White Male Privilege

White, male, and privileged talking.

Born in the '60s in London, UK, to a working-class family that, while not rich, made sure I never knew what it was to be hungry or cold. I had free education, a full grant that took me to university to study computing, and a qualification that kept opening doors for me. I worked hard to make the most of those opportunities, but no harder than countless others who never got the same lucky breaks.

And now, at sixty-four, I am only beginning to understand how dark white, male privilege runs.

Day by day, the world unravels with ICE immigration raids under tRump's presidency, genocide in Gaza, and Starmer pandering to small-c conservatism with immigration paranoia and digital identity cards. All I see is a sea of complacency, a chorus of "I'm alright, Union Jack." It is an endemic, low-level, passive cruelty. And it leaves me queasy.

Everybody looking after themselves and their own. I will judge you. Not by how you host your friends, but by whether, sitting at a table of plenty, you use your vote. And is that vote for you and yours, or is it for everyone?

So yes, tell me I’m virtue signalling. Say it again. Because signalling virtue is still better than staying silent while the world burns.