Varoufakis Solves Zeno’s Paradox

Having finished Technofeudalism, I’ve moved on to Society of the Spectacle, which has me thinking.

They say no one escapes the Spectacle. Guy Debord made sure of that. His vision was airtight, his diagnosis terminal: we are all spectators now, alienated from our labour, our time, our own damn lives. It was a metaphysical mugging—existence held hostage by images, by commodities dressed in drag. The future was a feedback loop, and we were all doomed to applaud.

Audio: NotebookLM podcast on this topic. Apologies in advance for the narrators’ mangling of the pronunciation of ‘Guy Debord’.

But what if the loop could be hacked?
What if the infinitely halved distances of motionless critique—Zeno’s Paradox by way of Marx—could finally be crossed?

Enter: Yanis Varoufakis.
Economist, ex-finance minister, techno-cassandra with a motorbike and a vendetta.
Where Debord filmed the catastrophe in black-and-white, Varoufakis showed up with the source code.

Debord’s Limbo

Debord saw it all coming. The substitution of reality with its photogenic simulacrum. The slow death of agency beneath the floodlights of consumption. But like Zeno’s paradox, he could only gesture toward the end without ever reaching it. Each critique halved the distance to liberation but never arrived. The Spectacle remained intact, omnipresent, and self-replicating—like an ontological screensaver.

He gave us no path forward, only a beautiful, ruinous analysis. A Parisian shrug of doom.

Varoufakis’ Shortcut

But then comes Varoufakis, breaking through the digital labyrinth not by philosophising the Spectacle, but by naming its successor: Technofeudalism.

See, Debord was chasing a moving target—a capitalism that morphed from industrial to financial to semiotic faster than his prose could crystallise. But Varoufakis caught it mid-mutation. He pinned it to the slab and sliced it open. What spilled out wasn’t capital anymore—it was rent. Platform rent. Algorithmic tolls. Behavioural taxes disguised as convenience. This isn’t the market gone mad—it’s the market dissolved, replaced by code-based fiefdoms.

The paradox is resolved not by reaching utopia, but by realising we’ve already crossed the line—we just weren’t told. The market isn’t dying; it’s already dead, and we’re still paying funeral costs in monthly subscriptions and attention metrics.

From Spectacle to Subjugation

Debord wanted to unmask the performance.
Varoufakis realised the theatre had been demolished and replaced with a server farm.

You don’t watch the Spectacle anymore. It watches you.
It optimises you.
It learns your keystrokes, your pulse rate, your browsing history.
Welcome to feudal recursion, where Amazon is your landlord, Google your priest, and Meta your confessor.

Solving Zeno the Varoufakis Way

So how does one cross the infinite regress of alienation?
Simple. You call it what it is. You reclassify the terrain.

“This is not capitalism,” Varoufakis says, in the tone of a man pulling a mask off a Scooby-Doo villain.
“It’s technofeudalism. Capital didn’t win. It went feudal. Again.”

By doing so, he bypasses the academic ballet that has critics forever inching closer to the truth without touching it. He calls the system new, not to sell books, but to make strategy possible. Because naming a beast is the first step in slaying it.

In Conclusion: Debord Dreamed, Varoufakis Drives

Debord haunts the museum.
Varoufakis raids the server room.
Both are essential. But only one gives us a new map.

The Spectacle hypnotised us.
Technofeudalism enslaves us.
And if there’s a way out, it won’t be through slogans spray-painted on Parisian walls. It will be built in code, deployed across decentralised networks, and carried forward by those who remember what it meant to be not watched.

Let Debord whisper. Let Varoufakis roar.
And let the rest of us sharpen our blades.

What’s Missing? Trust or Influence

Post-COVID, we’re told trust in science is eroding. But perhaps the real autopsy should be performed on the institution of public discourse itself.

Since the COVID-19 crisis detonated across our global stage—part plague, part PR disaster—the phrase “trust in science” has become the most abused slogan since “thoughts and prayers.” Every public official with a podium and a pulse declared they were “following the science,” as if “science” were a kindly oracle whispering unambiguous truths into the ears of the righteous. But what happened when those pronouncements proved contradictory, politically convenient, or flat-out wrong? Was it science that failed, or was it simply a hostage to an incoherent performance of authority?

Audio: NotebookLM podcast discussing this topic.

Two recent Nature pieces dig into the supposed “decline” of scientific credibility in the post-pandemic world, offering the expected hand-wringing about public opinion and populist mistrust. But let’s not be so credulous. This isn’t merely a crisis of trust—it’s a crisis of theatre.

“The Science” as Ventriloquism

Let’s begin by skewering the central absurdity: there is no such thing as “The Science.” Science is not a monolith. It’s not a holy writ passed down by lab-coated Levites. It’s a process—a messy, iterative, and perpetually provisional mode of inquiry. But during the pandemic, politicians, pundits, and even some scientists began to weaponise the term, turning it into a rhetorical cudgel. “The Science says” became code for “shut up and comply.” Any dissent—even from within the scientific community—was cast as heresy. Galileo would be proud.

In Nature Human Behaviour paper (van der Linden et al., 2025) identifies four archetypes of distrust: distrust in the message, the messenger, the medium, and the motivation. What they fail to ask is: what if all four were compromised simultaneously? What if the medium (mainstream media) served more as a stenographer to power than a check upon it? What if the message was oversimplified into PR slogans, the messengers were party apparatchiks in lab coats, and the motivations were opaque at best?

Trust didn’t just erode. It was actively incinerated in a bonfire of institutional vanity.

A Crisis of Influence, Not Integrity

The second Nature commentary (2025) wrings its hands over “why trust in science is declining,” as if the populace has suddenly turned flat-Earth overnight. But the real story isn’t a decline in trust per se; it’s a redistribution of epistemic authority. Scientists no longer have the stage to themselves. Influencers, conspiracy theorists, rogue PhDs, and yes—exhausted citizens armed with Wi-Fi and anxiety—have joined the fray.

Science hasn’t lost truth—it’s lost control. And frankly, perhaps it shouldn’t have had that control in the first place. Democracy is messy. Information democracies doubly so. And in that mess, the epistemic pedestal of elite scientific consensus was bound to topple—especially when its public face was filtered through press conferences, inconsistent policies, and authoritarian instincts.

Technocracy’s Fatal Hubris

What we saw wasn’t science failing—it was technocracy failing in real time, trying to manage public behaviour with a veneer of empirical certainty. But when predictions shifted, guidelines reversed, and public health policy began to resemble a mood ring, the lay public was expected to pretend nothing happened. Orwell would have a field day.

This wasn’t a failure of scientific method. It was a failure of scientific messaging—an inability (or unwillingness) to communicate uncertainty, probability, and risk in adult terms. Instead, the public was infantilised. And then pathologised for rebelling.

Toward a Post-Scientistic Public Sphere

So where does that leave us? Perhaps we need to kill the idol of “The Science” to resurrect a more mature relationship with scientific discourse—one that tolerates ambiguity, embraces dissent, and admits when the data isn’t in. Science, done properly, is the art of saying “we don’t know… yet.”

The pandemic didn’t erode trust in science. It exposed how fragile our institutional credibility scaffolding really is—how easily truth is blurred when science is fed through the meat grinder of media, politics, and fear.

The answer isn’t more science communication—it’s less scientism, more honesty, and above all, fewer bureaucrats playing ventriloquist with the language of discovery.

Conclusion

Trust in science isn’t dead. But trust in those who claim to speak for science? That’s another matter. Perhaps it’s time to separate the two.

Technofeudalism: It’s a Wrap

By the time we reach Chapter Seven of Technofeudalism: What Kills Capitalism, Yanis Varoufakis drops the ledger sheets and spreadsheets and starts sketching utopia in crayon. Entitled Escape from Technofeudalism, it proposes—brace yourself—a workplace democracy. It’s aspirational, yes. Compelling? Not particularly. Especially if, like me, you’ve long since stopped believing that democracy is anything more than a feel-good placebo for structural impotence.

Audio: NotebookLM podcast discussing this topic.

To be clear: the preceding chapters, particularly the first six, are sharp, incisive, and frankly, blistering in their indictment of today’s economic disfiguration. But Chapter Seven? It’s less an escape plan, more a group therapy session masquerading as an operational model.

So let’s take his proposal for Democratised Companies apart, one charming layer at a time.

Splendid. One person, one vote. Adorable.

Because there’s nothing more efficient than a hiring committee comprised of thirty engineers, two janitors, a receptionist, and Steve from Accounts, whose main contribution is passive-aggressive sighing.

Marvellous. We’ve now digitised the tyranny of the majority and can timestamp every idiotic decision for posterity.

A relief. Until it doesn’t.

Here, dear reader, is where the cake collapses. Why, precisely, should a randomly-assembled group of employees—with wildly varying financial literacy—be entrusted to divide post-tax revenue like it’s a birthday cake at a toddler’s party?

And how often are these slices recalibrated? Each fiscal year? Every time someone is hired or fired? Do we amend votes quarterly or wait until the economic ship has already struck an iceberg?

Varoufakis does suggest preference voting to tackle allocation disputes:

Fine. In theory, algorithmic voting procedures sound neat. But it presumes voters are rational, informed, and cooperative. If you’ve ever seen a corporate Slack thread devolve into emoji warfare, you’ll know that this is fiction on par with unicorns and meritocracy.

Ah yes, the ‘equality’ bit. Equal pay, unequal contribution. This isn’t egalitarianism—it’s enforced mediocrity. It might work in a monastery. Less so in a competitive tech firm where innovation requires both vision and differentiated incentive.

Now, on to bonuses, which are democratically determined by:

Welcome to Black Mirror: Workplace Edition. This is less economics, more playground politics. Who gets tokens? The charismatic chatterbox in the break room? The person who shared their lunch? The ghost employee who never shows up but emails back promptly?

And how, pray tell, does one evaluate the receptionist’s contribution relative to the lead engineer’s or the janitor’s? This isn’t peer review—it’s populism with a smiley face.

We’ve all seen “Teacher of the Year” competitions turn into contests of who had the cutest class poster or best cupcakes. Now imagine your livelihood depending on it.

In summary, democracy in the workplace may sound noble, but in practice, it’s the bureaucratic equivalent of herding caffeinated cats. It doesn’t even work in small groups, let alone an organisation of hundreds. Democracy—when applied to every function of an enterprise—is not liberation; it’s dilution. It’s design-by-committee, strategy-by-consensus, and ultimately, excellence-by-accident.

Escape from Technofeudalism? Perhaps. But not by replacing corporate lords with intranet polls and digital tokens. That’s not an exit strategy—it’s a cosplay of collectivism.

Clouds, Crowns, and Clowns

How the West Bungled Its Way into Technofeudalism

History doesn’t repeat itself, but, my God, it certainly rhymes — badly, and in the case of America’s self-immolation vis-à-vis China, completely off-key.

Yanis Varoufakis’ brutal dissection in Technofeudalism reads like a coronial report on the West’s terminal idiocy:
We’re not watching the rise of a “new China threat” — we’re watching the dying spasms of a clownish empire losing to its own creation: cloud capital.

Audio: NotebookLM podcast on this topic. NB: The announcers confused my commentary on Varoukakis as my ideas, where I am simply summarising and editorialising.

A Recap for the Attention-Deficit West:

Once upon a time (i.e., post-WWII), America ran a magnificent scam: sell the world things — aeroplanes, refrigerators, good old-fashioned stuff — in exchange for gold. When America became a deficit country (buying far more than it sold), it pivoted brilliantly:
“No more gold, peasants. Here, have an IOU instead.”
Thus was born the Dollar Empire: a global system where America got to run enormous deficits, foreigners got paper promises, and everyone smiled through gritted teeth.

Fast-forward: Japan, Korea, China — they got in line. They built things, exported things, grew rich — and recycled all their lovely profits straight into American property, debt, and Wall Street snake oil.
Win-win!
(Except for the workers on both sides, who were flogged like medieval peasants, but who’s counting?)

The Minotaur Has a Stroke

Then came 2008: America’s financial system committed hara-kiri on live television.
China stepped up to save global capitalism (yes, really), jacking up investment to absurd levels, buying up Western assets, and quietly building something far more dangerous than steelworks and solar panels: cloud finance.

While the West was still dry-humping neoliberal fantasies about “free markets,” China fused Big Tech and Big Brother into a seamless, sprawling surveillance-finance-entertainment-behavioural-modification apparatus.
Think Facebook, Amazon, Citibank, your GP, your car insurance, and your government — all rolled into one app.
Welcome to WeChat World™ — population: everyone.

The New Cold War: Idiots vs Strategists

Enter Trump. And Biden. And the bipartisan realisation, delivered with all the subtlety of a pub brawl, that China’s Big Tech wasn’t just mimicking Silicon Valley — it was obliterating it.
TikTok wasn’t just teenagers dancing. It was dollar extraction without the need for US trade deficits or dollar supremacy.

Cue blind panic. Ban Huawei! Ban TikTok! Ban chips! Ban thought!
Meanwhile, Beijing smiled, nodded, and built its own chips, its own cloud, its own digital currency.
When the US froze Russian central bank assets in 2022, it unwittingly told every finance minister from Delhi to Dakar:
“Your money isn’t safe with us.”
Oops.

The Chinese digital yuan — a once quaint science project — suddenly looked like the lifeboat on a burning ship.
Guess which way the rats are swimming?

Europe: Toasted, Buttered, and Eaten

As for Europe? Bless them. Still fantasising about “strategic autonomy” while chained to America’s collapsing empire like a loyal spaniel.
Europe lacks cloud capital, lacks industrial capacity, and now — post-Ukraine, post-energy crisis — lacks even the pretence of relevance.
Germany, France, the Netherlands: mere franchisees of American technofeudal overlords.

Brussels’ vision for the future?
“Please sir, may we remain a respectable vassal state?”

The Global South: Choose Your Feudal Lord

The so-called “developing world” faces an even grimmer menu:

  • Pledge allegiance to Washington’s dying dollar-based cloud fief?
  • Or become serfs under Beijing’s emerging digital rentier aristocracy?
    Either way, the crops are taxed, the wells are privatised, and the commons are torched.

Development? Don’t make me laugh. The South has been invited to another game of “Heads they win, tails you starve.”

Technofeudalism: A Lovable New Hell

Meanwhile, back in the heartlands of Empire, cloudalists — Google, Amazon, Tencent, Alibaba — are fencing off reality itself.
You will own nothing, subscribe to everything, and feed their algorithms while praying for a dopamine hit.
Democracy?
A charming relic, like powdered wigs and carrier pigeons.

In a final, cosmically ironic twist, it turns out that the only force keeping China’s cloudalists in check is… the Chinese Communist Party itself.
Yes, dear liberals: the last faint flicker of “people power” resides under authoritarian rule, while the “free world” rolls over like a half-seduced Victorian maiden.

Technofeudalism: Taxing Rent

I’ve just finished Chapter 5 of Technofeudalism by Greek economist Yanis Varoufakis, and I can’t recommend it enough. Retiring from being a professional economist, I’d paused reading economic fare in favour of philosophy and fiction. Recently, I picked up Hobbes’ Leviathan and Graeber’s Bullshit Jobs, but this one called to me. I recall when it was released. I read some summaries and reviews. I heard some interviews. I thought I understood the gist. I did. But it goes deeper. Much deeper.

I considered Technofeudalism or Feudalism 2.0 as more of a political statement than a sociopolitical one. Now, I know better. Rather than review the book, I want to focus on a specific aspect that occurred to me.

In a nutshell, Varoufakis asserts that with Capitalism, we moved from a world of property-based rents to one of profits (and rents). We’ve now moved past this into a new world based on platform-based rents (and profits and property rents). Rent extraction yields more power than profits, again reordering power structures. Therefore, I think we might want to handle (read: tax) rents separately from profits.

Audio: NotebookLM podcast discussing this topic.

A Radical Proposal for Modern Taxation

Introduction: The Old Dream Reawakened

Economists have long dreamt of a world in which rent — the unearned income derived from control of scarce assets — could be cleanly distinguished from profit, the reward for productive risk-taking. Ricardo dreamt of it. Henry George built a movement upon it. Even today, figures like Thomas Piketty hint at its necessity. Yet rent and profit have grown entangled like ancient ivy around the crumbling edifice of modern capitalism.

Today, under what some call “technofeudalism,” the separation of rent from productive profit has become not merely an academic exercise but a matter of existential urgency. With rents now extracted not only from land but from data, networks, and regulatory capture, taxation itself risks becoming obsolete if it fails to adapt.

Thus, let us lay out a theoretical and applied map for what could — and arguably must — be done.

I. The Theoretical Framework: Defining Our Terms

First, we must operationally define:

  • Profit: income generated from productive risk-taking — investment, innovation, labour.
  • Rent: income generated from ownership or control of scarce, non-replicable assets — land, intellectual property, platforms, regulatory privilege.

Key Principle: Rent is unearned. Profit is earned.

This distinction matters because rent is an economic extraction from society’s collective value creation, whereas profit rewards activities that enlarge that pie.

II. Mapping EBITA: Where Rent Hides

EBITA (Earnings Before Interest, Taxes, and Amortisation) is the preferred metric of modern corporate reporting. Within it, rents hide behind several masks:

  • Property rental income
  • Intellectual property licensing fees
  • Monopoly markups
  • Platform access fees
  • Network effect premiums
  • Regulatory arbitrage profits

Parsing rent from EBITA would thus require methodical decomposition.

III. Theoretical Approaches to Decomposing EBITA

  1. Cost-Plus Benchmarking
    • Estimate what a “normal” competitive firm would earn.
    • Treat any surplus as rent.
  2. Rate-of-Return Analysis
    • Compare corporate returns against industry-normal rates adjusted for risk.
    • Excess returns imply rent extraction.
  3. Monopolistic Pricing Models
    • Apply measures like the Lerner Index to estimate pricing power.
    • Deduce the rentier share.
  4. Asset Valuation Decomposition
    • Identify earnings derived strictly from asset control rather than active operation.
  5. Economic Value Added (EVA) Adjustments
    • Assign a competitive cost of capital and strip out the residual super-profits as rents.

IV. Toward Applied Solutions: Imposing Sanity on Chaos

In theory, then, we could pursue several applied strategies:

  1. Mandated Rent-Adjusted Reporting
    • Require corporations to file a “Rent-Adjusted EBITA” metric.
    • Auditors would have to categorise income streams as “productive” or “rentier.”
  2. Differential Taxation
    • Tax normal profits at a competitive corporate rate.
    • Tax rents at punitive rates (e.g., 70-90%), since taxing rents does not distort incentives.
  3. Sector-Specific Rent Taxes
    • Levy special taxes on land, platforms, patents, and monopoly franchises.
    • Create dynamic rent-extraction indices updated annually.
  4. Platform Rent Charges
    • Impose data rent taxes on digital platforms extracting value from user activity.
  5. Public Registry of Rents
    • Create a global registry classifying rents by sector, firm, and mechanism.
    • Provide public transparency to rent-seeking activities.

V. The Political Reality: Clouds on the Horizon

Needless to say, the aristocracy of the digital age will not go gentle into this good night. Rentiers — whether in Silicon Valley, the City of London, or Wall Street — are deeply entwined with the political machinery that might otherwise regulate them.

Yet the costs of inaction are higher. If rent extraction continues to eclipse productive activity, the very legitimacy of markets — and democracy — will erode into cynicism, stagnation, and oligarchic decay.

Conclusion: The Choice Before Us

Separating rent from profit is not merely a technocratic tweak. It is a radical act — one that could reorient economic activity away from parasitic extraction and back toward genuine value creation.

In a world where algorithms are castles, platforms are fiefdoms, and data is the new serfdom, reclaiming the ancient dream of taxing rent is no longer optional. It is, quite simply, the price of our collective survival.

Bullshit Jobs

I’ve recently decided to take a sabbatical from what passes for economic literature these days — out of a sense of self-preservation, mainly — but before I hermetically sealed myself away, I made a quick detour through Jorge Luis Borges’ The Library of Babel (PDF). Naturally, I emerged none the wiser, blinking like some poor subterranean creature dragged into the daylight, only to tumble headlong into David Graeber’s Bullshit Jobs.

This particular tome had been languishing in my inventory since its release, exuding a faint but persistent odour of deferred obligation. Now, about a third of the way in, I can report that Graeber’s thesis — that the modern world is awash with soul-annihilatingly pointless work — does resonate. I find myself nodding along like one of those cheap plastic dashboard dogs. Yet, for all its righteous fury, it’s more filler than killer. Directionally correct? Probably. Substantively airtight? Not quite. It’s a bit like admiring a tent that’s pitched reasonably straight but has conspicuous holes large enough to drive a fleet of Uber Eats cyclists through.

An amusing aside: the Spanish edition is titled Trabajos de mierda (“shitty jobs”), a phrase Graeber spends an entire excruciating section of the book explaining is not the same thing. Meanwhile, the French, in their traditional Gallic shrug, simply kept the English title. (One suspects they couldn’t be arsed.)

Chapter One attempts to explain the delicate taxonomy: bullshit jobs are fundamentally unnecessary — spawned by some black magic of bureaucracy, ego, and capitalist entropy — whilst shit jobs are grim, thankless necessities that someone must do, but no one wishes to acknowledge. Tragically, some wretches get the worst of both worlds, occupying jobs that are both shit and bullshit — a sort of vocational purgatory for the damned.

Then, in Chapter Two, Graeber gleefully dissects bullshit jobs into five grotesque varieties:

  1. Flunkies, whose role is to make someone else feel important.
  2. Goons, who exist solely to fight other goons.
  3. Duct Tapers, who heroically patch problems that ought not to exist in the first place.
  4. Box Tickers, who generate paperwork to satisfy some Kafkaesque demand that nobody actually reads.
  5. Taskmasters, who either invent unnecessary work for others or spend their days supervising people who don’t need supervision.

Naturally, real-world roles often straddle several categories. Lucky them: multi-classed in the RPG of Existential Futility.

Graeber’s parade of professional despair is, admittedly, darkly entertaining. One senses he had a great deal of fun cataloguing these grotesques — like a medieval monk illustrating demons in the margins of a holy text — even as the entire edifice wobbles under the weight of its own repetition. Yes, David, we get it: the modern economy is a Potemkin village of invented necessity. Carry on.

If the first chapters are anything to go by, the rest of the book promises more righteous indignation, more anecdotes from anonymous sad-sacks labouring in existential oubliettes, and — if one is lucky — perhaps a glimmer of prescription hidden somewhere amidst the diagnosis. Though, I’m not holding my breath. This feels less like an intervention and more like a well-articulated primal scream.

Still, even in its baggier moments, Bullshit Jobs offers the grim pleasure of recognition. If you’ve ever sat through a meeting where the PowerPoint had more intellectual integrity than the speaker or spent days crafting reports destined for the corporate oubliette marked “For Review” (translation: Never to Be Seen Again), you will feel seen — in a distinctly accusatory, you-signed-up-for-this sort of way.

In short: it’s good to read Graeber if only to have one’s vague sense of societal derangement vindicated in print. Like having a charmingly irate friend in the pub lean over their pint and mutter, “It’s not just you. It’s the whole bloody system.”

I’m not sure I’ll stick with this title either. I think I’ve caught the brunt of the message, and it feels like a diversion. I’ve also got Yanis Varoufakis’ Technofeudalism: What Killed Capitalism on the shelf. Perhaps I’ll spin this one up instead.

Taxation and Representation

Given all of the clamouring about taxations and abolishing the Internal Revenue Service, affectionately known as the IRS. In Britain, one may be more aware of His Majesty’s Revenue and Customs (HMRC). In France, it’s Direction générale des Finances publiques (DGFiP).

Audio: NotebookLM podcast on this topic.

Given how up in arms the reincarnation of the NAZI party, disfectionately known as Republicans (or Republican’ts depending on your mood or persuasion), have been towards the IRS and taxation in general – they love to cosplay tossing crates of tea into harbours – I asked ChatGPT to clarify the originals of income taxes in the United States.

For the benefit of more casual readers, income taxes were unconstitutional – illegal – until 1913. These were snuck in under the guise of only applying to the wealthy, the 1% of the time. But once the floodgates were opened, the focus shifted to the 95%, increasingly exempting the wealthy. Even so, they still complain and evade.

Enough wittering. Here’s what ChatGPT had to say on the matter.

Did ChatGPT just call me a troll?

Lies as Shibboleth

Watching Sam Harris ruminate on the nature of political lies (still believing, poor lamb, that reason might one day triumph) reminds me of something more sinister: lies today are not attempts at persuasion. They are shibboleths — tribal passwords, loyalty oaths, secret handshakes performed in the broad light of day.

Video: Sam Harris tells us why Trump and his ilk lie.

Forget “alternative facts.” That charming euphemism was merely a decoy, a jangling set of keys to distract the infantile media. The real game was always deeper: strategic distortion, the deliberate blurring of perception not to deceive the outsider, but to identify the insider.

Audio: NotebookLM podcast on this topic.

When Trump — or any other post-truth demagogue — proclaims that penguins are, in fact, highly trained alien operatives from the Andromeda galaxy, the objective is not persuasion. The point is to force a choice: will you, standing before this glistening absurdity, blink and retreat into reason, stammering something about ornithology… Or will you step forward, clasp the hand of madness, and mutter, ‘Yes, my liege, the penguins have been among us all along’?

Those who demur, those who scoff or gasp or say ‘You’re an idiot,”’have failed the loyalty test. They have outed themselves as enemy combatants in the epistemic war. Truth, in this brave new world, is not a destination; it is an allegiance. To speak honestly is to wage rebellion.

Orwell, who tried very hard to warn us, understood this dynamic well: the real triumph of Big Brother was not merely to compel you to lie but to compel you to believe the lie. Koestler, another battered prophet of the age, charted how political movements sink into ritualistic unreason, demanding not conviction but performance. Swift, for his part, knew it was all hilarious if you tilted your head just right.

The bigger the lie, the better the shibboleth. Claim that two and two make five, and you catch out the weak-willed rationalists. Claim that penguins are extraterrestrials, and you find the truly devoted, the ones willing to build altars from ice and sacrifice to their feathery overlords.

It’s no accident that modern political theatre resembles a deranged initiation ritual. Each day brings a new absurdity, a fresh madness to affirm: ‘Men can become women by declaration alone!” “Billionaires are victims of systemic oppression!’ ‘The penguins are amongst us, plotting!’ Each claim a little more grotesque than the last, each compliance a little more degrading, a little more irreversible.

And oh, how eagerly the initiates rush forward! Clap for the penguins, or be cast out into the howling wilderness! Better to bend the knee to absurdity than be marked as an unbeliever. Better to humiliate yourself publicly than to admit that the Emperor’s penguin suit is just a costume.

Meanwhile, the opposition — earnest, naive — keeps trying to argue, to rebut, to point out that penguins are terrestrial flightless birds. How quaint. How pathetic. They do not understand that the moment they say, “You’re an idiot,” they’ve broken the spell, declared themselves apostates, and rendered themselves politically irrelevant.

The shibboleth, once uttered, divides the world cleanly: the believers, who will say anything, do anything, believe anything, provided it marks them safe from exile; and the infidels, who cling stupidly to reality.

The future belongs, not to the true, but to the loyal. Not to the rational, but to the ritualistic. The more extravagant the lie, the greater the proof of your faith.

So raise a glass to the penguins, ye of faint heart, and prepare your soul for abasement. Or stand firm, if you dare, and be prepared to be eaten alive by those who traded reason for the rapture of belonging.

After all, in the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is not king. He’s a heretic.


The Church of Pareto: How Economics Learned to Love Collapse

—or—How the Invisible Hand Became a Throttling Grip on the Throat of the Biosphere

As many frequent visitors know, I am a recovering economist. I tend to view economics through a philosophical lens. Here. I consider the daft nonsense of Pareto optimality.

Audio: NotebookLM podcast of this content.

There is a priesthood in modern economics—pious in its equations, devout in its dispassion—that gathers daily to prostrate before the altar of Pareto. Here, in this sanctum of spreadsheet mysticism, it is dogma that an outcome is “optimal” so long as no one is worse off. Never mind if half the world begins in a ditch and the other half in a penthouse jacuzzi. So long as no one’s Jacuzzi is repossessed, the system is just. Hallelujah.

This cult of cleanliness, cloaked in the language of “efficiency,” performs a marvellous sleight of hand: it transforms systemic injustice into mathematical neutrality. The child working in the lithium mines of the Congo is not “harmed”—she simply doesn’t exist in the model. Her labour is an externality. Her future, an asterisk. Her biosphere, a rounding error in the grand pursuit of equilibrium.

Let us be clear: this is not science. This is not even ideology. It is theology—an abstract faith-based system garlanded with numbers. And like all good religions, it guards its axioms with fire and brimstone. Question the model? Heretic. Suggest the biosphere might matter? Luddite. Propose redistribution? Marxist. There is no room in this holy order for nuance. Only graphs and gospel.

The rot runs deep. William Stanley Jevons—yes, that Jevons, patron saint of unintended consequences—warned us as early as 1865 that improvements in efficiency could increase, not reduce, resource consumption. But his paradox, like Cassandra’s prophecy, was fated to be ignored. Instead, we built a civilisation on the back of the very logic he warned would destroy it.

Then came Simon Kuznets, who—bless his empirically addled soul—crafted a curve that seemed to promise that inequality would fix itself if we just waited politely. We called it the Kuznets Curve and waved it about like a talisman against the ravages of industrial capitalism, ignoring the empirical wreckage that piled up beneath it like bones in a trench.

Meanwhile, Pareto himself, that nobleman of social Darwinism, famously calculated that 80% of Italy’s land was owned by 20% of its people—and rather than challenge this grotesque asymmetry, he chose to marvel at its elegance. Economics took this insight and said: “Yes, more of this, please.”

And so the model persisted—narrow, bloodless, and exquisitely ill-suited to the world it presumed to explain. The economy, it turns out, is not a closed system of rational actors optimising utility. It is a planetary-scale thermodynamic engine fuelled by fossil sunlight, pumping entropy into the biosphere faster than it can absorb. But don’t expect to find that on the syllabus.

Mainstream economics has become a tragic farce, mouthing the language of optimisation while presiding over cascading system failure. Climate change? Not in the model. Biodiversity collapse? A regrettable externality. Intergenerational theft? Discounted at 3% annually.

We are witnessing a slow-motion suicide cloaked in the rhetoric of balance sheets. The Earth is on fire, and the economists are debating interest rates.

What we need is not reform, but exorcism. Burn the models. Salt the axioms. Replace this ossified pseudoscience with something fit for a living world—ecological economics, systems theory, post-growth thinking, anything with the courage to name what this discipline has long ignored: that there are limits, and we are smashing into them at speed.

History will not be kind to this priesthood of polite annihilation. Nor should it be.

Flat-Earth Politics in a Cubic World

Audio: NotebookLM podcast on this topic.