Albie Amankona is a broadcaster, financial analyst, political activist and a Voice for Freedom with Fighting for a Free Future - our group of young advocates fighting for liberty, freedom, and free markets.
The fuss surrounding Ed Sheeran and Macklemore’s “Free Palestine” stage antics is absurd. We have reached outrage fatigue. A pop star uttering a slogan from a concert stage is not an international crisis.
I’ve been going to gigs and festivals for years. If I demanded a refund every time a performer said something disparaging about conservatives, I’d be a wealthy man. Being forced to listen to a musician deliver an ill-informed, sanctimonious lecture on current affairs is a rite of passage for music fans. It comes with the territory, right alongside warm Strongbow Dark Fruit spiked with two shots of vodka and unusable portaloos.
That sanctimony peaked at Glastonbury in 2017. Ed Sheeran was headlining the Pyramid Stage, trying to shake off the internet rumour that he was a closet Tory—venting in interviews: “People on Twitter keep calling me a fucking Tory! I don’t know where that came from. Make it clear that I’m a big Corbyn fan.”
There I was, amidst a sea of mud and bucket hats, when Jeremy Corbyn strutted onto the stage. Tens of thousands of revellers broke into a chant of “Oh, Jeremy Corbyn!”. It became inescapable—much like the “Steve! Alan!” meme, echoing down every muddy footpath whether Corbyn was in sight or not. Did I file a formal complaint to Michael and Emily Eavis? No. I did the sensible thing: I heckled back at the top of my lungs with a spirited “Oh, Theresa May!” You mock it, you laugh, and you move on.
Cast your mind back a year earlier to Glastonbury in June 2016. Brexit had just landed, sending shockwaves through Worthy Farm. The morning sun was rising over a sea of glitter and shell-shocked festival-goers. I was, predictably, drunk by noon. Fuelled by a mix of cider, cigarettes, and political adrenaline, I turned to a fellow reveller who was in an EU onesie while we were waiting for Muse to start and declared: “Brexit means Brexit, vote leave, take back control!”
Out of hundreds of thousands in that Somerset field, I was quite possibly the lone voice of celebration, grinning while the surrounding crowd looked as though they were attending a funeral.
Did security march me off the premises? Was I set upon by an angry mob of Remainers in flower crowns? Not in the slightest. What followed wasn’t a wave of public condemnation; it was a series of rambling, passionate exchanges with equally half-cut strangers. We locked horns, gestured, shared a laugh, and carried on enjoying the music together. It was British political discourse at its finest: chaotic, loud, and good-natured.
Later that autumn, I attended a jobs fair for LGBT students and graduates. That evening, in the smoking area outside Heaven, I met a tall, dark, handsome young man who happened to be Israeli. We got chatting and, from opposite sides of the spectrum, we ended up debating Israel and Palestine. Did we throw drinks over each other or call the bouncers? No. We sparred verbally, stood our ground, and ended up snogging.
I dread to think what would happen to an Israeli Zionist expressing his point of view in the smoking area of a London gay club today—or if someone dared to chant a Vote Leave slogan at a festival in 2027.
Somewhere along the line, our culture lost its funny bone and its thick skin. We swapped friendly sparring for moral panic, tribalism, and a demand for censorship. Today, voicing a dissenting opinion doesn’t spark a banter-filled argument over a drink; it triggers a crusade targeting your job, your platform, and your standing in society.
The rule of live music used to be simple: if a musician starts talking rubbish between songs, roll your eyes, shout a retort if the mood strikes, then shut up and enjoy the music.
What is exhausting about our current climate is how debates like Israel–Palestine turn sensible people into lunatics. Cultural events are treated as proxy wars, every artist is expected to issue a declaration of allegiance, and every fan is nudged to purge their playlists of anyone who strays from the line. It’s puritanical and tedious.
This fragility treats adults like glass statues that will shatter at the sound of a disagreeable noise. When did we become so terrified of friction? Robust debate used to be the lifeblood of a pluralistic democracy.
Not every controversial remark requires a boycott. We need to revive the art of holding different views without aiming to destroy someone. If we can’t handle a half-cut reveller shouting a political phrase, a musician virtue-signalling on stage, or two people locking horns over a cigarette outside a nightclub, we’ve lost something vital.
Let Macklemore spout his talking points, let Ed Sheeran be neutral, and let the rest of us get back to enjoying the gig. Life is too short to let pop stars and politics ruin a good night out.
Albie Amankona is a broadcaster, financial analyst and political activist. He is an FFF Voice for Freedom - our group of young advocates fighting for liberty, freedom, and free markets. He is the co-founder of Conservatives Against Racism and a member of the General Council for LGBT+ Conservatives. He can be followed on X through @albieamankona.
