Never believe anything until it’s been officially denied

The phrase sits like a half-smoked cigarette in a cracked ashtray, still giving off heat decades after it was first muttered into the bloodstream of public discourse. “Never believe anything until it’s been officially denied,” declared John Pilger, a man who built a career rummaging through the filing cabinets of power and finding them suspiciously light on truth. It is not so much a quote as it is a working instruction manual for modern citizenship. In an age of polished podiums, smiling briefings, and the faint hum of crisis

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Council in the meadow

COUNCIL IN THE MEADOW Image by Knelstrom Media By Martin Foskett | Publishing | Knelstrom Media Published Updated A line of deer stands on the lip of a green field like they’ve been summoned for inspection, quiet, upright, and intensely uninterested in your excuses. The grass is a soft, brushed-up carpet, the kind of earth

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Cornflower (Centaurea Cyanus) – Editorial Image Set

Cornflower (Centaurea Cyanus) – Editorial Image Set Image by Knelstrom Media By Martin Foskett | Publishing | Knelstrom Media Published Updated Alamy Image collection reference: OL15213399 | 7 photographs | Editorial useThis editorial image set documents the common cornflower (Centaurea cyanus) in natural meadow and field-edge conditions. Across seven photographs, the collection offers a consistent

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The Greatest Generation: Chain-smoking saints of the free world

The Greatest Generation: Chain-Smoking Saints of the Free World. Image by Knelstrom Media By Martin Foskett | Chronicles | Knelstrom Media Published Updated They never asked for applause. They weren’t the “Greatest Generation” because of branding or bravado, but because history kicked their teeth in, and they kept getting up, lighting another cigarette, and saying,

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My BOY’S a Gooner, and I’M Back with the Irons: Mud, Blood, and the Resurrection of a West Ham Man

​It started in the mud. Thick Essex mud. The sort that clings to your boots like a drunk mate at closing time and dares you to stay standing while your nose runs like a leaky tap. Cold air, Sunday breath, and a coffee so bitter it could file for divorce. And there’s my boy, all flailing limbs and mad ambition, chasing the ball as it owed him money. Seven years old. Fierce. Oblivious. Glorious.

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