Latest news with #CND
BBC News
a day ago
- Politics
- BBC News
CND calls for transparency on 'nuclear weapons' to RAF Lakenheath
Campaigners have called for government "transparency" amid reports the United States Air Force has moved nuclear weapons to a Suffolk airbase. Flight data showed a specialist C-17A Globemaster transporter - capable of carrying extra heavy loads - travelling more than 4,400 miles (8,200km) from New Mexico in the United States to RAF Lakenheath last week. The Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament (CND) said Prime Minister Keir Starmer should "come clean" and make a formal statement about the potential deployment. Neither the United States Air Force (USAF) or the Ministry of Defence comments on nuclear weapons deployments. Last year, US Department of Defence indicated RAF Lakenheath was preparing facilities to house and guard nuclear bombs. Documents detailing a contract awarded to build defensive shelters for the base's "upcoming nuclear mission" were published, and then withdrawn, by the US Department of would be the first time since 2008 that nuclear weapons had been in place at Lakenheath. The base is home to the 48th Fighter Wing, also known as the Liberty F-35A Lightning II jets stationed at the base have successfully been flight tested to carry the short-range B61-12 thermonuclear bomb, a tactical weapon designed for the battlefield. William Alberque, a former NATO arms control expert, said he believed the transporter's cargo included B61-12 nuclear Alberque, who is now at the foreign policy research institute The Pacific Forum, said all signs pointed to the aircraft carrying nuclear weapons."One would have to say the balance of evidence has tipped the scales from 'no' to 'yes'."We know the C-17s loaded at a 'hot weapons' pad because their transponders were on - and that this is voluntary and often not done."The transponder's code was for a dangerous load, he told the BBC, and that air refuelling had taken place over the Atlantic."If they had no nuclear cargo, they could have refuelled on the ground," he said, adding "that's a message". Suffolk-based aviation analyst Roger Smith agreed the indications were the plane was carrying a nuclear payload. The C-17A originally took off from its base at McChord Air Force Base in Washington State on 15 July before going to USAF's Nuclear Weapons Center at Kirtland Air Force Base, according to data from the flight tracking website ADS-B said it used the callsign REACH 4574, which is primarily used by the US Air Mobility Command. He told the BBC the four digit number indicated a more specialised or sensitive mission and that the callsign is also associated with the Prime Nuclear Airlift Force (PNAF) based at McChord AFB. "The PNAF is a group of specialist aircrew and loading crews, trained and cleared to move nuclear weapons by air" he added. Reacting to the reports of the possible delivery of the bombs, the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament (CND) called on the prime minister to make a formal Tom Unterrainer said: "It is completely inappropriate for the public to be finding out about such a major escalation in nuclear dangers via reports in British newspapers and the assessments of security experts."Keir Starmer must make a public statement about this major change in Britain's security arrangements and allow for a transparent and democratic debate on this to be held in Parliament."A Ministry of Defence spokesman said: "It remains a long-standing UK and NATO policy to neither confirm nor deny the presence of nuclear weapons at a given location."A US Department of Defense official said: "Consistent with longstanding US policy, we neither confirm nor deny the presence or absence of nuclear weapons at any particular location." Follow Suffolk news on BBC Sounds, Facebook, Instagram and X.
Montreal Gazette
3 days ago
- Politics
- Montreal Gazette
Opinion: A woman was 300 years ahead of the Pope
By Special to the Montreal Gazette A puff of white smoke. An inaugural mass. Countless headlines. More than two months have passed since the election of Pope Leo XIV, celebrated as the first American pope. But how many people realize he is 300 years behind the first American nun? Or that she was basically Canadian? I came across Lydia Longley's story more than 25 years ago when researching my husband's Eastern Township roots. History is my passion. I've been an educator in Canada, the U.S. and beyond, and am the editor of the Victoria Historical Society's quarterly publication. I've also written for the Literary and Historical Society of Quebec. What follows is drawn from dozens of original documents and 19th century accounts. Longley was born in 1674 in Groton, Massachusetts Bay Colony. She was a Puritan woman, Wabanaki captive, Catholic convert and member of the Congrégation de Notre-Dame (CND). She has been called 'the first American nun' — the subject of a 1958 children's book of that title. Like Pope Leo, Longley was a teacher. She worked at a small CND mission on l'Île d'Orléans and the order's large Pointe-St-Charles farm. Like Pope Leo, she served the church for decades, far from her native home. She, too, lived in times of global strife. Unlike the Pope, she was kidnapped, held hostage, made a new life for herself and never returned to America. From 1650 to 1775 the Haudenosaunee and Wabanaki raided the New England/New France borderlands in order to defend their territories, dissuade settlers from further encroachment and take captives who could be ransomed or sold. Colonial powers retaliated. Settlement disrupted the lives of Indigenous peoples in every way imaginable; its impact is still felt in Canada and around the world. Attacks intensified when France and England were at war. At one point, Massachusetts authorities forbade civilians from abandoning rural settlements; they were the first line of defence, protecting larger towns. On July 27, 1694 a group of Wabanaki attacked Groton. Most of Longley's family and several neighbours were killed. Longley was among a dozen people captured. Her story, like that of many others caught in border conflicts, is one of dislocation and death. Historian Emma Lewis Coleman accounted for more than 1,600 colonial Americans who were captured and taken to Canada. Most returned home but approximately 200 stayed in Quebec permanently. Around 50 captives were fully incorporated into Indigenous communities. At least seven young women became members of Catholic religious orders; Longley was the first known to have taken permanent vows. By March 1696, Longley was at the CND in Montreal (Ville-Marie). Accounts of how she got there, where she stayed and what — or who — influenced her religious conversion are all speculative. But it is fact that she was baptized as a Catholic in April 1696. She signed the register Lydia Magdalen Longley. In December she joined the congregation. By September 1699 Longley was a professed nun, Sister Ste-Madeleine, named after the patron saint of women, converts and penitent sinners. CND nuns went freely about Montreal and to missions throughout Quebec. They taught their students, tended farms and transacted congregation business. Longley was not cloistered; she learned to live and work in a new language and culture. Longley died in Montreal in 1758 at age 84. She was interred at the parish church, site of today's Notre-Dame Basilica. She spent most of her life in New France. Nonetheless, the burial record referred to her as an 'English Woman' — not French, not Canadian. Longley's story is still relevant. Today, no matter where they settle or what contributions they make, immigrants and refugees often are seen as 'the other.' Yet Longley's story offers hope. It's one of resilience, comfort in community and adaptation in times of turmoil. Longley's life also speaks to the glacial pace of change in religious and secular institutions. 'First Canadian Pope,' 'First Woman Pope,' even 'First Woman Pope is Canadian.' Imagine those headlines.
Telegraph
08-07-2025
- Politics
- Telegraph
British nukes are back – and so are CND's middle-class campaigners
'Gather round everybody, we're going to do some chanting. And the first one we're going to do is: 'We want the nukes out now.'' It's a scorching hot day in Norfolk, and outside RAF Marham, Sophie Bolt, the general secretary of the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament (CND), wearing a broad-brimmed straw hat and a vivid floral dress, megaphone in hand, is getting things underway. The 30 or 40 people gather in front of the base's entrance sign, partially obscured by a banner so it now reads: 'Royal Air Force: Welfare not Warfare', while the handful of photographers covering the event take their positions. ' We want the nukes out now, we want the nukes out now, we want the nukes out NOW!' It's a few days after the Nato summit in the Hague, where Keir Starmer had announced that Britain was to purchase 12 American F-35A jets, which are capable of carrying conventional munitions and also the US B61-12 gravity bomb. US nuclear weapons have not been stored in the UK since the last left RAF Lakenheath in 2008 – while Britain has not had its own air-launched nuclear weapons since 1998. Now the planes and the bombs are coming back, to be stationed at RAF Marham. So it was that the word had gone out from the CND to groups, as far flung as Lewisham and Norwich, to assemble at the gates. 'We want the nukes out now, we want the nukes out NOW!' 'I think that's very good on the chanting front,' Sophie says, 'so give yourself a big cheer.' Now the group assembles for a photograph, behind another banner – 'Remember Hiroshima'. The B61-12 gravity bomb, that will be stored perhaps a few hundred yards from where we are standing, has the explosive power of more than three times the weapon dropped on the Japanese city in 1945. A man wearing a Starmer mask holds up two model bombs. Others hold up placards bearing the symbol of the CND, which in the 1960s and beyond became the universally recognised peace sign. Founded in 1958, the CND claims to be Europe's largest single issue campaign, and the longest running. A year earlier, in 1957, Britain had tested atomic and hydrogen bombs for the first time, becoming the third atomic power after the US and the USSR, and spurring rising public anxiety about the dangers of nuclear weapons and proliferation. 'The case is quite simple,' Bertrand Russell, the philosopher and pacifist who was the CND's first president, wrote. 'We think that the policy which is being pursued by the western powers is one which is almost bound to end in the extermination of the human race. Some of us think that might be rather a pity.' Other prominent members included the Rev John Collins, founder of Christian Action and one of the four founders of the charity War on Want, and Donald, Lord Soper, the Methodist minister and pacifist, who was known as 'Dr Soapbox', and who preached at Speakers' Corner and Tower Hill, against war, poverty, drink, gambling, slave labour, racial inequality and capital punishment. Its unofficial headquarters was in a Soho cafe, 'filled with bearded men playing chess', the writer Barry Miles once recalled, but the cause energised a constituency far beyond the Left, students and the clergy. Its annual marches at Easter from London to the Atomic Weapons Establishment at Aldermaston, Berkshire, which began in 1958, with music provided by a trad jazz band and a skiffle group, drew tens of thousands of people. 'The marchers were mainly middle class and professional people,' The Daily Mail wrote of the first march. 'They were the sort of people who would normally spend Easter listening to a Beethoven concert on the Home Service, pouring dry sherry from a decanter for the neighbours, painting Picasso designs on hard-boiled eggs, attempting the literary competition in the weekly papers, or going to church with the children. Instead, they were walking through the streets in their old clothes. They were behaving entirely against the normal tradition of their class, their neighbourhood, and their upbringing.' It is difficult to conceive, perhaps, how real and present the fear of nuclear annihilation was at the time. The bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki had happened a mere 13 years earlier, and the Cold War was at its height, the threat of nuclear apocalypse looming in everyone's minds. As an 11-year-old grammar school boy at the time of the Cuban missile crisis, I can vividly remember reading the newspaper accounts of Kennedy's ultimatum to Khrushchev to turn round the ships steaming towards Cuba, and going to bed wondering if I would wake up next morning. Or what I would wake up to, if I did. The fear receded, if never going away, and the interest in the CND with it. But now Sophie says, the organisation is seeing an upsurge in membership, driven by a higher level of awareness of the nuclear threat, and events in Ukraine and the Middle East. The spectre of nuclear warfare seems to be permeating public consciousness, with the film Oppenheimer and video games like Fallout and Atomfall. Last October, the BBC screened Threads, the apocalyptic war drama first shown in 1984, depicting the horrifying effects of a nuclear apocalypse on Sheffield. A new contemporary adaptation for TV is being produced by Warp films, the company that made the critically-acclaimed Adolescence. Unrest is in the air. Everyone has something to protest about nowadays, and most demonstrations have the appearance of a vortex drawing in all manner of causes from Extinction Rebellion to Stand Up to Racism. But the protest at RAF Marham has a single-mindedness of purpose that makes it seem all the more virtuous. There are no Free Palestine flags or SWP placards. Nobody storms the gates. Nobody glues themselves to the road. Nobody shouts or throws anything. Nobody is arrested. Most are veterans of anti-nuclear protests going back more than 40 years who, one imagines, if not as in an earlier era, pouring sherry from a decanter for their neighbours or painting Picasso designs on hard-boiled eggs, would otherwise be spending a quiet Saturday afternoon on their allotment, or volunteering at their local charity shop. People shelter under a tree for shade, spreading themselves on the grass, or sitting in picnic chairs. There are sandwiches, flasks and sun cream. A small group of shirt-sleeved police stand on the other side of the road, watching incuriously and talking among themselves. Off-duty airmen and women stroll through the gate in their shorts and T-shirts with nary a word being said. A car drives by, sounding its horn in support. Now Sophie hands the microphone to anyone who wants to come up and say a few words. Glen Borrill, 57, has driven the 85 miles from Mansfield to join the protest, after his wife had read about it on social media. He's never been involved with the CND before, he says, 'but with everything that's going on in the news, I thought if I don't get involved now, when that big bang comes around, I'll have only got myself to blame because I've not done anything to stand against it. 'I've not felt so anxious about what could happen since back in the 1980s when everything was kicking off then.' He's watched Threads recently, he says. 'It's based in a city not that far from Mansfield, and it was in a similar situation in the Middle East to what's happening now. That's how frightening it's become. It's like déjà vu. That was just a film, but the actual reality seems to be playing out as that film did.' He points to the guard standing on the other side of the fence. 'Even these lads here, when the bombs come, they're not going to let them in the bunkers.' A woman from Norwich says that people living around RAF Lakenheath are being given iodine to guard against radiation fallout from the base. I have no idea if this is true or not. She has her own chant – 'Starmer, Starmer is an evil re-armer'. A man who worked for the BBC at the time of the Iraq war accuses the corporation of telling lies, and says the mainstream media cannot be trusted. Several people say that. David Pybus is 75, a tall, rangy man with gentle eyes peering out from beneath a bush hat. He's come from Peterborough, an hour and a half by bus. 'Generally speaking,' he says, 'the media just give you what the Government is saying. You only get that narrative, and they roll out some former generals and people with military ties, and that's what you get in the mainstream media.' He has been a member of the CND since 1980 when Margaret Thatcher first announced that ground-launched nuclear weapons would be based at RAF Greenham Common and RAF Molesworth. 'Being a person of Christian faith, I felt I was faced with something very evil that was contrary to that, and it was very important to try and do something if you could to oppose that.' The bombs at Lakenheath and Molesworth had gone, he says, '[and] there was a sense that things were becoming more peaceful. But now they're coming back and the threat has increased again, so here I am.' In the small copse of trees, children from the service housing across the road have been playing hide and seek and watching the gathering with curiosity. The protest has lasted for two hours, but now the steam has run out of it and the heat is taking its toll. People begin to take down the signs on the gate, carefully unpicking the last of the gaffer tape and putting it in a refuse sack. They are packing up their banners and belongings, folding their picnic chairs, and swapping telephone numbers and handshakes. I ask Sue Wright how many protests she had attended over the years. 'Lost count,' she says with a laugh. She is 75, a retired primary school teacher, wearing a CND cap and a T-shirt with the CND symbol made of interlocking flowers. She first became involved with the CND in 1968 when she was student and, when she retired at the age of 60, became more actively involved with Norwich CND. 'It was quite small, all older than me – I was the youngster. And eventually they asked me to be the chair.' The oldest member is 84, 'but he's protesting somewhere else today'. All afternoon, the quiet voice of fatalism and doubt has been whispering in my ear. After more than 60 years of protest, the world still has nuclear weapons, the threat of annihilation is closer than ever, and the future lies in the hands of those far more powerful than the small hardy band gathered at the gates. In the absence of multilateral disarmament, it is Mutually Assured Destruction, MAD, that has kept the peace – such as it is. 'MADness, I call it,' Sue says. 'Total madness. But it's not assured at all. Just one use can set off a chain reaction.' Does she ever feel as if she's banging her head against a brick wall? 'Sometimes. Especially when it doesn't get reported in newspapers and on the TV, and it doesn't get a mention unless someone breaks the law, and we're committed to not breaking the law.' But that, she says, does not mean she was going to stop. She joined the CND when she was 18, she says, 'because I was terrified. I thought that nuclear weapons are so destructive that they should not exist. And I'm terrified now. 'I have a new grandson who will be two weeks old at about 10 o'clock tonight, and I fear for his future. I have seven other grandchildren and I want them to grow up in a peaceful world. I want them to grow up and to have a world to live in. I will do all I can to make people see the madness of it.' David comes up and quietly slips a postcard printed with the World Peace Prayer into my jacket pocket: 'Let peace fill our hearts. Our world, our universe'. His lift to King's Lynn seems to have left without him. We drop him off at the station, he sits down in the shade of the bus shelter, waiting for the bus, and the hour and a half journey back to Peterborough.
The Herald Scotland
07-07-2025
- The Herald Scotland
How a shot in Paisley in 1856 was heard around the world
The manufacturing bosses were known as the 'corks' and were notorious for exploiting the labour and the workmanship of the Paisley weavers in an industry that made them fortunes. Their predations forced the weavers to form some of the earliest known trade unions in the UK, more than a century before they were granted legal protection by the state. Read more: And so, on the first Saturday of July, Paisley holds its Sma' Shot Day to commemorate one of the most important developments in the history of trade unionism and workers right. Having initially reproached myself for not knowing very much about this tale and absolutely nothing of Sma' Shot Day I headed to Paisley on Saturday. This is the sort of event I really should be covering, right? And not merely in a professional capacity. As a committed trade unionist, hailing from a family of trade unionists whose activism stretches back before the war, I really should be here every year. It's not as though it's hard to miss. The programme of events for the day lasts from morning until night, a mini-festival of events that – for once – really does mean 'for all the family'. And at its centre, a parade through Paisley town centre that rises in Brodie Park to the south before finishing on the green across from Paisley's grand cathedral. This is where the ceremonial burning of a 12-ft Cork mannequin representing the victory of the workers over the cheats and scammers which raw capitalism produces in every generation. I was expecting a parade a mile long to be winding through Paisley's superb civic buildings and Scotland's most eye-catching town centre with that gorgeous cathedral and the old mill edifices and the White Cart winding through. And you reproach yourself once more for not visiting this place more often, and especially now as it seems to be undergoing a wee renaissance. Nothing you can hang your hat on quite yet: just a presentiment of something bold and optimistic happening in these streets and wynds and in the cafes and restaurants that weren't here when you last visited. Sma Shot Day (Image: Robert Perry) But here's the thing: someone had devoted a lot of work into making this parade look vibrant so that it proceeded with a swagger and a shimmy. There were schoolkids in costumes; giant mannequins and stilt-walkers and dancers. There were some of the assorted activist groups that you'd expect to see at a parade like this: Living Rent, CND and, of course, the Socialist Workers Party here represented by their Renfrewshire branch, and God love them for it, because they're always here, always represented. And your heart was warmed too by a banner belonging to the Calton Weavers, who'll have their big day on August 31 in Glasgow's East End, not far away from the church where I was baptised. There are several other community groups such as the Renfrewshire Carers Centre; the University of the Third Age and the Waspi Women. Where were all the others, who belong to Scotland's anointed trade elites? Where were the SNP and The Greens and the Lib-Dems? This isn't just another workers' rights event; this day represents one of the most important moments in the history of working-class activism. The Labour Party had a stall down on the piazza beside the cathedral, along with 20 or so other little tented pavilions, but they too should have been all over it. Read More: Davie Fulton, a retired construction worker who worked on repairs to the cathedral, sees me taking notes and introduces himself. 'I remember when this parade was more than three times as big as this,' he said. 'It would take ages to come through the town centre and all of the unions and local groups were present.' Not today though. Another trade union activist expresses disappointment that her own trade union isn't represented. 'They're keen that we get along to various Pride events and Palestine demos – and that's fine – but this is what real trade union activism is all about: jobs, wages, security, maternity rights, the real living wage, fair distribution of wealth and dignity at work.' Sma' Shot Day was a local workers holiday until war broke out in 1939 and then was slowly consigned to history: a remnant of a simpler time and maybe something else rooted in the new opportunities for homes and education and better pay in the era of post-war expansion when it might have seemed that many of the old battles for social justice and fairness at work had been won. In 1986 though, it was revived at a time when Thatcherism was beginning to lay waste to the UK's traditional industries and destroying the communities they supported. Sma' Shot Day and the victory it represented need to be remembered again. As we gather for the Burning of the Cork on Cotton Street, outside the council buildings I meet sisters Liz and Jane who are here with Jane's grandson, Daniel and his drum. 'He's been waiting all year for this event,' says Jane, a former council worker. Jane once worked for the old Anchor Mill and for the next 20 minutes they provide me with an eloquent and detailed folk history of their town. Sma Shot Day (Image: Robert Perry) 'This is a great day,' says Jane, 'and it's never been more important to remember the weavers' struggle against the corks. There are no social and affordable houses being built and young people especially are once again prey to low wages which make it impossible to get on the housing ladder." In the 'Sma Shot Cottages, just a few hundred yards from the Cathedral precinct, the original weaving looms are still intact and in good working order. This is where a mid-19th century mill foreman lived, complete with kitchen/living area, bedroom, children's room and parlour. Here I find Dr Dan Coughlin is explaining the set-up on the loom. He's weaving a herringbone cloth. The warp threads run the length of the fabric, the weft threads run across its width. The loom is set up with warp threads going through eyelets, it has four treaders which he operates with his feet in different combinations. His feet move the treaders and the warp threads separate to create a shed, the space through which he shoots the shuttle which carries the weft thread left to right. He moves the treaders with his feet again to create a new shed and sends the shuttle back the way through the new shed, right to left, to weave he fabric. He lays to rest some myths about the Sma' Shot but paints a vivid picture of the weavers' skills and gets to the core of their dispute with the bosses. It was all about fairness. 'The Paisley shawl had three different types of yarn,' he explains. 'The pattern yarn, the ground yarn and the small shot. This had nothing to do with the weavers having to pay for it themselves, it was an unfair system of payment. In the Paisley shawl we can have so many colours per line. If you have three colours in one line, then you have to put in a sma' shot behind them and then you start the next line; put in three colours; put the sma' shot behind them. 'In Paisley you didn't get paid for the sma' shot, you got paid for the pattern shot. The unfairness of the system was that if one weaver here, on this loom, got a shawl with only one colour in it, every second shot wasn't being paid for. The weaver over there has four colours in his shawl - every fifth one of his is not getting paid for, a weaver with eight colours, every ninth shot is not being paid for, so it's an unfair system of payment. If I'm asked to do a pattern with only one colour, I realise I'm not going to get paid for half my work, so it was an unfair system of payment. That was the problem.' Dr Coughlin is describing both an art and a science. The craft and workmanship – as it does in all industries – is what built Scotland's wealth. Three centuries later, the workers are still creating Scotland's wealth and still being cut out of it.
Irish Independent
01-07-2025
- Entertainment
- Irish Independent
Mark Beaumont: Protest is as much a part of the soul of Glasto' as the music
The Australian punks accused the media of 'trying to make it look like just a couple of isolated incidents and a couple of 'bad bands', so it appears the public isn't as anti-genocide as it is'. Pretty much every act I saw at this year's festival dropped a 'Free Palestine' in somewhere. 'The status quo has shifted majorly,' the Sniffers summarised – 'people are concerned and desperate for our governments to listen.' Amid such a fervent media furore, many seem frustrated that the dark spectre of politics has infiltrated their cosy sofa weekend watching Rod Stewart – which only highlights how disconnected the BBC-ified Glastonbury experience is from the fundamental meaning and history of the event. Ever since Michael Eavis gave out free milk in 1970 in the name of humanitarian togetherness, Glastonbury has been deeply political. In 1981, Eavis partnered with the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament (CND), whose logo is still prominently placed at the top of the Pyramid Stage, with the aim of raising money for the organisation and promoting its message of nuclear disarmament. Throughout the Eighties and early Nineties, it was a haven not just for the Green Field's hippies but for the otherwise outcast traveller community – infusing the event with the politics of rebellion, environmentalism and social justice upon which its modern counter-cultural reputation was built. Every year, the Greenpeace Field shouts about the latest developments in the climate emergency, and the Leftfield tent hosts speeches and discussions on a vast array of political issues. And throughout its history, Glastonbury has been the place where major bands and figures make major statements. In 2005, Bob Geldof brought the Make Poverty History campaign to Worthy Farm. In 2017, the then leader of the Labour Party made a high-profile Pyramid Stage appearance, drawn to the home of the mass by an 'Oh, Jeremy Corbyn' chant – galvanising the youthful hope that had grown around him at the time. In 2022, Ukrainian president Volodymyr Zelensky crystallised the nation's solidarity with his country with a powerful video message to the Pilton masses. Waking up to the shock Brexit vote result in 2016, it was at Glastonbury that bands such as Bastille and Foals gave voice to Remoaner despair. And, three years later, it was during his dazzling headline set that rapper Stormzy – clad in a monochrome Union flag stab-proof vest – encapsulated the feelings of many in the nation when he got the vast, televised crowd chanting 'f*** Boris'. It may come as a shock to the TV audience that can bypass the politics pulsing from every corner of Worthy Farm each year (and particularly in 2025) with the flick of a red button, but brazen and confrontational stands on crucial issues of the day are what Glastonbury – and the passionate, sometimes angry young people who attend and play it – has always done. And will continue to do, especially now it's a public platform commanding viewing numbers in the millions. Glastonbury is far more than a big, flag-clogged gig on a farm – it's also a powerful source of righteous campaigning and high-profile tub-thumping, with many great and positive politicised moments under its belt. We might not agree with everything that's said here – we might find some of it unacceptable and shocking – but let's not be in any way surprised by it.
