A London punk singer tries to write a protest song about Starshield speed limits, diesel diplomacy and a president who wants to fight a tiger
Friday, 23 October 2026. Walthamstow, rain against the launderette window below, 10.30pm, one candle because the bulb went.
Trying To Write A Proper Protest Song For Once
Every punk band, eventually, has to write a serious one. Not a song about a bus or a cat or a bloke called Callum. A real one, about the world. Ours has been coming for weeks, and tonight it arrived, sitting in the dark with a candle stuck in a Pot Noodle lid because the landlord says the bulb is also in transit.
It started with the report on how Trump tried to stop Ukraine bombing Russian oil refineries by slowing its drones. The gist is grim and the jokes are sharp. Ukraine reported limits on its military satellite connections for drones going faster than a hundred miles an hour, Russia kept hitting Ukrainian power plants, and around six hundred thousand people lost electricity in October. Meanwhile the idea on the table seemed to be that Ukraine should go easy on the diesel supply.
I read it twice in the dark and the line that stuck was that for the first time in history an army may have to tell its commanders the defence is going well but the Wi-Fi package has expired. I thought about my own broadband, which drops every time the launderette runs the big dryer. Mine is an inconvenience. Theirs is a war. The joke works because it should not be possible, and it is.
The Battlefield Has Terms And Conditions
The piece describes defence procurement entering the streaming age: you buy the expensive kit and discover some of the best features are only available to subscribers who agree with the management. That is the chorus. I wrote it on the inside of a takeaway menu before the candle melted into the noodle lid. Subscribers only, subscribers only, the sky is on a payment plan.
The verse that took longest was the one about the phone queue. A soldier with a drone that has dropped signal, ringing a helpline, being told all representatives are busy helping other customers and the estimated wait is until the next ceasefire. I have waited ninety minutes for my mobile provider to tell me they cannot help with a roaming charge from Margate. Margate. I was in Margate. They charged me roaming. The song basically wrote itself after that.
Britain Sends Missiles That Do Not Need A Password
The report mentions the British government’s pledge of more air defence for Ukraine, and makes the point that a missile does not usually check whether anybody has paid the broadband bill before it intercepts something. Kez, reading over my shoulder with her phone torch, said that is the first nice thing anyone has said about British infrastructure since the Victorians, and the Victorians did not have to deal with Openreach.
I am not going to pretend a bin shed band from Walthamstow understands geopolitics. We understand power cuts. We understand being cut off. We understand the bloke who controls the switch being more powerful than the people who need the light. That is all punk ever was, really. Somebody upstairs with a switch, and everybody downstairs with a guitar and a grievance.
And Then The News Went Completely Off The Rails
Because nothing this week could stay serious for more than ten minutes, NewsThump reported that the world agrees Donald Trump should fight a tiger for real, after he posted an AI video of himself doing it. Moth read this aloud and Sid the cat, who has never shown interest in politics, sat up and looked very seriously at the window. I think Sid would like to be considered for the role. Sid has fought a Hoover and drawn.
Then the same site reported that Reform vowed to expel anyone careless enough to say the quiet part out loud while being filmed, which, Dazzer pointed out, is also our band’s social media policy. We do not have a social media policy. We have Dazzer, who once livestreamed himself falling asleep in a kebab shop for forty minutes and got more views than our album.
Every Week London Gets A Bit Stranger
Looking back through this diary, this week alone has given me: a prince with a number plate for each of his moods, a chatbot nicer than a broadcaster, a car that flies but never arrives, a dinner party where the real guest was Sky Sports, a football club that fought itself over seven minutes, a country whose school money is permanently on a boat, and a war where somebody controls the bandwidth. I did not make any of it up. I just wrote it down with three chords.
The Song Is Called Subscribers Only
We are playing it for the first time on Thursday at the pub in Clapton we are still not allowed to name. It is the longest song we have ever written at three minutes forty, which for us is prog rock. It ends with the whole band chanting no roaming, no refunds, no roaming, no refunds, until Moth hits the cymbal so hard the gold broom handle falls over.
I do not think a punk song changes anything. I think it lets a room full of people who are tired, skint and fed up with being on hold shout for three minutes forty about being on hold. That is worth something. That is maybe the only thing that has ever been worth something.
Candle is out. Bulb is still in transit. Sid has gone to bed on my set list. Goodnight, London. Pay your bills. Keep your signal. Stay angry, but stay kind about it, which is the bit everyone forgets.