Welcome to the golden age of conspiracy theories
Like a lot of people my age, my gateway drug to the murky world of cover-ups was The X Files. For an hour each week, my young mind was exposed to alien abductions, secret societies, cannibal cults and paranormal phenomena. And my interest in the other worldly – and the people who wholeheartedly believe that humanity is being misled en masse – has never abated.
Since the 9/11 terror attacks in 2001, I have been an avid reader of conspiracy theories about all sorts of topics, from the ludicrous to the mundane.
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New Statesman
a day ago
- New Statesman
7/7 changed life for British Muslims forever
Photo by Dylan Martinez / AFP via Getty Images In a way, it had to be a train. AJP Taylor conceived of history unfolding as inexorably as a railway timetable, a train that advanced with clockwork certainty towards its terminus. In this point of view, the history of Islamist suicide terrorism was always going to have a scheduled stop in London, with its big Muslim diaspora and contested imperial past. And so, 20 years ago, on 7 July 2005, at 8.49am, it finally arrived. When it did, it turned out to be not just a metaphorical train, signifying the advent in Britain of a certain ineluctable history, but three perilously real Underground carriages sharking through Zone 1 as they were detonated by suicide bombers. Across four bombings that day – there was also a bus whose upper deck was peeled off – 52 innocents were killed. The terror train in London was strangely delayed. Four years had passed since the strike on the World Trade Center, at the heart of the American empire; the UK, too, would become enmeshed in the attack's aftermath, in Afghanistan and Iraq. In London, the period bookended by 9/11 and 7/7 was peaceful, untroubled, and my innocent early teens were trifled away in a city that, compared to now, was a Garden of Eden. Kids like me were no more conscious of being Muslim than Adam and Eve were of their sex. Some say 9/11 had already changed that, but while there were tense times in 2001, London's multicultural innocence wasn't really lost until the 2005 attacks. Even after terror traumatised New York, the narratives that defined early-Noughties London were still Zadie Smith's White Teeth and Monica Ali's Brick Lane, both about Bangladeshi Londoners like my family and broadly optimistic about our presence here. They were among the first contemporary books I read (overrated as literary fiction; near perfect as YA novels). But after 7/7, writers could no longer envision multicultural London in that way. It had become 'Londonistan', an alleged seedbed of terror. Islamophobia soared to the point that a name for it had to be popularised. Suspicion of Muslim immigration, hysteria about Muslim birth rates, the 'Prevent' policy that pre-emptively viewed young Muslims as potential terrorists: so much that is still with us originated in 2005. The cultural mood began morphing as drastically as my pubescent mind and body. I remember wishing away those changes, craving the innocence that possessed me before I was 14, when the bombs went off – an innocence both personal and political. The odour clouding my body was as unwelcome as the spectre of suicide bombings. In Baghdad, there were as many as a dozen a day; I read the news, I knew this related, somehow, to my doomed religion. I prayed that the train of history, and its concomitant trail of destruction, would not reach Britain. Couldn't it just shuttle between America and Afghanistan, but somehow swerve us, leaving us to frolic in our ahistorical Eden? If only British Muslims could be like Mauritian Muslims, say, or Guyanese Muslims, serenely insulated from these momentous episodes. If only we could sit history out. The moment we learned of the bombings, my Muslim classmates and I began concocting our nervous conspiracy theories. It was the French, of course, enraged at losing out to us the day before on their bid to host the Olympics (we were British enough to recognise our true enemies). The bombers couldn't possibly have been Muslim, still less British! Alas, they were both. They were 'homegrown', a word that before 2005 denoted vegetable produce, not terror threats. Subscribe to The New Statesman today from only £8.99 per month Subscribe I was no homegrown radish. Instead, I was a prospective homegrown terrorist: every British Muslim was, after 7/7 – even in the eyes of discerning writers. 'The Muslim community will have to suffer until it gets its house in order,' Martin Amis mused a year after the attacks. 'What sort of suffering? Not letting them travel. Deportation further down the road. Discriminatory stuff, until it hurts the whole community and they start getting tough with their children.' As one of those children, aged all of 16, I was scandalised. The scandal was less Islamophobia than the incoherence of liberalism. In The Second Plane – a now under-appreciated terror-themed work released a few years after 7/7 – Amis criticised Islam, in which, supposedly, 'there is no individual; there is only the ummah – the community of believers'. And yet here he was, a self-proclaimed believer in the individual, proposing collective punishment. The interview was disowned; a 'thought experiment', Amis regretted, but one with a sinister prescience. Reading the newspaper reviews in those years, I found relentless debates no longer about poetry or Proust, but suddenly about myself. This was one of the unintended effects of the train that brought Islamist suicide bombings to Britain: it transported the Muslim to the centre of cultural discourse. Every writer weighed in on the Muslim question. This was disquieting. But, I now appreciate, it also created a point of contact, however abrasive, between myself and literary life. 'If September 11 had to happen,' Amis writes in the The Second Plane, 'then I am not at all sorry that it happened in my lifetime.' I could say the same of the feverish aftermath to 7/7. It made me a journalist. Without it, I would be a suburban GP somewhere. Instead, I'm here at this magazine, privileged to have Martin Amis's old job. Tanjil Rashid will join the New Statesman as culture editor later this month [See also: Cover Story: Just raise tax!] Related
Wales Online
5 days ago
- Wales Online
Original lead singer of The Searchers dies aged 84
Original lead singer of The Searchers dies aged 84 Ronnie "Shorty Rogers" Woodbridge was the original lead singer of The Searchers, who were one of the earliest success stories of Liverpool's booming music scene The Searchers guitarist and singer Mike Pender and Ronnie Woodbridge (Image: Mike Pender facebook ) A trailblazer of the Merseybeat era, Ronnie "Shorty Rogers" Woodbridge, who played a pivotal role in shaping Liverpool's thriving music scene in the 1960s and 70s, has sadly passed away. Woodbridge was the original lead vocalist of the iconic band, The Searchers, one of the pioneering groups to achieve widespread success. The rock legend, 84, left an enduring legacy that spanned over six decades, from performances at The Olympia to Edinburgh's dance halls. Norman Stevens, an 87 year old veteran of Merseybeat and a member of the band Duke Duval, shared a memorable encounter with Ronnie: "One night we were playing at the Holyoake Hall on Smithdown Road, and this lanky tall guy came up and said 'can I do a couple of numbers lads?', and we said yeah. "We called him on and he rocked the place. You couldn't hear what we were playing for him. He was throwing himself all over the place, he had all the actions going." As one of the founding members of the band that would become The Searchers, Ronnie contributed to the group's early success, belting out hits such as "Sweets for My Sweet", "Love Potion No. 9", and "Hippy Hippy Shake" throughout the 1960s. The news of his passing comes on the heels of The Searchers' farewell performance on Glastonbury's Acoustic Stage on Friday night. For the latest TV and showbiz gossip sign up to our newsletter . Although Ronnie left the band before its meteoric rise to international stardom (becoming the second Liverpool group, after The Beatles, to conquer America), he forged a remarkable music career in his own right. Article continues below After rising to prominence as the lead vocalist with the Nat Allen Orchestra and charming crowds at the Locarno Ballroom in West Derby, which is today known as The Olympia, he uprooted to Edinburgh in 1960 and took a gig at the Palais de Danse in Fountainbridge, reports the Liverpool Echo. He humorously donned the stage name "Shorty Rogers", a witty nod to his considerable stature, entertaining audiences six nights a week. When the dance hall era waned, he pressed on with his solo ventures across rock and roll, country music, and comedy, gracing various stages throughout Scotland. Norman reminisced: "He was at the start of The Searchers, in fact it was him who gave them the name The Searchers from the John Wayne film of the same name. He was a nice guy too, a real Liverpool bloke we should all be proud of. "When Duke Duval finished we became the resident band at the Empress Jazz Club on Victoria Road in New Brighton and Ronnie used to come and sing with us from time to time. "He was spotted by someone from a large orchestra from Edinburgh along with this lad called Johnny, who was what we called 'the Liverpool Elvis Presley'. Him and Ronnie Wood were invited to join the large orchestra in Edinburgh and off they went, and good luck to them. "It was an absolutely marvellous time because it was all new, all raw, all against everything that our parents had stood for. They all still wore suits and ties, and we said 'bugger that we want to do what we want to do!' and off it went. We broke new ground and it echoed all over the country, bands springing up, it was all going on." Ronnie was born in January 1941 and raised in Anfield by his father and stepmother, alongside three siblings. In 1962, Ronnie and his wife Frances tied the knot, and their two sons followed in their father's musical footsteps. Article continues below Mike Pender, the renowned guitarist and vocalist of The Searchers, paid homage to his late friend, remarking: "I was saddened to learn of the passing of Ron Woodbridge. "Ron was with me the day we watched John Wayne give us the unforgettable name still famous today! Goodbye Ron. Gone but not forgotten."
Daily Mail
7 days ago
- Daily Mail
David Duchovny, 64, sells Malibu home for $11 million after marrying Monique Pendleberry, 31
David Duchovny has a lot to celebrate. He sold his chic Malibu bachelor pad on Point Dume for a cool $11 million shortly after marrying his girlfriend of six years, Monique Pendleberry, 31. The X Files star's, 64, former home has three bedrooms and an indoor-outdoor living plan over 3,580 square feet. The home hit the market for $12.5 million after buying it for $4.75 million in 2016. He originally rented the property from The X-Files creator Chris Carter when he needed a Los Angeles base. Duchovny razed the existing house, and poured about $7 million into building the modern home. Perhaps the most unique thing on the property is the guest house made out of an authentic train caboose. 'It's one of the things I'm most proud of that I've ever developed in my life,' Duchovny told WSJ of the caboose, which includes a living and sleeping area, dining nook, kitchen, bathroom, and even a roof deck. 'It's just an amazing little spot to be in,' he gushed. He originally rented the property from The X-Files creator Chris Carter when he needed a Los Angeles base. The open-concept main house seamlessly blends indoor and outdoor living, creating a breezy, relaxed vibe throughout the space. Outside, there's a sprawling wooden deck, a cozy lounge with built-in heaters, a sparkling lap pool, a sunken firepit, and an outdoor kitchen perfect for entertaining. You'll also find a Jacuzzi, a cold plunge, and an outdoor shower, making the backyard feel like a private spa retreat. He shares the home with his new wife Monique Pendleberry and their dogs, Brick and Rookie. Duchovny secretly married his much younger wife after six years of dating. Monique was just 25 when she started dating the then 58-year-old Californication star. Seen here June 10, 2023 Monique was just 24 when she started dating the then 58-year-old Californication star. Monique was born on June 14, 1993 and went to Newbury Park High School in Ventura Counry where she was the star of the soccer team. She went on to play soccer in college at the University of California at Irvine and now runs a Malibu-based floral design company called Friday Flowers. Duchovny and Pendleberry have largely kept their relationship out of the spotlight and only made their red carpet debut at the premiere of his film You People in 2023. 'They met at the juice company where Monique was working. I met David before she did, but we've all hung out. They travel together to New York, Canada and Malibu. But they're not dating, they're just friends,' Monique's uncle Dirk Drew told Radar Online in 2023. The couple met at SunLife Organic Juicery, where Monique worked in 2017. A friend of David's owns the store. Prior to Monique, David was married to actress Tea Leoni, 59, from 1997 to 2014. The pair tied the knot in 1997 and quickly became one of Hollywood's most prominent power couples, often praised for keeping their private life relatively low-key despite their fame. However, their relationship hit a rough patch in 2008 when Duchovny checked himself into a rehabilitation center for treatment of sex addiction. The separation made headlines, but the two reunited in 2011, sparking hope for a lasting reconciliation. Despite their efforts, the couple quietly parted ways again and ultimately finalized their divorce in 2014 after 17 years of marriage. They share two children: daughter Madelaine West Duchovny, 24, who has begun forging her own path as an actress, and son Kyd Miller Duchovny, 21, who has largely stayed out of the spotlight.
