Back to where Labour began? By Jemma Norman

The resignation of Keir Starmer as Prime Minister and Labour leader marks more than the end of a political career. It signals the exhaustion of an era, the collapse of a particular theory of Labour politics and the reopening of a question that has haunted the party for decades, what exactly is Labour for?

Starmer arrived at the leadership promising competence, seriousness and electability. After years of factional warfare, ideological turbulence and electoral disappointment, he presented himself not as a visionary but as a repairman. The message was simple; Labour could only change the country if it first convinced the country that it was safe. The radical edges were sanded down. The language softened. The ambitions became managerial rather than transformational.

For a time, the strategy worked. Voters weary of chaos and scandal found reassurance in moderation. Business leaders relaxed. Editorial boards nodded approvingly. Labour appeared respectable again.

Yet respectability has always been an uneasy currency for a party born from trade unions, workers’ associations and collective struggle. The deeper Starmer moved toward the political centre, the more Labour seemed to drift away from the communities that created it. The party spoke increasingly about stability and increasingly less about power, who has it, who lacks it and how it should be redistributed.

This was the paradox at the heart of the Starmer project. The closer Labour came to looking like a conventional governing party, the further it seemed from looking like Labour.

His resignation therefore feels less like a sudden political event than the final chapter of a long ideological journey. The question now is whether the party continues down that road or turns around.

There will be voices urging Labour to move even further toward the centre. Their argument is familiar. Elections are won in the middle ground. Radicalism frightens voters. Pragmatism beats passion. In many respects, these arguments have shaped Labour strategy since the days of Tony Blair.

But another interpretation is emerging. Perhaps Labour's problem was not that it remained too attached to its roots. Perhaps the problem was precisely the opposite. Perhaps years of triangulation, caution and professional political management gradually hollowed out the party’s sense of purpose. Political parties can survive policy disagreements. They struggle to survive identity crises.

The working class that once formed Labour’s unquestioned foundation has changed dramatically. Industrial communities have declined. Employment patterns have fragmented. Cultural divisions have deepened. Yet the disappearance of the old working class does not mean economic insecurity has disappeared. It has merely taken new forms. Gig workers, renters, precarious professionals, care workers and those locked out of home ownership all face pressures that Labour was historically created to address.

The challenge is not to recreate the past. Nostalgia is not a political programme. The challenge is to recover the underlying mission that made the party matter in the first place.

Starmer's departure may therefore become something larger than a leadership change. It may become a moment of reckoning. Labour can continue as a cautious vehicle of technocratic administration, forever adjusting itself to prevailing political winds. Or it can attempt the more difficult task of rediscovering a clear social purpose.

The choice is not between the future and the past. It is between drift and direction. And for the first time in years, Labour may have no choice but to decide.

The lonely populist by Emma Schneider

For years Donald Trump enjoyed a curious advantage in Europe. Even as mainstream conservatives, liberals and centrists recoiled from his style of politics, a handful of nationalist leaders saw him as a kindred spirit. Among them, Italy’s Giorgia Meloni stood out as perhaps his most important ally, a disciplined conservative who shared parts of his worldview while carefully avoiding many of his excesses. That relationship now appears to be unravelling and in the most Trumpian fashion imaginable.

The dispute is remarkable not because of its substance but because of its pettiness. Trump’s decision to attack Meloni’s popularity, question her political standing and accuse her of repeatedly seeking photo opportunities follows a familiar script. The American president has often treated politics as a loyalty test in which allies remain useful only so long as they provide admiration. Once that admiration appears insufficient, friendship quickly turns into grievance.

Meloni’s response was unusually direct. By describing Trump’s attacks as “senseless” and “unprovoked,” she signalled a growing frustration that many foreign leaders have experienced over the years. The challenge with Trump has never been ideological disagreement alone. It is the unpredictability. Alliances that seem solid one week can become targets of ridicule the next. Political partnerships are transformed into personal feuds, often without warning.

The irony is that Meloni has arguably been one of the most successful right-wing leaders in Europe precisely because she avoided becoming a European version of Trump. While her critics frequently portray her as a hard-line populist, her time in office has been characterized by pragmatism. She has moderated positions, worked within European institutions and generally sought stability over confrontation. In many respects, she has governed more like a traditional conservative than a revolutionary nationalist.

That may be exactly the problem. Trump has always shown greater affection for disruption than for governance. Leaders who compromise, negotiate and adapt tend eventually to disappoint him. Political success achieved through moderation is often viewed by Trump’s movement as a form of surrender rather than maturity.

The broader significance extends beyond Italy. Across Europe, many politicians who once admired Trump have become increasingly cautious. They may share concerns about immigration, national sovereignty or economic globalization, but they also recognize the costs of attaching themselves too closely to a figure whose political relationships are notoriously transactional. Loyalty flows in one direction, and it rarely guarantees protection.

Meloni’s clash with Trump therefore symbolizes something larger than a personal disagreement. It highlights the inherent instability of a political movement built heavily around one individual’s perceptions and grievances. Traditional alliances, whether domestic or international, require a degree of mutual respect and predictability. Personal loyalty alone is rarely enough.

If this quarrel continues, Trump may discover that even Europe’s nationalist leaders have limits. The strange coalition that once linked American and European populists was always held together by shared enemies more than shared interests. When the inevitable disputes arrived, it was only a matter of time before friendship gave way to accusation. In that sense, the breakdown of the Trump-Meloni relationship is not surprising at all. It is simply the latest example of a pattern that has become unmistakably familiar.

#eBook: The general who burned the gate by Ovi History

 

The 1461 Coup That Almost Toppled the Ming. A microhistory of palace intrigue, military ambition, and the cost of failure in 15th-century Beijing.

At dawn on 7 August 1461, the Forbidden City woke to the smell of smoke and the clatter of crossbow bolts against lacquered pillars. Cao Qin, a decorated general of Mongol-border campaigns, had launched what remains the most audacious and most nearly successful, palace coup in Ming dynasty history.

With fewer than seven hundred mounted loyalists, most of them Mongol auxiliaries from the Datong garrison, he seized the Eastern and Western Gates before setting them ablaze. For six hours, the Son of Heaven was saved not by his generals but by servants slamming timber bolts and a loyal earl who fought his way through burning alleys with a wounded arm.

This book reconstructs that forgotten rebellion minute by minute, using the sparse but damning evidence of the Ming Shilu and the private journals of eunuch officials who watched from rooftops as the capital burned. It asks a deceptively simple question, why would a man who commanded imperial guards, who had been showered with silver and silk by the restored Zhengtong Emperor, choose to torch the very palace he had sworn to protect?

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May 2026

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The general who burned the gate

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Walk the talk 26#010 #cartoon by Thanos Kalamidas

 

The term “talk the talk, walk the walk” is a phrase in English
that means a person should support what they say, not just with words,
but also through action. Actions speak louder than words.

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Corruptions’ offspring by Mia Rodríguez

Latin America has always had a complicated relationship with its ghosts. Every generation claims it has buried them, only to discover that the dead have a remarkable talent for finding their way back into politics. Last week Peru appeared ready to add another chapter to that long and familiar story as Keiko Fujimori, daughter of the disgraced former president Alberto Fujimori, emerged as the projected winner of a razor-thin presidential runoff. Her ascent is significant not simply because of who she is, but because of what she represents: the return of political dynasties built on authoritarian legacies, now repackaged for a new era of populist politics.

The Fujimori name remains one of the most polarizing brands in Latin America. Alberto Fujimori is remembered by supporters as the man who crushed insurgencies and stabilized a collapsing economy. Critics remember him as an authoritarian who dismantled democratic institutions, tolerated corruption, and ultimately fled the country in disgrace. Those two realities have always existed side by side. Yet what is striking about Keiko Fujimori’s rise is how little distance she has needed to place between herself and that inheritance.

Around the region, a broader pattern is becoming impossible to ignore. The children, relatives, and political heirs of controversial strongmen increasingly occupy center stage. The old dictators may be gone, but their surnames remain politically valuable. In countries exhausted by economic stagnation, corruption scandals, and dysfunctional institutions, nostalgia has become a currency. Voters who never experienced the darker side of these regimes often inherit only simplified memories: stability, order, decisiveness. The messier details fade with time.

This phenomenon bears an uncomfortable resemblance to the political style associated with Donald Trump. Not because the circumstances are identical, but because the appeal is familiar. Institutions are portrayed as obstacles rather than safeguards. Political opponents become enemies rather than rivals. Complexity is dismissed in favor of certainty. The promise is not careful governance but strong leadership. Democracy is treated less as a system of rules than as a vehicle for delivering victories.

What makes Peru’s case especially revealing is that the country has spent years cycling through political crises. Presidents have come and gone with astonishing speed. Corruption allegations have become almost routine. Congress and the presidency seem locked in permanent conflict. Under such conditions, voters often begin searching not for ideal candidates but for recognizable names. Political familiarity becomes a substitute for trust.

That is where dynasties thrive. The irony is that many of these political heirs present themselves as outsiders battling a corrupt establishment even when they are direct products of the very systems that produced the dysfunction. The family name becomes both shield and weapon. It provides instant recognition while allowing supporters to reinterpret history through a more forgiving lens.

None of this means that Latin America is marching inevitably toward a new age of authoritarianism. Democracies remain resilient, and voters remain unpredictable. But the success of figures like Keiko Fujimori should serve as a reminder that democratic backsliding rarely arrives dressed as a military coup. More often, it returns wearing a familiar surname, promising competence, order, and a return to better days.

The ghosts, it turns out, never really left. They simply waited for their children to run for office.

Retreat by Harry S. Taylor

European governments have argued, complained, negotiated and occasionally exasperated Washington but beneath every disagreement rested a comforting certainty; America would be there. Its aircraft, its ships, its intelligence networks and ultimately its military power formed the backbone of European security.

That certainty is beginning to look less certain. Reports that the Trump administration has informed European allies of plans to significantly reduce American military assets assigned to NATO missions should not be viewed merely as another adjustment in force posture. Defense bureaucracies are constantly moving units around the globe. Aircraft come and go. Ships rotate. Numbers rise and fall. Yet there are moments when arithmetic becomes symbolism. A one-third reduction in fighter aircraft, a substantial cut in strategic bombers, and a dramatic decline in reconnaissance and attack capabilities send a message far larger than the statistics themselves.

The message is that America is reconsidering its role. For years, European leaders have heard warnings from Washington. Successive American administrations, Republican and Democratic alike, complained that Europe relied too heavily on U.S. military protection while underinvesting in its own defense. Those complaints often sounded like family arguments, loud, repetitive and ultimately harmless. Everyone assumed the alliance would endure because the strategic interests binding it together were too powerful to abandon.

But assumptions have expiration dates. The debate today is no longer about burden-sharing. It is about strategic priorities. Washington increasingly sees China as the central challenge of the twenty-first century. Every aircraft squadron stationed in Europe is a squadron unavailable elsewhere. Every naval deployment in the Atlantic is a deployment not focused on the Indo-Pacific. From an American perspective, reallocating resources may appear logical.

From a European perspective, however, the implications are unsettling. The uncomfortable reality is that Europe still lacks many of the military capabilities that make modern deterrence credible. Strategic bombers remain largely an American specialty. Intelligence, surveillance, reconnaissance, and logistical support are areas where European dependence on the United States remains profound. NATO's collective strength is often portrayed as the sum of thirty-two members. In practice, much of that strength has rested on one nation supplying the most critical pieces.

What happens if that nation gradually steps back? The immediate answer is probably not collapse. NATO is unlikely to disappear overnight. Alliances rarely die in dramatic explosions. They fade through accumulated doubts. Confidence erodes. Questions multiply. Governments begin planning for contingencies they once considered unthinkable.

That process may already be underway. European capitals now face a choice they have postponed for decades. They can continue hoping that future American administrations restore previous commitments, or they can accept that the era of guaranteed U.S. military predominance in Europe may be ending. The second option is far more expensive, politically difficult, and strategically demanding. It also may be unavoidable.

Perhaps the most significant aspect of these reported reductions is not the military impact itself but the psychological one. Alliances depend as much on belief as on hardware. Once allies begin wondering whether the security guarantee is permanent, the alliance has entered a different phase of its existence.

This may not

The virtue of staying small by Zakir Hall

The modern economy has developed a peculiar habit; it assumes that every act of creation is secretly a business plan. Build a website and someone will ask about your revenue model. Start a newsletter, and the inevitable question follows, how many subscribers are paying? Launch a niche app, and investors seem to materialise from thin air to discuss growth, scalability and market opportunity. The assumption is so deeply embedded that many people struggle to imagine another possibility that someone might build something simply because they enjoy building it.

Yet a quiet counterculture is emerging. Across the internet, creators are constructing side businesses with no ambition to turn them into empires. They make tools, publish newsletters, design software, write blogs and launch tiny digital products not because they dream of venture capital or acquisition offers, but because the act of creation itself remains rewarding. In an age obsessed with monetisation, this may be one of the most radical economic choices available.

The prevailing startup narrative treats smallness as a temporary condition. A project is expected to grow, then scale and then dominate. Remaining modest is interpreted as failure or lack of ambition. This mindset has become so pervasive that people often struggle to distinguish between a hobby, a craft and a company. Everything must eventually become a business, and every business must eventually become larger.

But what if growth is not always the objective? The creators who intentionally remain small have discovered something many larger organisations forget. Growth carries costs. More users require more support. More customers create more expectations. More revenue often demands more management, more compliance, more meetings and more bureaucracy. What begins as a joyful experiment can slowly transform into a full-time obligation.

The irony is that many successful side projects become less enjoyable precisely because they succeed. A developer who built a useful tool for a few hundred enthusiasts suddenly finds themselves answering support emails at midnight. A writer who enjoyed sharing ideas with a small audience becomes trapped by publishing schedules and subscriber expectations. The freedom that inspired the project gradually disappears beneath the weight of operating it.

Choosing not to scale is therefore not necessarily a sign of limited ambition. It can represent a different kind of ambition altogether. Instead of maximising revenue, creators maximise autonomy. Instead of pursuing market share, they pursue satisfaction. Instead of asking how large something can become, they ask how enjoyable it can remain.

This approach reflects a broader shift in attitudes towards work. For decades, professional success was measured primarily by expansion. Bigger companies, larger teams and higher revenues served as universal indicators of achievement. Yet many people now view these metrics with growing scepticism. They have witnessed founders become managers, artists become brands and hobbies become obligations. They have learned that scale often changes the nature of the thing being scaled.

The internet has made this alternative path increasingly viable. Digital infrastructure allows individuals to build products that serve small communities without requiring massive audiences. A niche website can survive comfortably with a few thousand loyal users. A specialised software tool can remain useful without conquering an industry. A newsletter can flourish without becoming a media empire.

Such ventures may never appear on lists of disruptive startups. They will not attract headlines celebrating billion-dollar valuations. Investors will mostly ignore them. Yet they perform an important cultural function. They remind society that creation does not always need a commercial justification.

There is something deeply refreshing about a person who builds because they want to build, writes because they want to write or launches a product because they find the process fascinating. Not every project must become a corporation. Not every creator must become an entrepreneur. Sometimes the most successful side business is the one that stays exactly the size its creator wants it to be.

Maples & Oranges #067 #cartoon by Thanos Kalamidas

 

Taunting oranges in the midst of other fruity links,
constantly spreading the wares of their juicy gloom.

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The G7 Summit that mistook silence for stability by Kingsley Cobb

For a few fleeting days, the mood among Western leaders was almost celebratory. At the latest G-7 summit the sense of relief was unmistakable. There were no dramatic walkouts, no public explosions of anger, no headline-grabbing attacks on allies. French President Emmanuel Macron and British Prime Minister Keir Starmer reportedly went as far as offering military support to help the United States secure the Strait of Hormuz after Iran threatened one of the world's most important energy corridors. In return, they sought stronger American backing for Ukraine. Diplomacy appeared to be functioning once again.

In today's geopolitical climate, however, the definition of success has become remarkably modest. The benchmark is no longer bold agreements or visionary leadership. It is simply avoiding disaster. As one observer noted, success now means the absence of rupture. If the United States behaves in a relatively normal fashion and the summit concludes without a transatlantic crisis, leaders leave feeling victorious.

That alone says a great deal about the state of the Western alliance. The optimism surrounding the summit was real, but it was also fragile. It existed largely within the carefully managed confines of diplomatic meetings, private discussions, and choreographed public appearances. Once the summit ended, reality returned with remarkable speed. Opinion pages, political analysts, and foreign policy commentators quickly filled the media landscape with a very different conversation: the growing possibility that we are witnessing the gradual end of American dominance.

The contrast was striking. Inside the summit halls, leaders spoke of cooperation, stability, and shared interests. Outside those halls, the debate centered on decline, fragmentation, and uncertainty.

This disconnect reveals the central challenge facing Western governments. They are attempting to project confidence at a time when confidence itself has become increasingly difficult to sustain. The institutions built after World War II were designed around the assumption of consistent American leadership. NATO, the global trading system, and much of the international security architecture depended on a United States that was both powerful and predictable.

Today, power remains. Predictability does not. The rest of the world notices this. Allies notice it. Rivals certainly notice it. China continues expanding its influence across multiple continents. Russia remains determined to challenge Western interests despite immense economic pressure. Middle Eastern powers are pursuing increasingly independent foreign policies. Even traditional allies are quietly discussing scenarios that would have seemed unthinkable a decade ago: a future in which Washington becomes less willing, or less able, to act as the central pillar of the international order.

None of this means American dominance will disappear tomorrow. Great powers rarely collapse overnight. More often, influence erodes gradually while political leaders insist everything remains under control. The real danger is not sudden decline but complacency, the belief that maintaining appearances is equivalent to maintaining strength.

That is why the relief displayed at the G-7 summit deserves closer examination. Relief is not strategy. Temporary harmony is not long-term stability. And the absence of conflict during a few days of meetings does not answer the larger questions confronting the West.

As leaders prepare for the upcoming NATO summit, they face a reality they would rather avoid. The challenge is no longer simply keeping the United States inside the Western camp. The challenge is convincing the world that the camp itself remains coherent, confident, and capable of leading.

For now, Western leaders are celebrating a summit that did not go badly. In another era, that would have been the bare minimum. Today, it is treated as a triumph. That may be the most revealing sign of all.

Italy’s endless rightward frontier by John Kato

Italian politics has a peculiar habit: just when observers conclude that the right has reached its outer limits, another politician appears to argue that it has not gone nearly far enough. The launch of Roberto Vannacci’s new party, National Future, is merely the latest chapter in a story that has been repeating itself for decades.

Vannacci is not an obvious political novice. A highly decorated retired general, he arrives with the sort of public profile that many aspiring politicians spend years trying to construct. He has cultivated an image of bluntness, defiance and unapologetic patriotism. To supporters, he is a truth-teller willing to challenge political orthodoxies. To critics, he is another populist entrepreneur exploiting cultural anxieties for electoral gain. Either way, he understands a central rule of modern politics: visibility matters more than pedigree.

What makes his move significant is not simply the creation of another party. Italy has never suffered from a shortage of those. Rather, it is the political space he seeks to occupy. Prime Minister Giorgia Meloni already leads one of the most right-leaning governments in modern Italian history. Conventional wisdom would suggest that there is little room to maneuver further right. Yet Vannacci clearly believes otherwise.

His calculation may prove less reckless than it initially appears. Italian politics has long been characterized by fragmentation, ideological reinvention and voter volatility. Parties emerge, merge, collapse and reappear with astonishing frequency. Political brands are often temporary; political grievances are not. Every time a governing coalition settles into office, a portion of its supporters inevitably becomes disappointed. Some feel betrayed by compromises. Others conclude that campaign promises have been diluted by the realities of governing. These voters often begin searching for a purer alternative.

That search creates opportunities for challengers like Vannacci. The paradox of successful right-wing governments is that they often generate demand for even more radical competitors. Once in power, parties that once thrived on protest must suddenly administer budgets, negotiate with European institutions and make difficult trade-offs. Governing turns revolutionaries into managers. Inevitably, some voters interpret pragmatism as surrender.

Meloni herself benefited from this dynamic. For years she positioned herself as the uncompromising alternative to an established political class. Now she occupies the establishment's seat. The outsider has become the incumbent. That transformation creates political space, and ambitious figures are rarely slow to occupy it.

National Future therefore represents less a challenge to Italy’s political system than an expression of its enduring logic. Italian voters have repeatedly demonstrated an appetite for movements that promise renewal, authenticity and national revival. The names change. The slogans evolve. The underlying appeal remains remarkably consistent.

Whether Vannacci can transform media attention into electoral success is another matter entirely. Launching a party is easy. Building a durable political organization is far harder. Italian history is littered with charismatic personalities who generated headlines but failed to establish lasting movements. Celebrity and controversy can attract supporters; sustaining them requires discipline, structure and a coherent governing vision.

Still, dismissing National Future would be unwise. Its emergence highlights a broader reality about contemporary Italy. The political contest on the right is no longer primarily between conservatives and progressives. Increasingly, it is a competition among different shades of conservatism, nationalism and populism. The battle is over who best embodies those instincts, not whether they should dominate the agenda.

That is why Vannacci’s arrival feels familiar. In many democracies, political space eventually reaches a boundary. In Italy, it often seems more elastic. Every time analysts declare the right fully occupied, someone discovers another frontier beyond it. And every few years, a segment of the electorate decides to explore it.

Ovi Pulp Vortex #eMagazine - Issue 2

 

Welcome back to the Ovi's Pulp Vortex second issue; where the air is thin, but the ideas are suffocatingly thick. This month, we turn our gaze skyward and immediately regret it. In our lead feature, The Glass Horizon, we explore a chilling new subspecies of climate fiction: the Aeropocalypse.

Forget rising seas; the real terror is the very thing keeping you alive, breathable atmosphere, turning into a weapon, a commodity, or a tomb.

Pulp Vortex - Issue 2
Ovi Pulp stories eMagazine
June 2026
Ovi eMagazines Publications 2026

Pulp Vortex - Issue 2

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