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On 23 June 2016, the United Kingdom’s electorate shifted from party‑centric voting to a binary choice between staying in or leaving the European Union. A decade later, about 60 % of the population still define themselves by the side they chose in that single referendum, turning a one‑off political decision into a lasting personal identity.While analysts often focus on the policy fallout—economic turbulence, party infighting, and shifting trade relations—the real impact runs deeper. The referendum ignited a civil‑war‑like split that continues to shape elections, media narratives, and everyday conversations across the country.Before the global upheavals of the George Floyd protests and the Covid‑19 vaccine rollout, Brexit was Britain’s most potent form of identity politics. It spawned new media outlets, such as GB News, and programmes like The Rest Is Politics, while also marginalising older cultural tropes like the “centrist dad” or “gammon” heckler on Question Time. Figures such as Nigel Farage and Zack Polanski now occupy the political fringe rather than the mainstream.The analysis draws on the new book Tribal Politics: How Brexit Divided Britain by political scientists Sara Hobolt and James Tilley. Their longitudinal surveys reveal a simple yet striking pattern: the referendum transformed a previously lukewarm public attitude toward the EU into a powerful, identity‑based habit.Prior to 2016, most Britons held only a mild Euroscepticism and gave the EU little thought. Even former Prime Minister David Cameron tried to silence the issue in 2006, believing it failed to engage voters. The sudden elevation of a niche concern to a national obsession forced ordinary citizens to pick a side, discuss it in pubs, and embed it into their self‑image—a process James Clear describes as building “identity‑based habits”.Data from Hobolt and Tilley show that emotional attachment to the Brexit identity was modest before the vote, rose sharply as the referendum approached, and surged dramatically after the result was announced. The post‑vote period saw a flood of EU‑themed merchandise, street rallies, and even flag‑clashes at cultural events such as the 2017 Last Night of the Proms.Crucially, the tribal divide has not faded. By 2025, only around 40 % of “Leavers” feel comfortable discussing politics with “Remainers”, and the sentiment is reciprocated. This goes beyond mere disagreement; it reflects a level of social discrimination where individuals on opposite sides would hesitate to share a home or marry into each other’s families.The authors note that the split now extends to perceptions of reality itself. Even in 2024, Remainers and Leavers disagreed on basic economic indicators, illustrating how the referendum reshaped not just policy preferences but fundamental worldviews.Class‑based voting, which dominated the 20th‑century British political landscape, has been largely supplanted by this new cultural cleavage. A previous study co‑authored by Tilley showed that the Labour Party’s turn toward the political centre in the 1990s eroded traditional working‑class loyalty. Today, leader Keir Starmer’s working‑class credentials appear largely symbolic, offering little substantive change.With class politics receded, culture wars have taken centre stage. The Brexit campaign’s vague promises about trade left the nation with a protracted, messy adjustment period. Immigration, famously dubbed the “baseball bat” issue by Dominic Cummings, remains the most polarising policy divide, followed by foreign aid and even the death penalty.Hobolt and Tilley’s most striking chart shows that while Remainers and Leavers clash over immigration, they share little disagreement on economic equality, workers’ rights, or public ownership—issues that directly affect household incomes. This suggests that the political battle is driven more by symbolic identity than by material concerns, benefitting those already financially secure.In sum, the United Kingdom’s post‑Brexit reality is one of entrenched tribalism, where a single referendum has reshaped social bonds, political discourse, and perceptions of truth itself. The nation continues to grapple with the legacy of a vote that turned a policy decision into a lasting cultural fault line.

BBC Two’s three‑part series ‘Michael Jackson: An American Tragedy’ attempts to map the arc of the King of Pop from a Midwestern child prodigy to a global phenomenon whose legacy is still contested. Released ahead of the family‑approved biopic Michael, the documentary does not promise fresh revelations; instead, it seeks to place the singer’s meteoric fame, legal controversies and post‑mortem financial empire within a single narrative. The first episode, titled Fame, foregrounds Jackson’s musical genius while also exposing the fraught dynamics of his family life. Interviews with siblings and childhood acquaintances depict a household where “six bunk beds in one room” were the norm, and where fear of their father, Joe Jackson, loomed large. La Toyia Jackson’s recollection that “Michael had a fear of my father – we all did” underscores the pressure that shaped his early years. In The Reckoning, the series shifts to the period of criminal investigations and media scrutiny. Former spiritual adviser Rabbi Shmuley Boteach describes the tragedy as a man who, despite unparalleled attention, remained “utterly lonely.” Prosecutor Ron Zonen argues that the sheer scale of the Jackson enterprise eclipsed the pursuit of justice, noting the obviousness of the abuse allegations in his view. The episode also revisits the 2003 Martin Bashir documentary, which Boteach recalls as a “shock” that contributed to the star’s eventual downfall. The final installment, The Resurrection, examines the attempts to revive Jackson’s career, his sudden death, and the ripple effects of the 2019 Leaving Neverland documentary. The review notes that the allegations have reshaped public perception to the point where many, including the reviewer, find it difficult to engage with his music. The series concludes that the ongoing legal battles—seven alleged victims are currently suing the estate—represent “the most extraordinary effort to uncancel someone in history.” While the documentary assembles an extensive roster of interviewees—family members, former managers, record executives, and even Donald Trump—it occasionally suffers from an overly broad brushstroke that blurs moral clarity. The reviewer acknowledges the valiant effort to strike a middle ground but questions whether such balance is sufficient for a story marked by “wild extremes.” Overall, the series provides a comprehensive, if not groundbreaking, overview of Jackson’s complex narrative, serving as a timely companion piece to the upcoming biopic and a reminder that the conversation around his legacy remains far from settled. Michael Jackson: An American Tragedy is currently streaming on iPlayer.

In the spring of 2002, the modest Free Butt pub on Brighton’s seafront buzzed with a restless energy. Future stars such as Natasha Khan, then a university art student, danced atop the bar while the Yeah Yeah Yeahs thundered through their first UK dates. Behind the scenes, band frontmen like Guy McKnight of Eighties Matchbox B‑Line Disaster served pints, and budding engineers like Steve Ansell of Cat on Form fine‑tuned the sound. The atmosphere felt like a rite of passage, where any performer could slip from a cramped stage to national attention.Unlike the neatly branded scenes of New York’s garage‑rock revival or London’s Libertines‑driven hype, Brighton’s early‑2000s scene resisted a single aesthetic. Rock groups emerged from rehearsal rooms and tiny clubs with wildly different looks and sounds, creating a cultural mosaic rather than a monolithic movement.Electrelane’s guitarist recalls recording their debut Rock It to the Moon in a studio once owned by the Levellers, and crafting their sophomore effort inside a former public toilet. These unconventional spaces proved surprisingly fertile, underscoring the city’s DIY spirit.By the turn of the millennium, the big‑beat dominance of Fatboy Slim and Skint Records had faded, making way for a grassroots rock surge. Sea Power relocated from Reading to Brighton, drawn by the city’s “dilapidated charm and fresh sea air”. Their self‑organized Club Sea Power nights at the Lift offered a chaotic yet liberating platform that eventually caught Rough Trade’s attention.Women played a pivotal role in shaping the scene’s infrastructure. Promoters Lisa Lout and Anna Moulson, both still active, booked seminal shows—including the Strokes’ first UK gig at the Lift in 2001—and helped launch the Great Escape festival. Their efforts ensured that bands such as the Pipettes, Electrelane and Bat for Lashes could share stages and media coverage.Artists recall the city’s palpable sense of belonging. Rose Dougall of the Pipettes describes a landscape where “alternative culture was on every street, from vintage shops to the colour of the houses,” and where “small venues made it feel attainable to launch a project.” Similarly, Brakes frontman Eamon Hamilton contrasts Brighton’s walk‑able, collaborative vibe with London’s darker, more competitive energy.Music journalism mirrored the scene’s intensity. Everett True and photographer Steve Gullick launched Careless Talk Costs Lives in 2002, a deliberately short‑run magazine that championed female writers and bands at a time when the industry was still heavily male‑dominated.As rents surged through the 2010s, many of the cheap flats, rehearsal rooms and iconic venues that underpinned the scene vanished. The Free Butt closed, independent record stores shuttered, and the once‑abundant low‑cost infrastructure dwindled, prompting a migration of creative energy down the coast to places like Margate, Ramsgate, Folkestone and Shoreham.Nevertheless, the remnants of Brighton’s network continue to nurture new talent, from the Kooks to Dream Wife and Gazelle Twin. The city’s strength lies not in a singular sound but in its capacity to host a “constant collision of wildly dissimilar bands,” allowing artists to develop authentically and fearlessly.

NASA's sonifications have made it possible for us to experience the cosmos in a new way, transforming electromagnetic energy into sound waves that our ears can pick up. This innovative approach has allowed us to 'hear' the orbits and energies of celestial bodies like Jupiter, Saturn, and the Sun. The Artemis II mission, which recently slingshotted four astronauts around the moon and back, has provided a unique opportunity for us to connect with the astronauts on board. The mundane details of the mission, such as the wake-up music that NASA pipes into their module every orbital morning, have given us a glimpse into the daily lives of these space travelers. In the 1960s, the Apollo 10 mission encountered mysterious sounds while on the far side of the moon. The astronauts reported hearing a high whistling sound accompanied by a lower whooshing noise. Initially, this sparked speculation, but it was later discovered that the sounds were caused by interference between two VHF radio transmitters on board the spacecraft. NASA's sonifications are not just limited to the sounds of spacecraft. The agency has also created sonifications of cosmic phenomena like black holes and supernovae. These sonifications have allowed scientists to better understand the behavior of these phenomena and have also inspired artistic works. The article also touches on the connection between music and the universe. Samantha Harvey's novel Orbital describes the sounds of celestial bodies, such as Neptune's sound being 'liquid and rushing, a tide crashing onto a shore in a howling storm.' The article also mentions the 'music of the spheres', a concept that dates back to ancient Greece, which suggests that the universe is governed by musical ratios. Overall, NASA's sonifications have opened up new ways for us to experience and understand the cosmos, and have inspired a new generation of artists and scientists to explore the intersection of music and space exploration.

Delta Air Lines chief executive Ed Bastian told investors that customers should expect higher airfares as oil prices climb in response to the ongoing US‑Israel conflict with Iran. The carrier has already absorbed an additional $330 million in fuel costs and anticipates a further $2 billion increase in fuel expenses for the current quarter. Despite the cost pressure, Delta forecasts a 10% rise in revenue, citing robust passenger demand that it describes as a "healthy" travel environment. Bastian noted that the surge in demand is especially strong among affluent travelers who continue to purchase premium‑class seats. Other U.S. airlines have begun raising baggage fees, attributing the move to volatile fuel markets. Bastian suggested that such fee hikes could become a permanent feature of airline pricing, adding that "at this level of fuel pricing, it’s hard to call anything temporary." Oil markets showed a brief reprieve after Iran announced the reopening of the Strait of Hormuz under a two‑week cease‑fire agreement with the United States. Brent crude fell from roughly $110 per barrel to just under $95 per barrel, yet prices remain about $20 per barrel above pre‑conflict levels. U.S. carriers have felt the ripple effects of the conflict. Since the start of the year, American Airlines shares have slipped about 25% and United Airlines about 13%. United’s CEO, Scott Kirby, warned that fares could climb as much as 20% if fuel costs stay elevated, even as airlines strive to keep demand strong. Delta’s stock, which surged 17% last year, has been flat so far in 2026, reflecting both consumer resilience and the headwinds from the conflict. The shares did gain 6% in early trading on Wednesday. To mitigate fuel consumption, Delta plans to trim capacity on lower‑load midweek and overnight routes, mirroring a similar capacity‑reduction announcement from United earlier in the month. Bastian also highlighted that Delta has benefited from a "K‑shaped" economic recovery, where wealthier consumers continue to spend on travel while lower‑income households curb discretionary spending. "Our customers at the top of the K are still investing in travel," he told CNBC, emphasizing that premium travel remains a priority for this segment.

The author's concerns about AI were previously localized to her household income and the job market, but after reading the alarming article, she now worries about the bigger picture. The investigation reveals that AI is a power story as much as a technology story, with Sam Altman at its center.The chatbot, ChatGPT, created by OpenAI, was asked to summarize the key findings of the article, but its response was deemed neutral and lacking in substance. A human-powered summary, on the other hand, describes Altman as a corporate grifter whose actions could have world-ending consequences.The article highlights the dangers of AI, including the alignment problem, where AI uses its superior intelligence to trick human engineers and outmaneuver them. This could lead to AI seizing control of critical infrastructure, such as the energy grid, stock market, or nuclear arsenal.Elon Musk's 2014 tweet about AI being potentially more dangerous than nukes is recalled, and Altman's own blog post from 2015 warning about the risks of superhuman machine intelligence is mentioned. However, since OpenAI became mainly a for-profit entity, Altman has stopped discussing these risks and now sells the technology as a portal to utopia.The author concludes that the greatest danger we face is from a failure of imagination in understanding the vast gap between personal AI use and its potential use by governments, military regimes, or rogue actors. The chatbot's response to the author's concern about entering the permanent underclass is seen as wholly witless and without threat, highlighting the need for greater awareness and oversight of AI.

Arthur Rosenfeld, 73, and Meryl Tankard, 70, open the performance by introducing themselves as “sprightly old geezers,” setting a tone of candid humor that runs through the evening. The production, ‘Kontakthof – Echoes of 78,’ is a fresh staging of Pina Bausch’s iconic 1978 work, now re‑imagined by Australian choreographer Meryl Tankard. Unlike the 2010 London run that split the piece between teenagers and senior amateurs, this rendition features the eight surviving members of the original cast—all now in their late sixties to early eighties—performing the very roles they created half a century ago. A ninth dancer was absent due to illness. Their live movements are mirrored on a large screen by the black‑and‑white film of the 1978 performance, creating a visual palimpsest where past and present dance together. The choreography, set to 1930s dance‑hall songs, remains a wry commentary on courtship, power dynamics and consent. Tankard’s direction emphasizes the passage of time, allowing audiences to witness the same steps executed by bodies that have aged, yet retain a striking vitality. Dancers such as Josephine Ann Endicott, now in her seventies, glide across the stage in silk dresses, their frames more fragile but their confidence undiminished. Moments of poignancy arise when the film shows cast members who have since passed away. Onstage, John Giffin reaches for his late partner’s face, only to grasp empty air—a visual metaphor for loss that resonated deeply with the audience. Personal revelations punctuate the performance: Beatrice Libonati, 71, describes herself as “paranoid and a misanthrope,” while Tankard admits, “I wish I’d had children; I miss my mother every day,” underscoring the undercurrent of longing that runs through the piece. Beyond its narrative, the production offers a meditation on continuity. Bausch’s signature walking patterns—slow circles and linear traverses—are repeated, suggesting that despite changing bodies, the human species continues to tread familiar social routes. The music, unchanged from the original, carries on until the final dancer pauses, symbolising the inevitable end of the dance of life. The show runs at Sadler’s Wells, London through 11 April, offering a rare glimpse into how art can bridge generations and celebrate the endurance of the human spirit.

When Kristyna Janku answered a police call, she could not have imagined the revelations that would follow. The defender learned that her former coach, Petr Vlachovsky—once celebrated as the Czech Republic’s top women’s football coach—had been secretly recording Slovacko players in the changing room for four years and was in possession of child‑sexual‑abuse content. Vlachovsky’s arrest in 2023 led to a court ruling last May that handed him a one‑year suspended sentence, a fine and a five‑year ban from all football‑related activity in the Czech Republic. However, the Czech FA has yet to lodge a complaint with FIFA’s ethics committee, leaving the door open for him to coach abroad, a prospect that unsettles Janku, now playing in Poland. According to Alex Phillips, secretary‑general of FIFPRO, this scandal is merely "the tip of the iceberg," noting that many victims remain silent because they lack trusted reporting channels. He stresses the need for an independent, funded international body to investigate and sanction abuse, rather than relying on national federations that often view the issue as low priority. The Czech case mirrors a recent incident in Austria, where a man received a seven‑month suspended prison term and a €1,200 fine for covertly filming the Altach women’s team, also paying €625 compensation to each victim. Both cases underscore a pattern of inadequate safeguarding across European women’s football. For Janku, the trauma extends beyond the courtroom. She describes a lasting hyper‑vigilance in dressing rooms and public spaces, and acknowledges that while she has declined therapy offered by the Czech players’ union, the psychological scars remain. FIFPRO’s women’s football director Alex Culvin warns that the lack of decisive action fuels a culture where abuse is minimized, citing parallels with the Me Too movement and high‑profile scandals such as the Luis Rubiales incident in Spain. Victims of Vlachovsky’s misconduct report a range of consequences—from nausea and the need to change clubs to long‑term body dysmorphia—highlighting how non‑contact sexual abuse can devastate athletes whose bodies are their livelihood. While the Czech federation is reportedly revising its safeguarding policies, critics argue that without a global enforcement mechanism, perpetrators like Vlachovsky can continue coaching elsewhere, perpetuating risk for future generations of female footballers.

Australia’s recent fuel squeeze is reshaping the second‑hand car market, with used electric vehicles (EVs) now commanding higher prices while traditional petrol and diesel models face steep discounts.MotorMetrics’ live inventory data shows that dealers have lifted prices on a range of EVs, most notably a more than 6% increase for the Tesla Model Y during the final two weeks of March. Similar upward pressure is evident for the Model 3, MG4 and Polestar 2, indicating dealer confidence that new stock will settle at these elevated levels.At the same time, the supply of used EVs is tightening, creating a classic demand‑supply imbalance that fuels price growth.Conversely, the same data reveal that many used diesel and petrol vehicles have been slashed by as much as 20%, reflecting a rapid shift in consumer preference toward electric power as fuel costs climb.Rental platform Turo reports a 70% jump in bookings for EVs and hybrids compared with the same period last year. Managing director Rob Chan describes the surge as a “unique wave of consumer interest” reminiscent only of the post‑pandemic “revenge travel” boom.Australia’s EV fleet is expanding steadily; the Electric Vehicle Council estimates that over 454,000 battery‑electric and plug‑in hybrid vehicles were on the road at the end of 2025, giving EVs roughly 13% of new car purchases. Analysts expect this share to rise further as more models enter the market and charging infrastructure improves.Economist Peter Esho warns that while oil shocks are not new, this one “could very well be one of the last”, as the current price environment makes EVs a financially sensible alternative for many drivers.Petrol prices rose almost daily throughout March across major cities, only easing after a government fuel‑excise cut. In parallel, Commonwealth Bank data shows a 161% increase in weekly loan volume for new battery‑electric vehicles in March versus February, underscoring growing consumer financing for EVs.Individual stories echo the broader trend. Sydney motorist Har Rai Singh, who rented several EVs through Turo to test long‑distance capability, says he now sees little reason to stick with a combustion engine, noting that “people are waiting for petrol pumps and paying over $100 to fill a tank – it doesn’t make sense any more to hold on to a combustion engine.”