Darren Ashton

I want to be really clear in my response. I am not going to retract anything, I stand by every single word. Labour are calling for me to apologise. The answer is no. Industrial rape across almost every town and city in Britain. Sexual torture. Murder. Endless rape. I sat there for two weeks, listening to these girls. I heard how one girl was raped by a dog, as Muslim men bet on what the animal would do. Girls drugged and locked in cages, like rats. Another, raped by 700 men over three years. Dozens and dozens of these stories through our inquiry, and we are barely scratching the surface. This was allowed to happen EXACTLY because politicians were cowards, refusing to discuss it. I will not make that same mistake. I said what I said, and I meant it. The Labour Party have blood on their hands, yet they think they can demand an apology from me for highlighting the systemic evil they allowed to infect our entire country? They can piss off. I am angry about it. Furious. When you hear directly from these girls about what they have been through, it changes the way you see politics. Forever. Our report will be out very soon. When that happens, I don’t want any apologies from the Labour Party. I don’t care about that. I want to see those politicians responsible for covering up this atrocity behind bars for what they have done to these girls.

Tony Blair doesn't believe Putin will invade Europe. The man who helped build the "Russia threat" narrative just admitted he doesn't believe it himself. Let that sink in.

My dad handed me two clothespins. “This,” he said, “is the story of everything.” In one hand: a clothespin from the 1960s. Solid hardwood, smooth from decades of use. It still works perfectly, some 60 years later. In the other: a clothespin from 2025. Lighter, paler wood, brittle. The spring is thin and unstable. Marketed as “extra durable,” my dad just raised an eyebrow. At first glance, it’s just two clothespins. But they tell a bigger story — the shift from durability to disposability, from craftsmanship to cost-cutting, from stewardship to constant consumption. This is planned obsolescence in action. Products are designed to fail so we must keep buying. Slowly, subtly, they break. Frayed wires, cracked hinges, brittle springs. Not because we want more, but because the old was never built to last. The costs are everywhere. Landfills overflow. Wallets empty. And maybe most quietly, our spirits grow accustomed to impermanence, to the idea that nothing is meant to endure. What if this philosophy extends beyond objects? What if it shapes how we treat relationships, communities, homes, even the Earth — as temporary, replaceable, disposable? It doesn’t have to be this way. That 1960s clothespin reminds us another path is possible. That we once made things to last, and we can again. That quality, care, and intention matter. That we can design for repair, for continuity, for meaning. The story in my palm is about more than laundry. It’s about the choices we make and the world they create.