialist reorganisation of society”

A programmatic article explaining how AI and robotics could eliminate drudgery, shorten the working day, and enable planned production — but only under workers’ control.

 

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[1] https://tribunemag.co.uk/2026/09/destroy-ai

Earl Spencer’s Swan Song: The Aristocrat as Historian of His Own Class

Swan Song is a memoir that presents a moral story of truth versus power through a feud within Britain’s aristocracy. Charles Spencer, the 9th Earl Spencer, has dedicated twenty years to shaping his image as a “popular historian.” His books on subjects such as Blenheim, Prince Rupert, the regicides of Charles I, and the White Ship disaster are marketed as accessible history. However, they primarily function as aristocratic self-promotions, portraying history as a form of class autobiography. His newest book, Swan Song: Diana, My Sister, published by Michael Joseph on September 22, represents the culmination of this approach. Released to mark the 30th anniversary of Diana’s death and translated into twelve languages, it seeks not only to honour his sister’s memory but also to reinforce the Spencer family’s place in the national myth.

The media have focused on the book’s assertions about the House of Windsor. Spencer claims that Prince Charles, before the wedding, admitted he did not love Diana; that she tried to cancel the engagement after finding a bracelet meant for Camilla; and that Charles appeared “giddily elated” after Diana’s death. He recalls a phone call where Charles allegedly said the family would “soon forget her” when Spencer protested William and Harry walking behind the coffin. Buckingham Palace's response was formal: it does not comment on books, but the King said he understood how grief could affect reason and memory. These are the subtle hostilities among Britain’s elite, an aristocratic tone expressing disdain for one’s own kind.

The truth of these phone calls isn't the main focus; instead, the emphasis is on the approach. Spencer presents a view of history where the Spencer family, especially Diana, embody progress, humanity, and truth. They are contrasted with the Windsors, “the Establishment,” and “a barbaric press.” This is more a morality play than a historical account. The memoir is based on the idea that private conflicts within Britain’s hereditary elite form the core of national history, with society shown only as tear-stained crowds supporting a feud among the ruling class.

This approach is intentional, rooted in a tradition of aristocratic historiography. Herbert Butterfield, in 1931, identified the “Whig interpretation of history" as a method that evaluates the past using present standards, portraying history as a progression toward enlightened liberty. It highlights heroes who advanced the nation and villains who opposed it, often flattering victors while hiding the social forces that shaped events. The term 'Spencer' is nearly literal here; the Spencers of Althorp were prominent Whig families of the 18th and 19th centuries. John Charles Spencer, Viscount Althorp, helped pass the 1832 Great Reform Act, extending suffrage to connect the industrial bourgeoisie with the landed aristocracy while excluding the working class that pushed for reform. Whiggism typically involved reform from above by enlightened elites, avoiding any fundamental change.

Swan Song situates Diana within that traditional narrative. As the publisher states, Spencer depicts her as an advocate for the marginalised, loyal to her sons, and isolated as her marriage shattered under media pressure. She is portrayed as a progressive force within a rigid institution, an aristocrat who brought humanity to the Crown. This myth gained traction in the week following her death in 1997. Tony Blair’s New Labour government embraced it wholeheartedly. Blair’s term “the People’s Princess” served a strategic political purpose: it redirected public discontent from the Thatcher-Major era into sentimental attachment to a royal figure, helping the monarchy recover after losing public trust. However, New Labour then intensified social inequalities that had fuelled that dissatisfaction.

Spencer does not challenge this myth; instead, he aims to be acknowledged as its proper guardian. He says he writes to preserve his personal memories rather than spread “untruths” repeated over time, and to represent his sister positively, as he did in his 1997 eulogy. The Whig aristocrat once more takes on the role of the nation’s moral guide.

The memoir reads like a family saga: nannies, boarding schools, divorces, a bracelet, and a phone call. Spencer even suggests that his father had a romantic link with young Princess Elizabeth, supposedly cut short by Lord Mountbatten. The entrenched bloodlines of Britain’s hereditary elite are presented as history's natural focus. Spencer does not question the purpose of the monarchy, which stands at the top of an unelected state structure, a holder of reserve powers, and a symbol of social hierarchy, all funded by the public. He also overlooks what the aristocracy signifies in a nation where millions depend on food banks, yet estates like Althorp stay within a single family by birthright. For a Whig historian, these are not questions; the only concern is which aristocrats acted decently.

The same perspective shapes Spencer's critique of the press. The tabloid chase after Diana was intense and degrading. However, the Murdoch and Mirror media outlets were not outsiders opposing the aristocracy; instead, they were key parts of the ruling class, benefiting from and supporting the monarchy as a commercial show. Spencer’s claim that Piers Morgan was behind the covert gym photos of Diana quickly fell apart. Morgan proved that the Sunday Mirror published these photos in 1993, nearly two years before Morgan took over the Daily Mirror. Spencer apologised, and Penguin promised to update future editions. Despite this, Morgan is still pursuing legal action, seeking damages from the King’s Trust. A fitting ending: a former tabloid editor suing an earl, with the money going to a royal charity.

The response to Swan Song has been predictable. Royalist media support the King, while liberal outlets criticise the book as indulgent and vindictive. Both sides accept that the personal grievances of the Spencers and Windsors are of national concern. For ordinary people, however, the message differs: Spencer’s Whig history argues for reforming aristocratic behaviour. The goal isn’t to choose between the House of Spencer and the House of Windsor, but to eliminate the social structure that keeps both in power.

A Whig in More Than One Sense

Herbert Butterfield’s 1931 critique of the “Whig interpretation of history” pointed out a method that evaluates the past using present-day standards, portraying history as a progression toward enlightened liberty. Its heroes are those who allegedly advanced the nation, while villains are those who opposed them. This approach favours victors and hides the social forces that actually influenced events. With Spencer, the name is almost literal. The Spencers of Althorp belonged to the prominent Whig families of the 18th and 19th centuries. John Charles Spencer, Viscount Althorp, played a key role in passing the Great Reform Act of 1832, a law that expanded the vote just enough to connect the industrial bourgeoisie with the landowning aristocracy, while excluding the working class that demanded reform. Whiggism consistently favoured reform from above, carried out by enlightened elites, resulting in little real change.

Swan Song positions Diana within a traditional framework. The publisher states that Spencer depicts her as a champion of the marginalised, committed to her sons, and desperately lonely as her marriage unravelled under media pressure. She emerges as a modernising influence within the stubborn aristocratic institution, the noble who humanised the Crown. This narrative emerged in the week after she died in 1997. Tony Blair’s New Labour embraced it wholeheartedly. Blair’s term “the People’s Princess” served a strategic political purpose: it redirected public dissatisfaction from the Thatcher-Major era into sentimental sympathy for a royal family member, helping the monarchy recover from disrepute. Subsequently, New Labour further entrenched the social inequalities that fuelled that discontent.

Spencer doesn't challenge this myth; instead, he seeks recognition as its legitimate guardian. He states that his writing is intended to preserve his personal memories rather than to perpetuate “untruths” that persist through time, and to represent his sister in the “openly positive way” he did during his 1997 eulogy. Once more, the Whig aristocrat adopts the role of the nation's moral authority.

History Without Classes

As previously mentioned, the book’s historical narrative revolves around a family saga. These stories are more than details; they form the heart of Spencer’s view of history. He emphasises the rival bloodlines within Britain’s aristocratic elite, viewing private family conflicts as the main factor shaping the nation’s progress. The wider society is depicted merely as tearful crowds at Westminster Abbey, acting as emotional backing for the internal conflicts among the ruling class.

His book examines history without social context. Spencer does not inquire about the purpose of the monarchy. It isn't merely scenic background for aristocratic feelings; it represents the top of an unelected government structure, holding reserve powers and symbolising social hierarchy, all funded heavily by the public. The Crown remains vital to the constitutional framework: the armed forces pledge allegiance, governments derive authority from it, and its powers can be used in emergencies. However, in Swan Song, the monarchy is depicted as a dysfunctional family whose emotional flaws explain its public function. Spencer’s account simplifies a centuries-old class institution into a melodramatic tale of emotional woundedness.

He also overlooks what the aristocracy truly symbolises in a nation where millions depend on food banks, child poverty is on the rise, and estates like Althorp are owned by a single family by birthright. The Spencer estate isn't just a scenic setting for televised funerals; it exemplifies Britain’s persistent system of hereditary wealth, landownership, and privilege. The aristocracy still owns large areas of land, protected by trusts, tax breaks, and political influence. However, for Spencer, the only relevant question is which aristocrats behaved decently. He ignores the underlying role of his own class- their historical function, economic power, and political influence. This reflects a form of Whig history: reform from the top, virtue shown by enlightened elites, and the belief that the ruling class naturally leads national progress.

Spencer’s critique of the press is rooted in the same perspective. The tabloids' obsession with Diana was intense, degrading, and often harsh. However, the Murdoch and Mirror outlets were not outsiders attacking the aristocracy; they were part of the same ruling elite. These tabloids gained financially from the monarchy as a public spectacle, turning royal lives into commodities that boosted sales and advertising income. Their relationship with the Crown was mutually beneficial: they heightened the monarchy’s mystique, sensationalised its crises, and helped sustain its cultural importance. Spencer’s depiction of the press as a barbaric external enemy hides this truth. It’s a convenient narrative that portrays Diana and, by extension, the Spencer family as victims of a predatory media, rather than acknowledging their role in a system of elite power that reinforces itself.

His assertion that Piers Morgan was responsible for publishing secret gym photos of Diana fell apart within days. Morgan showed that the Sunday Mirror published the images in 1993, nearly two years before he was editor of the Daily Mirror. Spencer apologised; Penguin promised to update later editions. However, Morgan continues to pursue legal action and seeks damages from the King’s Trust. The situation paints a near-perfect picture: a former tabloid editor suing an earl, with the proceeds going to a royal charity. It offers a small-scale view of Britain’s elite: a loop of aristocrats, media magnates, and royal institutions, each defending their interests while publicly claiming to uphold truth, decency, or history.

In Swan Song, Spencer focuses not on history itself but on urging moral judgment among the elite. His story prompts readers to pick sides between the House of Spencer and the House of Windsor, emphasising a choice between different aristocratic lineages. It presumes that the private conflicts of hereditary families matter nationally, treating the emotional lives of the ruling class as valid subjects of historical study. Moreover, it encourages the public to rally behind one elite faction over another, as if the country's future hinges on which aristocrats show greater kindness. However, for working people, the message differs: simply attributing human qualities to the monarchy won't make it more humane, nor will better manners redeem the aristocracy. Spencer’s Whig history acts as a sentimental defence of a social order that remains inherently unequal. The real goal is not to pick between competing aristocratic houses but to abolish the system that upholds them both.

A Feud Within the Elite

The reception of Swan Song has been predictably divided. The royalist media supports the King, viewing Spencer’s memoir as an unwelcome interruption to the monarchy's carefully controlled emotional narrative. Their reviews often sound paternalistic: they see Spencer as a grieving brother misled by sentiment, while the King is praised for his stoic restraint. The underlying message is that the monarchy must stay above conflict, safeguard its dignity, and hide internal disputes from public view. Even challenges from within the aristocracy are seen as threats to the institution's stability.

The liberal press has adopted the opposite stance, yet they reach the same conclusion. The Guardian called the book a heated exercise in settling scores, while the Telegraph labelled it a tribute to Spencer’s ego. These critiques are accurate but superficial, focusing on Spencer’s personality rather than the social role of his narrative. They see the memoir as a matter of taste, decorum, or emotional control failure, not as a political statement. Both sides accept the core premise: that the private issues of the Spencers and Windsors are nationally significant, that Britain’s aristocratic emotional lives warrant public scrutiny, and that the political landscape should remain centred on a ruling class whose authority is neither elected nor accountable.

This consensus itself reveals a lot. It shows how the monarchy remains the ideological core of British national identity, despite increasing social upheaval. The media’s focus on Spencer’s memoir, whether sympathetic or critical, strengthens the notion that the nation’s future depends on the actions, morals, and internal struggles of aristocratic families. This acts as a kind of political deflection. Meanwhile, the underlying realities of class hierarchy, inequality, and state power are hidden behind a narrative that turns history into a series of personal conflicts among the elite.

For working people, the lesson differs. Thirty years after Diana’s death, the cult surrounding her continues to serve the same purpose as in 1997. It depicts the monarchy as capable of becoming kinder, more modern, and more “of the people," as long as the right personalities are in power. Diana symbolises a reformed aristocracy: compassionate, emotionally open, and sensitive to suffering, in contrast to the allegedly cold and detached Windsors. This myth was politically advantageous for New Labour, which used it to redirect popular discontent into sentimental support for the royal family. Today, it remains relevant by offering a vision of moral renewal within an institution inherently resistant to change.

Spencer’s memoir aims to revive and reaffirm that myth. His Whig history advocates a better-behaved aristocracy that maintains its privileges while adopting a more compassionate public stance. It envisions a national life in which the ruling class continues to govern, but with greater sensitivity and emotional intelligence. The political purpose of this narrative is clear: it intends to uphold the monarchy and aristocracy by portraying them as capable of self-improvement from within. The message implies that the issue lies not with the institutions themselves, but with the individuals who currently fill them.

This familiar strategy has recurred throughout British history, where the ruling class tends to respond to legitimacy crises with moral rather than structural reforms. The 1832 Great Reform Act, driven by Spencer’s ancestor, expanded voting rights just enough to align the industrial bourgeoisie with the landed aristocracy while still excluding the working class. It represented reform from above, aimed at maintaining the existing social order. Likewise, Spencer’s memoir continues this tradition by advocating emotional reforms such as a kinder monarchy and a more empathetic aristocracy as alternatives to genuine political change.

The challenge for the working class is not to choose between the House of Spencer and the House of Windsor, nor to rely on either's moral reform. The monarchy represents the peak of a social system founded on inequality, respect, and inherited privileges. It is not merely a collection of colourful figures; it embodies a class whose wealth and power stem from centuries of landownership, exploitation, and political control. Media focus on their personal issues distracts from Britain's real social problems, where millions face rising costs, failing public services, and growing insecurity.

Abolishing the monarchy and aristocracy isn’t simply a matter of cultural preference or republican loyalty. It’s an essential move to dismantle a social system that centralises power in unelected bodies, hides wealth through hereditary privilege, and uses national myths to mask class divisions. Spencer’s memoir, despite its emotional appeal, advocates for maintaining this social order. It encourages the public to sympathise with one faction of the elite over another, to believe in the moral integrity of aristocrats, and to accept the monarchy as an enduring part of national identity.

 

 

Academic‑Style Articles, Reviews & Critical Sources

1. Media and Cultural Analyses of Swan Song

These sources offer critical commentary on Spencer’s memoir, its claims, and its reception, helping situa the book within contemporary debates about monarchy, memory, and elite self‑representation.

• LBC – “All the claims from Charles Spencer’s Diana book, Swan Song” A detailed summary of Spencer’s allegations, including the claim that Charles was “giddily elated” after Diana’s death and the dispute over funeral arrangements.
• Yahoo News UK – “Swan Song by Charles Spencer review: Revenge dish is even better aged 30 years” A critical review highlighting the book’s “plum pudding of revelations,” its score‑settling tone, and Spencer’s recounting of aristocratic anecdotes such as his father’s alleged romance with Princess Elizabeth.
• The Telegraph – “Charles Spencer’s book isn’t about Diana. It’s a monument to his ego” A strongly negative review arguing that the memoir is primarily self‑aggrandising, with extensive discussion of Spencer’s attacks on King Charles and the book’s broader tone.
• HELLO! – “Charles Spencer apologises to Piers Morgan over inaccuracy in Princess Diana memoir” Documents Spencer’s apology to Piers Morgan and outlines the legal dispute over claims regarding covert photographs of Diana. Useful for analysing the book’s factual reliability and the politics of royal journalism.
• Yahoo News UK – “Unpacking the Drama Between King Charles and Princess Diana’s Brother Over ‘Swan Song’” Provides context for Spencer’s long‑standing conflict with King Charles and situates the memoir within the broader history of Diana’s marriage, media treatment, and posthumous mythmaking.
• Taylor Tailored – “Swan Song By Charles Spencer Explained: Diana, King Charles And The Legal Fallout” A long-form interpretive essay examining Spencer’s stated motivations, the tension between memory and verifiable history, and the book’s position within the politics of royal narrative control.
• UnHerd – “Aposhcalypse Now: Charles Spencer has forgotten what duty means” A cultural‑political critique situating Spencer within the decadence of Britain’s ruling class and interrogating his invocation of “duty” as a historical and moral category.

📖 Scholarly Context: Historiography, Memory, and Elite Narrative

While not directly about Spencer, the following academic source is relevant for framing his memoir within broader debates about narrative construction, meaning, and the tension between personal memory and historical method:

• Robert Champigny, “The ‘Swan’ and the Question of Pure Poetry,” L’Esprit Créateur. Although focused on poetic semantics, Champigny’s analysis of how meaning is constructed through tension between prosaic context and aesthetic form provides a useful theoretical lens for understanding Spencer’s memoir as a literary artefact shaped by selective memory and emotional narrative.

📚 Annotated Bibliography (Academic Format)

Primary Source

Spencer, Charles. Swan Song: Diana, My Sister. Penguin Michael Joseph / Penguin Press, 2026. Spencer’s tenth book and first full-length memoir about his relationship with Diana. The text blends personal recollection with political grievance, offering a subjective account of Diana’s life, death, and treatment by the monarchy and press. The book’s reliance on unverifiable private conversations has generated controversy and legal challenges.

Secondary Sources: Reviews & Commentary

Mata, William. “All the claims from Charles Spencer’s Diana book, Swan Song.” LBC, 21 Sept. 2026. Summarises Spencer’s major allegations and the Palace’s response, framing the memoir as a catalyst for renewed royal controversy.

McDonagh, Melanie. “Swan Song by Charles Spencer review: Revenge dish is even better aged 30 years.” Yahoo News UK, 22 Sept. 2026. A critical review emphasising the memoir’s score‑settling tone and its reliance on aristocratic anecdote.

Singh, Anita. “Charles Spencer’s book isn’t about Diana. It’s a monument to his ego.” The Telegraph, 21 Sept. 2026. Argues that Spencer’s memoir is primarily self‑serving, with extensive criticism of its portrayal of King Charles.

Dye, Eleanor. “Charles Spencer apologises to Piers Morgan over inaccuracy in Princess Diana memoir.” HELLO!, 22 Sept. 2026. Documents the factual dispute between Spencer and Morgan, highlighting issues of credibility and historical accuracy.

Bujnosek, Bailey. “Unpacking the Drama Between King Charles and Princess Diana’s Brother Over ‘Swan Song’.” Yahoo News UK, 18 Sept. 2026. Provides historical context for Spencer’s grievances and the Palace’s rare public response.

Taylor Tailored Editorial Team. “Swan Song By Charles Spencer Explained: Diana, King Charles And The Legal Fallout.” A long-form interpretive analysis of Spencer’s motivations, the memoir’s evidentiary limits, and its political implications.

Harrington, Mary. “Aposhcalypse Now.” UnHerd. A cultural critique situating Spencer within the decadence of Britain’s post‑imperial aristocracy and interrogating his invocation of “duty.”

Theoretical / Historiographical Context

Champigny, Robert. “The ‘Swan’ and the Question of Pure Poetry.” L’Esprit Créateur, Vol. I, No. 3. Explores the tension between prosaic meaning and aesthetic form, a useful theoretical analogue for analysing Spencer’s memoir as a selective, emotionally charged narrative rather than a historical reconstruction.

 

The Cromwells as a “Dynasty”: A Family History That Cannot See the Revolution: A review of The House of Cromwell: Power, Family and the Making of Modern Britain by Miranda Malins (William Collins, 2026)

The English Revolution still causes significant unease among the British establishment nearly four centuries later. The monarchy abolished in 1649 was quickly restored, the republic removed from history, and Oliver Cromwell’s image flattened into a mere caricature of a killjoy who “cancelled Christmas.” The most transformative decade in English history has been domesticated, diminished, and pushed to the sidelines of national memory.

Notably, a new major history of the Cromwells portrays them not as agents of social upheaval but as a “dynasty”: a family like the Tudors or Stuarts, driven by marriage, ambition, and inheritance. This framing is more than a narrative choice; it signals a broader ideological shift in current historiography, moving away from class, revolution, and social struggle toward a focus on the personal, domestic, and genealogical.

Miranda Malins, trustee of the Cromwell Association and author of two historical novels about Cromwell’s daughters, has embarked on a truly ambitious project. The House of Cromwell: Power, Family and the Making of Modern Britain explores the family lineage over two centuries, connecting Thomas Cromwell, Henry VIII’s chief minister, with his distant relative Oliver, and tracing their family from a Putney brewhouse to the heights of political influence and back. The research is extensive; Diarmaid MacCulloch, a leading biographer of Thomas Cromwell, has praised the book warmly. Its focus on the family's women, a group often overlooked by historians, will attract many readers and undoubtedly add depth to the biography.

The book's core idea, highlighted in its subtitle and throughout its promotion, is that “family mattered above all else,” emphasising that understanding the Cromwells requires understanding their family. However, this premise needs to be challenged. While family ties certainly influenced Thomas, Oliver, and others, genealogy alone cannot fully explain their historical importance. Instead, their significance stems from their roles in the revolutionary changes in English society. Viewing the Crawleys as a “dynasty” swaps cause and effect: their family connections gained historical importance because they were linked to the emergence of a new social class, not because the family held inherent political power.

The irony of the Putney connection highlights the core issue. Putney, Thomas Cromwell's birthplace, was also the site of the 1647 Putney Debates. During these debates, ordinary soldiers and Leveller leaders challenged army leaders Oliver Cromwell and his son-in-law Henry Ireton about the nation's future. Colonel Thomas Rainsborough declared that “the poorest he that is in England hath a life to live, as the greatest he,” which Ireton countered by arguing that political rights depend on “a permanent fixed interest in this kingdom,” meaning property. In that church on the Thames, the revolution's class conflicts were revealed. Whatever the Ireton–Cromwell marriage’s other implications, it was fundamentally a political alliance of the propertied class versus the common people who fought.

Viewing Ireton mainly as a son-in-law, rather than as the leading theorist challenging bourgeois property, reduces the revolution to mere family drama. It shifts the focus from sovereignty, representation, and property to domestic stability. The Cromwells did not transform Britain solely through family ties; rather, their family connections gained historical significance because they were linked to the rise of a new social order.

Malins’s framing faces a key problem. While a connection exists between Thomas Cromwell and Oliver Cromwell, it is not a direct family line. Instead, it reflects broader shifts in property relations such as the dissolution of monasteries, the rise of the gentry and merchant classes, the expansion of capitalist agriculture, the assertion of parliamentary authority, and the revolutionary end of feudal absolutism. Reducing this history to a story about a “house” or “dynasty” misses the very processes that made the Cromwells historically significant.

Putney: The Forgotten Battleground of Class

The connection to Putney carries a poignant, revealing irony. Although Putney was Thomas Cromwell's birthplace, it also witnessed one of England's most remarkable political clashes. In the autumn of 1647, at St Mary’s parish church by the Thames, ordinary soldiers of the New Model Army and their Leveller leaders faced off against the army’s elite, including Oliver Cromwell and his son-in-law Henry Ireton, as they debated the country’s future constitution. The Putney Debates were not typical family discussions; they exposed the revolution's profound social conflicts, with those who fought for Parliament questioning whether victory would serve them or the propertied classes leading them.

Colonel Thomas Rainsborough’s statement that “the poorest he that is in England hath a life to live, as the greatest he” stands as one of the most radical expressions of democratic ideals in English history. This was not simply rhetorical; it reflected the hopes of thousands of soldiers, artisans, apprentices, and small producers who believed that toppling the king would bring about a change in political rights. They called for a voice in the nation proportional to their sacrifices. They insisted that political power must be based on the consent of everyone living under the government, not just landowners.

Ireton’s response was just as definitive. He asserted that political rights should be based on a lasting stake in the country, namely, property. Allowing those without land to vote would threaten the social order’s core, risking "anarchy,” “confusion,” and the downfall of the propertied classes. According to Ireton, the revolution wasn’t a push for democracy but rather a safeguard for property against the threat of popular sovereignty.

In that church, the revolution's sharp class conflicts were exposed. The Levellers expressed the era's most progressive democratic hopes. At the same time, the grandees defended their own interests: gentry, merchants, and rising landlords whose ascent had been driven by social changes Thomas Cromwell had initiated a century earlier. Beyond its political implications, the Ireton–Cromwell marriage symbolised an alliance between the revolution’s propertied class and the ruling elite, against the common people who had fought the battles.

The framing of The House of Cromwell is fundamentally misleading because it portrays Ireton mainly as a son-in-law rather than as the key theorist defending bourgeois property against the Levellers. This reverses cause and effect, reducing the revolution to a domestic story. It shifts focus from the battles over sovereignty, representation, and class power to family continuity. The Cromwells did not transform Britain simply through family ties; rather, their family bonds gained significance because they were linked to the emergence of a new social class.

Viewing the Cromwells as a “dynasty” misses the core point. Dynasties only matter when political power is passed down through hereditary succession. The Cromwells were significant because they disrupted this inheritance, not because of family ties. Oliver Cromwell’s authority stemmed from the organised strength of the New Model Army, a force made up mainly of men with no lasting vested interest in the kingdom. His power arose from a revolutionary upheaval, not from inheritance or lineage.

The Putney Debates highlight the folly of viewing the Cromwells as a family on par with the Tudors or Stuarts; unlike the hereditary rule of the Tudors and Stuarts, the Cromwells governed out of revolutionary necessity. Oliver's refusal of the crown in 1657 and the Protectorate's quick collapse after his son Richard's brief rule show that the Cromwells were not a dynasty, but a temporary manifestation of class struggle that couldn't be stabilised through hereditary succession. Once the immediate revolutionary threat was over, the bourgeoisie preferred restoring a monarchy they could control rather than risking a mobilised army and a politicised population.

Reducing this process to a “house” or “dynasty” story obscures the forces that made the Cromwells historically important. It shifts the focus from revolutionary change in English society to family drama, replacing class analysis with genealogy, political conflict with domestic stories, and revolutionary ruptures with familial ties.

The Putney Debates highlight that the English Revolution was not merely a family story. It centred on political power, property rights, and the rights of common people. Grasping the Cromwells is essential to understanding the revolution itself. Viewing them as a dynasty, however, risks obscuring the broader revolutionary significance.

Thomas Cromwell and the Transformation of Property

Thomas Cromwell’s career clearly exemplifies this. The dissolution of the monasteries, which he carried out with a harshness that even some of his peers found shocking, represented the largest transfer of land in English history before the Revolution. It was more than an administrative change or Tudor state-building; it caused social upheaval. In less than ten years, nearly a quarter of England’s land shifted from church ownership to secular control. The winners were not the traditional feudal aristocracy but the emerging gentry, merchants, lawyers, and city investors, who bought monastic lands cheaply and turned them into successful agricultural and commercial ventures.

This redistribution of land established the social class that would dominate English politics for the next century: landlords, commercial farmers, and London trading interests. It hastened the decline of feudal tenures, promoted market-focused agriculture, and strengthened the class whose interests would later influence Parliament and the New Model Army. Essentially, the dissolution served as the beginning of the bourgeois revolution. It transformed the economic landscape, eroded the foundations of the old order, and empowered the groups poised to challenge royal absolutism in the 1640s.

Understanding Thomas Cromwell’s importance involves grasping the shift in property relations. His policies not only enriched select families but also reshaped England's class dynamics. The new landowners- many minor gentry or driven urban figures- became the foundation of the parliamentary movement a century later. They pushed for limits on royal power, opposed arbitrary taxes, invested in trade, and adopted the Puritan ethic, blending religious discipline with economic reason. Their perspective, formed through property ownership and market competition, laid the groundwork for the ideology behind the English Revolution.

The link between Thomas and Oliver is genuine, but it lies in this shift in property relations, not in family lineage. Their connection is rooted in the social changes Thomas helped shape, and Oliver later embodied. Thomas Cromwell helped shape the developing bourgeois order, while Oliver Cromwell led it militarily and politically during a revolutionary upheaval. Thus, their bond is based on history, not ancestry.

Viewing the Cromwells as a “dynasty” misses their true significance. Dynasties are relevant when power is passed down hereditarily. However, the Cromwells were significant because they disrupted traditional hereditary rule. Thomas Cromwell advanced through talent, ambition, and the opportunities of a transforming economy. At the same time, Oliver Cromwell gained power by mobilising a revolutionary army mostly composed of those who benefited from the dissolution. Their importance lies in breaking from established lineage, not in family succession.

The dissolution of the monasteries established the social class that would later oppose the monarchy; the New Model Army was the means by which that opposition was expressed. Tracing a family line between Thomas and Oliver misses the core issue. The true division lies in the development of capitalist property relations, the rise of the gentry and merchant classes, and the revolutionary end of feudal absolutism. It is a class line, not a familial one.

The framing of The House of Cromwell is flawed because it emphasises family continuity, which obscures the social forces behind the Cromwells' historical importance. Thomas Cromwell was influential because he altered the economic base of English society. At the same time, Oliver Cromwell was significant for leading the political and military efforts that finalised these changes; seeing them as merely a “dynasty” risks obscuring the revolutionary aspects of their contributions.

The Revolution as Bourgeois Breakthrough

Marx and Engels viewed the English Revolution as the first major bourgeois revolution of the modern era, serving as the prototype for 1789. It marked the moment when emerging capitalist forces challenged and dismantled the declining feudal absolutist structures. They saw the execution of Charles I not as a religious or personal act but as a political expression of a deep shift in property relations. This revolution laid the foundation for capitalist growth, the creation of a national market, and the rise to dominance of the propertied middle classes. Ultimately, it was the crucial break that signalled the beginning of modern Britain.

Christopher Hill, a leading Marxist historian of that era, expanded this analysis by illustrating how Cromwell’s Puritanism reflected the worldview of the emerging middle class. More than just a religious sentiment, Puritanism was the ideological lens through which the gentry, merchants, and commercial farmers viewed their role in a transforming society. Its focus on discipline, thrift, hard work, and moral self-assessment echoed the developing capitalist values. Hill argued that Cromwell’s speeches, correspondence, and actions reflected this perspective. He was not a mere mystic but a political figure representing a class whose goals included dismantling feudal privileges and establishing a state to safeguard property and maintain social order.

However, Hill emphasised that the revolution unleashed forces far beyond the ruling elites' intentions. The Levellers pushed for political democracy, while Gerrard Winstanley's Diggers promoted communal land ownership. The Fifth Monarchists envisioned a millenarian societal transformation. These movements were not mere fringe ideas but reflected the hopes of the common people who drove the revolution. They suggested, though perhaps only briefly, that dismantling the monarchy could bring about a deeper societal overhaul.

Cromwell responded firmly. He quelled the Leveller uprisings, notably at Burford in 1649, where soldiers demanding democratic rights were killed by their commanders. He also dismantled Winstanley’s Digger communes, which sought to cultivate common land in violation of property laws. He also enforced discipline within the New Model Army to prevent it from becoming a tool for social upheaval. These measures were consistent with his character; they stemmed from the nature of the class Cromwell represented- a class that aimed to abolish feudalism but also feared the revolutionary masses it had fueled.

Any fair assessment of Cromwell’s influence must include Ireland. The massacres at Drogheda and Wexford, along with the large-scale confiscation of Irish lands that ensued, established the long-lasting foundations of British colonial dominance. The same revolution that facilitated capitalist growth domestically also ensured the subjugation of Ireland. This wasn’t driven by personal cruelty or virtue but by the logic of a class whose expansion depended on forcibly integrating Ireland into a new imperial framework. The violence seen in Ireland encapsulates the colonial aspect of the bourgeois revolution.

In his 1925 work 'Where Is Britain Going?', Leon Trotsky advised Labour Party leaders to study Cromwell instead of the Fabians. He believed Cromwell understood that major historical issues are resolved through the organised power of a revolutionary class, not parliamentary tricks. Trotsky did not seek to idolise the Lord Protector, whose revolution ultimately favoured property owners, but argued that the British working class should embrace the revolutionary legacy its rulers have tried to erase. After their own revolution, the bourgeoisie spent centuries hiding its violent and upheaval-filled origins rooted in class struggle. Reclaiming the essence of the English Revolution means understanding the real Cromwell- not as a dynastic figure, but as a complex symbol of a class whose victory changed the world.

The Ideological Function of “Dynasty” History

The ongoing burial signifies a shift in how historians study and understand history. Recent decades have seen a move away from focusing solely on class struggles towards exploring personal, domestic, and identity-related aspects. This has led to detailed research that sheds light on private lives, highlights marginalised voices, and deepens our grasp of everyday experiences. However, this approach also serves an ideological purpose. By framing major social conflicts as stories of individual psychology and family drama, it downplays the role of structural forces, making revolution appear as mere costume melodrama scenes of personal and household conflicts set against a vague political background. Consequently, the English Revolution is viewed less as a fight over sovereignty, property, and class, and more as a struggle of temperaments and domestic affairs.

The comparison between Malins’s book and Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall is quite insightful. Mantel, an exceptional novelist, vividly captures Thomas Cromwell’s inner world with deep psychological nuance. However, a historian must explain facts that a novelist dramatises. Mantel’s Cromwell is engaging because he is a fictional creation, a consciousness brought to life through imagination. Conversely, Malins’s Cromwells are depicted as historical figures whose importance rests on their family continuity. This shifts the historical novel's techniques into the realm of historical analysis. The Cromwells are portrayed as characters in a multi-generational saga rather than active participants in a revolutionary process.

The idea that the Cromwells formed a “dynasty” akin to the Tudors or Stuarts warrants careful examination. Dynasties rely on hereditary succession, passing political power through bloodlines. However, Cromwell's period in control was characterised by the collapse of hereditary legitimacy. Oliver Cromwell’s refusal of the crown in 1657 was not just an oddity; it recognised that his authority could not be secured through monarchical traditions. His power rested on the New Model Army, the revolutionary upheaval that dismantled the old order, and the temporary alignment of class forces that enabled his leadership. It was not founded on bloodline.

The swift fall of the Protectorate under his son Richard clearly illustrates this point. Although Richard Cromwell inherited the bloodline, he lacked the political support. He lacked the army's confidence, the backing of the property-owning classes, and the authority that came from his father’s leadership in the revolutionary victory. His downfall was not a sign of a failing dynasty; it revealed that no dynasty had been established. The Protectorate was not a hereditary government but an unstable Bonapartist-like regime, teetering between the army, the wealthy classes, and the subdued radicals. It was a regime born from revolution rather than inheritance.

After the Protectorate fell, the bourgeoisie faced a dilemma. They could try to maintain the revolutionary army as a political force, risking the Leveller traditions, democratic unrest, and potential social chaos. Alternatively, they could restore a monarchy stripped of its absolutist powers, one they could control through Parliament, property laws, and financial influence. They chose the latter option. The 1688 settlement delivered exactly what they sought: a constitutional monarchy that protected property rights, ensured political stability, and prevented the army from acting as an independent revolutionary force.

Calling the Cromwells a “dynasty” misreads the revolution's entire course. It imposes a familial continuity narrative on a process marked by rupture, conflict, and class struggle. It treats the Protectorate as just another form of monarchy, rather than a transitional regime emerging from revolutionary needs. This obscures how the bourgeoisie, after employing the army to dismantle the old order, quickly moved to neutralise it when its revolutionary promise became dangerous.

The shift towards family-centred history is not without political implications. By emphasising domestic life, emotional connections, and lineage, it diverts focus from the structural forces driving historical change. It prompts readers to view the past as a series of personal dramas rather than the result of social contradictions. This framing makes revolutions seem accidental, chance-dependent, and ultimately subordinate to family dynamics. For example, in the case of the Cromwells, it recasts a revolutionary upheaval into a story about generations- precisely the kind of narrative that allows the English Revolution to be remembered without fully understanding its complexities.

Family History Is Not Class History

None of these points diminishes the importance of recovering the stories of the Cromwell women or other lesser-known family members. Such details can deepen our understanding of the era, highlight the nuances of daily life, and help correct enduring historical biases. The domestic sphere mattered to the revolution; it shaped the experiences, restrictions, and opportunities of those involved. However, it should be viewed as part of the larger historical process, not a replacement for it. Family mattered to the Cromwells, as it did to everyone. What truly made their story significant to history was something else entirely.

Malins’s framing is problematic not because it focuses on the Cromwells' private lives, but because it makes those lives the story's central focus. This approach risks echoing a wider trend in modern history writing: moving away from discussions of class, revolution, and structural forces that influence change. Instead of portraying the English Revolution as a conflict over sovereignty, property, and national destiny, it becomes a tale of family ties, marriage, and domestic loyalty. The Cromwells are cast as family figures rather than as representatives of a class whose victory transformed the world.

This change reflects a broader cultural trend. In an era when political disputes are often seen as personal issues, social crises are viewed through individual identity and life stories, and class struggle is considered outdated, it's natural for historians to focus more on personal and domestic aspects. However, this distorts the picture. Major social conflicts are reduced to notions of individual psychology. Revolution becomes melodramatic, and structural change becomes mere backdrop. The political becomes personal and thus depoliticised.

The Cromwells show the limits of this approach. Their importance isn't rooted in marriages or household affairs but in the transformative events that elevated them. Thomas Cromwell played a key role in orchestrating the largest transfer of land in England before the 1600s. Oliver Cromwell led the army that toppled the monarchy, paving the way for capitalist growth. Their family ties were secondary to these larger forces and did not drive them. Viewing them as a “dynasty” distorts the true relationship between societal forces and individual lives.

The fall of Richard Cromwell's Protectorate clearly disproves the idea of a hereditary ruling house. If the Cromwells had truly been a dynastic family, Richard’s succession would have stabilised the government. Instead, it revealed its instability. The Protectorate was not a hereditary monarchy but a delicate Bonapartist balance maintained only by the temporary alignment of class interests following the revolution. When that balance unravelled, the regime collapsed. The bourgeoisie, wary of the army and opposed to radical plebeian movements, reinstated a monarchy they could control. The 1688 settlement finalised this shift: establishing a constitutional order that protected property, stabilised the state, and suppressed revolutionary ideals.

The burial of the past has never been complete. Those studying the English Revolution need to go beyond family histories and domestic accounts. They should consult Marx and Engels, who recognised its global importance; Christopher Hill, who identified its radical currents; the Leveller pamphlets, expressing the democratic hopes of ordinary people; and Trotsky, who argued that the revolutionary tradition belongs to the working class, not the bourgeoisie. While Malins’s book offers useful details, it doesn't explain the revolution itself or the forces that made figures like Cromwell significant. To understand that, we must focus on the transformation of property, class, and political power, the real foundation of modern Britain.

Academic Articles and Bibliography

I. Foundational Marxist and Social-Historical Interpretations

Christopher Hill

Hill remains indispensable for any serious analysis of Cromwell, the English Revolution, and the radical movements it unleashed.

• Hill, Christopher. God’s Englishman: Oliver Cromwell and the English Revolution. London: Penguin, 1970. A classic Marxist interpretation of Cromwell as representative of the rising bourgeoisie; essential for understanding the class dynamics behind Puritan ideology.
• Hill, Christopher. The World Turned Upside Down: Radical Ideas During the English Revolution. London: Penguin, 1972. A definitive study of Levellers, Diggers, and Fifth Monarchists; it shows how popular radicalism exceeded the grandees' intentions.
• Hill, Christopher. “The English Revolution 1640.” Past & Present 1955. A seminal article establishing the bourgeois revolution thesis in English historiography.
• Hill, Christopher. “Puritanism and Revolution.” The Economic History Review 1958. Connects Puritan ideology to emerging capitalist social relations.

Marx and Engels

• Marx, Karl. The Eighteenth Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte. Not about England directly, but foundational for understanding Bonapartism and class balancing — crucial for interpreting the Protectorate.
• Marx, Karl & Engels, Friedrich. Selected Correspondence. Contains remarks on Cromwell and the English bourgeois revolution.

II. Radical Movements and the Levellers

Leveller Studies

• Woolrych, Austin. “The Levellers and the English Revolution.” The Historical Journal 1974. A balanced but rigorous account of Leveller ideology and its challenge to property-based political rights.
• Manning, Brian. The English People and the English Revolution. London: Heinemann, 1976. A Marxist social history emphasising plebeian agency.
• Reid, John. “The Putney Debates: Popular Sovereignty and Property.” History Workshop Journal 1985. Excellent analysis of Rainsborough vs Ireton; directly relevant to the Putney section.

Primary Sources

• The Clarke Papers, ed. C.H. Firth. Essential primary source collection for the Putney Debates and Army Council discussions.

III. Cromwell, the Protectorate, and State Formation

Cromwell Studies

• Coward, Barry. The Cromwellian Protectorate. Manchester University Press, 2002. A modern scholarly account of the Protectorate’s political instability and class contradictions.
• Durston, Christopher. “The Fall of the Cromwellian Protectorate.” English Historical Review 1992. Shows why Richard Cromwell’s failure was structural, not personal — supports your anti‑dynastic argument.
• Smith, David. Oliver Cromwell: Politics and Religion in the English Revolution. Cambridge University Press, 1991. A nuanced political biography.

Bonapartism and Class Balancing

• Kishlansky, Mark. “The Army and the Levellers.” Past & Present, 1979. Analyses Cromwell’s suppression of radicalism within the army.
• Underdown, David. Pride’s Purge. Oxford University Press, 1971. Classic study of the political crisis that produced the Rump Parliament.

IV. Ireland, Empire, and Colonial Violence

Ireland under Cromwell

• Lenihan, Pádraig. Confederate Catholics at War, 1641–49. Manchester University Press, 2001. Contextualises the Irish campaigns within broader colonial dynamics.
• Barnard, Toby. “Cromwellian Ireland: Land and Society.” Irish Historical Studies 1980. Key article on land confiscation and settler colonialism.
• Murphy, Elaine. Ireland and the Cromwellian Conquest. Routledge, 2010. Modern scholarly synthesis of the massacres, land seizures, and colonial restructuring.

V. Historiography, Revisionism, and the Turn to the Domestic

Revisionist and Post‑Revisionist Debates

• Russell, Conrad. The Causes of the English Civil War. Oxford University Press, 1990. A revisionist critique of class-based interpretations; useful as a foil to Hill.
• Morrill, John. “The Religious Context of the English Civil War.” Transactions of the Royal Historical Society, 1984. Emphasises religious motivations over class — relevant to a critique of depoliticised narratives.

History and the Domestic Turn

• Fletcher, Anthony. Gender, Sex and Subordination in England 1500–1800. Yale University Press, 1995. Foundational for the turn toward domestic and gender history.
• Sharpe, J.A. “The History of the Family and the English Revolution.” Social History 1992. Directly addresses the historiographical shift you critique.

VI. Trotsky and Revolutionary Strategy

• Trotsky, Leon. Where Is Britain Going? (1925). Essential for your argument: Cromwell as a model of revolutionary decisiveness, contrasted with Labour’s parliamentary cretinism.
• Trotsky, Leon. History of the Russian Revolution. Not about England, but foundational for understanding class forces, dual power, and revolutionary leadership — concepts applicable to Cromwell’s era.

VII. Suggested Further Reading for Workers and Students

• Hill, Christopher. The Experience of Defeat. On the radical memory of the revolution.
• Winstanley, Gerrard. The Law of Freedom. Primary source of Digger communism.
• The Leveller Tracts, ed. Don Wolfe. Comprehensive collection of Leveller pamphlets.