Ireland and the UK’s collapse from Christianity to liberalism could be America’s future — if we don’t wake up



Blaze Media co-founder Glenn Beck is sounding the alarm over what he sees as a cultural road map America could soon follow if conservatives fail to maintain the momentum of the Trump era.

“If we don’t get a Marco Rubio, or whoever is running and is the candidate, in line with what Donald Trump is doing right now — if we don’t get that, we’re going to be back here with a vengeance,” Beck warned.

“We’ll be right behind you,” he tells Peter McIlvenna.

McIlvenna, who grew up in Northern Ireland as well as in the Republic of Ireland in Dublin and Limerick, tells Glenn that he’s right — and that the cities there are “not Irish at all.”


“Ireland is an interesting test case, going from probably the most staunchly Christian Catholic country to now the most liberal country. What happened on the abortion laws was unbelievable. The rush to same-sex marriage so quick,” he explains.

“Part of that was the sex scandals that were in the Catholic Church were then used to destroy any remnant of Christianity within the country. Instead of saying 'this is happening in parts of Church; we need to address it,' the Church was decimated,” he continues.

The hypocrisy, McIlvenna points out, is when you point out that Islam has the same problems — or worse — the response is that it’s “a few bad apples.”

“It was a concerted attack on the Church, destroying the Church’s role as a guiding light for Irish society to now being dismissed and ridiculed and rejected,” he explains.

But it’s not just Ireland. The decline of Christianity and embrace of Islam are happening all over the United Kingdom.

“Islam presents itself as dominant and gives them an identity. And I think that’s the thing we are lacking as a nation. We don’t know our identity,” he says. “We have ripped out Christianity from the nation.”

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Why American culture still rules the world — and always will



The chorus has become deafening.

Op-ed pages and policy journals are saturated with self-appointed sages warning us that American soft power is finished, kaput, buried under the weight of Trumpism, tariffs, and the dismantling of USAID.

Soft power emerges from cultures people want to copy, and no teenager on earth is modeling himself on Xi Jinping Thought.

Foreign Policy’s Stephen Walt recently joined the funeral procession, lamenting that the Trump administration holds nothing but contempt for what his late colleague Joseph Nye called the power of attraction. Walt insists that hard power without soft power leaves America looking like Putin's Russia, with considerable muscle and all the magnetism of a DMV waiting room.

Scrambled eggheads

Walt writes from Cambridge, Massachusetts, where the consensus among the faculty lounge crowd is that Trump has dropped the soft-power crown — only to have Beijing pick it up. What utter nonsense. The lounge, perched so high in the ivory tower, has lost sight of the actual world below.

I came of age in Ireland in the early 2000s, where my brother and I consumed inordinate amounts of American television. We watched "Prison Break" religiously on Network 2, arguing about whether Michael or Lincoln was the smarter sibling. We debated whether Jack Bauer could plausibly go that long without sleeping. We watched "Entourage" and fought over whether Ari Gold was a maverick or a monster. We were far too young for any of it, but my parents, overworked and underpaid, couldn’t keep the remote out of our tiny hands.

We saved up to buy Abercrombie shirts that cost three times as much as they did in New Jersey. We learned American slang from "Friends" reruns and pretended we understood Thanksgiving. My cousin in Cork wore a Yankees cap for two years before learning baseball existed. The local chipper added "curly fries" to the menu because someone had seen them on a sitcom. American culture was the water we swam in, repeatedly and without hesitation.

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Swift diplomacy

Twenty-five years after my Abercrombie phase, American culture still dictates global taste. Kids in Uganda quote Kendrick Lamar. Teens in Jakarta can't get enough of the UFC. The films Mumbai produces borrow from Christopher Nolan; the films Seoul produces dream of Oscars in Los Angeles.

Taylor Swift's Eras Tour pulled crowds in Tokyo, Sydney, Buenos Aires, and Singapore that no homegrown artist could ever muster. Netflix dominates streaming in 190 countries. Apple's logo carries more cachet in a Vietnamese teenager's pocket than any flag. American universities, despite their obvious failings, still receive applications from every corner of the planet, including from the children of the Chinese officials who publicly denounce them.

Yes, K-pop had a moment. BTS sold out arenas, "Gangnam Style" broke YouTube, and commentators declared a new cultural pole emerging from Seoul. Then the moment passed. "Squid Game" spawned imitators rather than a movement. South Korean culture spreads wide and runs shallow. It’s a garnish, a starter at best, but it never was and never will be the main course.

China viral

China presents the more entertaining case study. Beijing spends billions of dollars annually trying to manufacture soft power, opening Confucius Institutes, funding film studios, broadcasting CGTN into hotel rooms, where nobody watches. What did succeed was TikTok, a platform that broke through by hiding its Chinese origins and amplifying American content.

When was the last time a Chinese film conquered a multiplex in Berlin or Buenos Aires? When did a Chinese musician headline a festival in Mexico City? What Walt and the credentialed class miss is that soft power cannot be bought through state subsidy or willed into existence by Politburo memo. It emerges from cultures people want to copy, and no teenager on earth is modeling himself on Xi Jinping Thought.

If anyone deserves the soft power obituary, it's the country I know all too well.

London falling

Britain once exported culture by the truckload. Now it sends a parcel here and there.

The last British band to crack American consciousness was Coldplay, and even that is now like ancient history. British television still produces excellent dramas, watched by fewer Americans every year. The royal family generates tabloid fodder rather than genuine fascination, and the tabloids themselves are dying.

British fashion has lost its swagger, with London Fashion Week now an afterthought to Paris and Milan. British music charts are dominated by American acts, including country music acts.

No teenager in Lima or Lisbon is dreaming of a steak and kidney pie, while plenty are queuing for the new Shake Shack. No kid of sound mind in Manila is begging for a Cornish pasty, but many are heading to their local In-N-Out for a quick fix. American food, like American everything else, travels. British food sits at home, where it belongs.

Trump-proof

American soft power survives and even thrives in the Trump era for an unsexy reason that academics struggle to accept. It doesn't run on policy. It never has and never will. Instead, it runs on creativity, scale, language, and capital, all of which remain concentrated in American hands and American servers.

The presidency changes every four or eight years. Silicon Valley does not. The English language does not. American universities, American sports, American music, American food chains, and American technology platforms form an ecosystem so vast and self-replenishing that no single administration can dismantle it.

Walt's pessimism reflects a left-leaning gripe masquerading as a global issue. A teenager in Helsinki watching "Euphoria" on his iPhone, wearing Air Jordans, sipping a Coke, and biting into a Big Mac isn't thinking about China, the U.K., or any supposed contender. America's grip on the global imagination was never a government project. The funeral notices keep arriving, but the eulogies sound like the musings of people who hear "Drake" and picture a duck.

'Tribalism' is healthy — and America should embrace it



Somewhere between the 10,000th think piece about polarization and the hundredth talk on bridging divides, a strange consensus formed: Tribalism is democracy's deepest disease, its most persistent poison.

Professors and pastors warn of it. Columnists mourn it. Podcasters monetize their mourning. The diagnosis is always the same: Humans clustering together with their own kind is dangerous, primitive, a malfunction of the civic mind.

The people most loudly condemning tribalism tend to be surrounded by people exactly like them, at universities exactly like theirs.

Fine. But what if they're wrong?

Not partially wrong, but actually, foundationally, embarrassingly wrong — the way doctors were wrong about bloodletting or the way everyone was wrong about cargo pants being over.

Friendship by another name

Tribalism has an image problem. Many associate it with mob violence, ethnic cleansing, and mass unrest. But that's not tribalism. Not really. The base ingredient — people who share values and show up for each other — predates democracy, predates government, predates trousers. We used to just call it friendship.

My life runs on tribes. Boxing buddies on Tuesday mornings — punching things together turns out to be exceptional social glue. Drinks on Friday evenings with people who know my views, share my basic read on how the world should work, and will tell me honestly when I'm being an idiot. Football on Sundays: same faces, same complaints about the same referee.

These groups form through proximity, repetition, and the steady accumulation of shared in-jokes about Tom’s terrible parking. Nobody recruits anybody. The politics surface eventually, the way they always do — not as a pitch but as a mutual nod. Oh, you also think that. Good. Pass the beer.

Condescending critique

The anti-tribalism crowd conflates the existence of a tribe with hostility toward outsiders. But the two aren't the same thing, and they don't have to travel together. A group of friends who share values is not automatically a firing squad aimed at people who don't. The aggression that looks like tribalism is usually something else — fear, scarcity, manipulation by people with something to gain from the mob. The tribe itself is just the group chat.

There is also something condescending baked into the critique. The implication is that enlightened people transcend their loyalties. The sophisticated move is to float above any particular community, dispensing equal approval in all directions. This person does not exist. And if people like that do exist, nobody wants to live beside them, work with them, invite them to anything, or get stuck next to them at a wedding.

The people most loudly condemning tribalism tend to be surrounded by people exactly like them, at universities exactly like theirs, publishing in the same journals, citing each other's footnotes, all nodding along in perfect, oblivious unison. The irony apparently doesn't register.

Tribal to the bone

My ancestors were Irish. They were tribal to the bone, tribal by necessity, tribal the way people get when the alternative is disappearance. That tribalism — stubborn, clannish, occasionally violent, always inconvenient for the people trying to govern them — is precisely what produced the independence that eventually let them leave. Seven centuries of enthusiastic British imperialism tore Ireland apart. The tribe was the solution, not the problem.

America was the same story once. The founders were a tribe. So were the suffragettes, the labor organizers, the civil rights marchers. Every movement that actually changed anything was, underneath the rhetoric, a group of people who genuinely liked and trusted each other enough to take serious risks together.

As for the loneliness epidemic affecting the country, it didn't arrive because people had too many tribes, but because tribes became harder to build and easier to lose. Jobs moved. Cities got expensive. The bowling leagues, union halls, and neighborhood associations that once knit people into groups of mutual obligation slowly disappeared, and we got LinkedIn as a replacement.

Against this backdrop, telling people their tribal instincts are dangerous is useful the way a fire safety lecture is useful during an actual fire.

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Believe in belonging

What tribalism needs — contrary to the credentialed, conspicuously left-leaning, remarkably group-minded people writing op-eds about its dangers — isn't elimination, but better PR and a little calibration.

Think of the happiest moments of your life. They almost certainly happened with the same handful of people, in the same handful of places. Some of those people aren't around any more. That absence is its own argument — not for giving up on tribes, but for holding them closer while you can.

The alternative — atomized individuals, each navigating life as a fully independent unit, allegiant to nothing, accountable to no one — isn't utopia. In truth, it's just lonely, and loneliness radicalizes. Belonging stabilizes. This isn’t a controversial finding, but it’s certainly inconvenient for the people whose careers depend on pathologizing friendship.

New Alzheimer's treatments bring hope — and reminders of those we have lost



Ten years have passed since I last spoke to my grandfather as himself. Not a day goes by that I don't miss him.

The man who forgot me isn’t the one I carry. I carry the other one. The one who took me for long walks, who collected acorns the way other men pocket loose change. He taught me never to speak ill of others, advice I have absorbed deeply and applied far less than he would have liked.

He never had a bad word to say about anyone. Not once. As an Irishman, this made him practically a medical curiosity.

We fed livestock together in the early mornings, breath visible, ground hard underfoot. He had a tenderness with cattle and sheep that I have never seen replicated . A slow hand to the forehead, a particular stillness, and the animal would simply decide to trust him. Even the wild ones. Especially the wild ones.

Unshakable faith

In the garden, he taught me to plant vegetables with something approaching ceremony. Potatoes pressed into drills with two hands, like an offering. Scallions in lines so deliberate they made the rest of existence feel approximate. Soil under the fingernail. The unshakable faith that what you plant will, in its own time, pay you back.

He taught me how to play piano and the Irish flute — hours of patient instruction that I traded, around age 13, for sports and the dubious pleasures of warm cider in a field. I stopped. He said nothing. I am still grateful and still guilty in roughly equal measure. He was the kindest man I have ever known.

He never had a bad word to say about anyone. Not once. As an Irishman, this made him practically a medical curiosity. We are, by temperament and long tradition, a people who can elevate mild inconvenience into competitive suffering. He never caught that particular bug.

A passing cloud

Then Alzheimer's arrived. Before it takes the body, it takes the person, which makes the grief savage in its specificity. You mourn someone still breathing in front of you, still drinking tea, still occasionally smiling, while the version you knew withdraws without a forwarding address.

The first time he didn't recognize me, I expected hesitation. What I received was blankness. Placid, absolute blankness. A face I had known my whole life, looking at me like I was a stranger who had wandered into the wrong room. For him, likely a passing cloud. For me, a clean line dividing before from after.

My grandmother outlived him by months. The official cause was a heart attack. The accurate cause was a broken heart, and I mean that with clinical precision rather than poetic license. She simply had no further use for mornings without him. Fifty years of reaching for the same hand, and when the hand was gone, she simply lost the argument for continuing. There is a particular brutality in watching love become a countdown.

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A complicated picture

For decades, the dominant scientific theory treated Alzheimer's as a single-villain story: amyloid plaques accumulating in the brain. One cause; one target. It was neat and tidy.

It was also completely wrong. Researchers now describe a far more complicated picture. Tangled Tau proteins. Genetic vulnerabilities. Metabolic failures. Disruptions originating in the gut, of all places.

The brain fails as part of a longer story. The first forgotten name is never the beginning, but only the moment the beginning becomes impossible to ignore. Medicine, in other words, spent decades treating the final chapter as the only one worth reading.

Newer treatments show modest results. They slow the decline, but they don’t reverse it. They don’t put a man back at his kitchen table, telling a story his family has heard so many times they could recite it backward, about meeting his wife at a dance, and making it feel, on the 43rd telling, like something worth leaning in for.

The current scientific ambition, at least, has grown more honest: attack the disease across every front simultaneously. Target the proteins, the aging cells, the metabolic dysfunction, and the genetic predispositions. Treat the system, not the symptom.

Bone-deep

My grandfather would have grasped this without a single journal article. He understood, bone-deep, that everything connects. Soil quality shapes the crop. Weather shapes the soil. The animals depend on both. You can’t fix a failing field by fixating on one plant.

There is something resembling hope in this shift. It arrives too late for him and for her. But the possibility exists that fewer families will sit across from someone they love and watch recognition drain from a familiar face. Over 7 million Americans currently live with Alzheimer's. The people who love them number considerably more, and their suffering doesn’t appear in the statistics.

My grandfather carried me when I was too tired to walk and when I was too sick to stand. In return, I carry him. The man who never gave anyone a reason to be forgotten. It is the least I can do and nowhere near enough. And I will do it anyway, gladly, until I no longer can.

Parents: Let your kids out to play



My childhood had a simple structure: Leave the house, come back when hungry.

Nobody tracked my location. Nobody scheduled my fun. I roamed a small Irish village with a rotating gang of kids, knocking on doors to collect whoever was free, wandering fields we didn't own, climbing trees we absolutely shouldn't have.

Our treehouse was born from boredom. Three of us, on a long summer afternoon, with nothing to do.

Our treehouse — built from stolen timber, held together, technically, by two bent nails — would have given a structural engineer a full breakdown. We were enormously proud of it.

Bumps and bruises

There were scuffles. Real ones, occasionally bloody, always brief. Someone would throw a punch over some perceived injustice. A disputed goal, a broken rule, an insult that landed a little too cleanly. Five minutes later, we'd be back at it, whatever it was that day.

No adults mediated. No one processed feelings. The fight resolved itself because the game needed bodies, and everyone knew it. You learned, quickly, that holding a grudge cost you far more than swallowing it.

The point isn't that we were tougher or that children today are soft, although I would argue that both are true. The point I’m trying to make is that we were unsupervised, and supervision, it turns out, changes everything.

I say this not from a rocking chair but as someone who, at age 8 or 9, split his time between farm chores and disappearing into the village like a feral little fugitive. Less than 25 years ago. A blink of the eye, really, except apparently long enough to completely reinvent childhood.

Rationing daylight

Now, one in 10 parents say their young children play outside once a week or less. One week. Seven days. Imagine rationing daylight like that. Childhood has migrated indoors, onto screens, into carefully arranged playdates where two children sit in a living room while two adults hover nearby, making sure nobody says anything upsetting. The kids sense the performance. They behave accordingly.

Researchers from Denmark recently did something beautifully simple: They asked children what good play actually feels like.

Not what it teaches. Not what skills it builds. What it feels like from inside.

The answers were slightly embarrassing for every adult who has ever built a color-coded activity schedule. Children cared about the feeling of play. That loose, almost electric sense that something is genuinely alive. They cared about belonging — not polite, managed inclusion, but being genuinely wanted by the group. They cared about imagination running slightly off the rails. They even valued a certain productive chaos, the kind that adults instinctively shut down.

Adults, predictably, care about outcomes — cognitive development, motor skills, social learning they can point to and measure. Children care about none of this while they're playing. What they actually care about is whether it's fun, whether they're wanted, and whether there's the slightest chance that it might go delightfully wrong.

Screen police

Our games always went somewhere unexpected. A football match would mutate, mid-afternoon, into something involving a rope, an old mattress someone had dumped in a field, and rules nobody could fully explain afterward. The logic was impeccable at the time. The mattress did not survive.

Modern play environments iron out exactly these qualities. Soft surfaces, approved equipment, and an adult nearby to ensure fairness and prevent anything resembling genuine consequence. The result looks like play. Children sense that it isn't, the way you sense when a photograph has been retouched slightly too much. Something essential has been removed.

Screens fill the gap with surgical efficiency. Nearly a third of young children now engage regularly in what researchers call "media play" — a phrase that earns its quotation marks. Tapping a screen is not the same as negotiating who gets to be the villain or managing the social fallout when the smallest kid turns out to be the best climber and everyone has to begrudgingly update their hierarchy. Digital games have fixed rules, predictable rewards, and zero social friction. That's precisely their appeal. It's also precisely their poverty.

The consequences don't arrive with bruises or a note from school. They arrive later, wearing other disguises. Low frustration tolerance. Social anxiety with no obvious origin. A deep unfamiliarity with boredom, which is actually the raw material of invention.

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Free range

Our treehouse was born from boredom. Three of us, on a long summer afternoon, with nothing to do. Within an hour, we had made a plan. Within a week, we had made something structurally catastrophic and deeply satisfying. Nobody told us to build it. Nobody approved the design. Nobody stood beneath it checking for hazards, which was probably wise given what happened to the second shelf.

Children need exactly that kind of space. Not the park for 15 minutes before the grocery run, but long, unscheduled stretches where the only available resource is other children and whatever the back yard contains. Boredom long enough to become uncomfortable. Discomfort long enough to force creativity.

They need, occasionally, for nobody to be watching.

We turned out fine, most of us. There were scraped knees. One incident involved a gate left wide open, a bull wandering into the street, and a level of collective amnesia that has never fully lifted. The treehouse was, after much deliberation, abandoned to the weather. The nails, I'm told, are still there.

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The day my father handed me the gun



I grew up measuring time by the turn of seasons. Autumn meant schoolbooks and shorter days. Winter meant stripped fields, wind off the Atlantic, and weekend mornings beside my father in the wild stretch of Connemara, County Galway. Stone walls, peat bog, and low mountains framed the years that shaped me.

We hunted game birds — wing shooting, as my father called it. Pheasants burst from hedgerows in a clatter of bronze feathers. Woodcock came tearing through trees like pilots who had misplaced their maps. Snipe flickered over the marsh, determined to test the dignity of anyone aiming at them. Over time, you learned the land — and with it the humbling truth that even a bird with a walnut-sized brain could make you look foolish.

There was a burst of snarling, then a sound I still hear nearly 20 years later. Two badgers were below.

Nothing about it was hurried. We walked for miles. We watched the wind. We read the ground. We spoke softly, and often not at all.

My first gun

My first gun came later than I wanted and earlier than my mother preferred. I fired my first shot at 13. I still remember the weight of it, the kick, the sudden understanding that I was holding something that demanded respect. I also remember missing completely and nearly falling backward from the recoil. My father didn’t laugh. He checked my stance, corrected my grip, and only then allowed himself a small smile that said "you’ll learn."

And I did.

At first, like any boy, all I wanted was to pull the trigger and fire into the sky. But my father had other ideas.

Learning to shoot, he insisted, was an art. Cheek firm to the stock. Follow through. Don’t rush. Breathe steadily. Safety first, always. A gun was never waved about, never pointed without purpose, never treated as a toy. It was a tool, and tools required competence.

No waste

The first time I hit a clay target, a surge of triumph swept over me. The first time I brought down a pheasant cleanly, I felt pride — and with it a sober awareness of what the shot meant. A life had ended, and I understood my part in it. My father insisted that we retrieve every bird and carry it home. Waste wasn’t tolerated. Nothing was done carelessly.

In those early years, the hunting extended beyond birds. Foxes came too close to the farm in lambing season. They took what they could. When that happened, the task fell to us. I was younger then, and I didn’t relish it, but I understood it. This wasn’t sport but protection. The lambs were vulnerable. The farm depended on them. Badgers, powerful and stubborn creatures, could maim or kill a sheep if they set upon it.

One afternoon, when I was about 15, we brought our two terriers to a sett we had been watching. They were small, fearless dogs — my father’s pride and joy — bred to go to ground and drive out whatever lay beneath. We waited above the hole, listening.

What came back up wasn’t what we expected.

Brief and brutal

There was a burst of snarling, then a sound I still hear nearly 20 years later. Two badgers were below. The fight was brief and brutal. When it ended, both terriers were dead.

The silence afterward felt unnatural. My father said little. He knelt beside the dogs, his hands steady, his face set in a way I had never seen. That day left its mark on both of us.

Within a week, he had tracked the badgers’ movements. He watched their runs, noted their patterns, and returned at dusk when they emerged. He shot them cleanly. I remember the way I looked at him then — not simply as my father, but as someone I deeply admired. Our dogs were gone, and he had set things right.

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A simple nod

After that, our trips to Connemara changed. I was less a child tagging along and more a companion. We walked side by side, reading the land together. He asked what I saw and waited for the answer.

I recently flew back to Ireland to hunt with my father again. Dawn came slowly over the Twelve Bens, washing the valley in a soft silver light.

We walked as we always had. Now in his early 60s, he moved more slowly, but his eye remained sharp. A pheasant burst from cover. I swung, fired, and missed. He said nothing. Another bird rose minutes later. This time the shot landed true. He nodded once — which, from him, amounted to high praise.

There is a caricature of gun culture that reduces it to aggression — the love of noise, the love of power. That was never my experience. Hunting with my father gave me a vocabulary that didn’t rely on words. Approval showed itself in the briefest of looks. Correction came with a hand on the stock. Trust arrived in small responsibilities — carrying the gun, crossing a wall safely, judging distance and wind.

We ended the day as we always did: muddy boots, cold hands, birds cleaned and hung, and a couple of pints at the local pub. Outside, evening settled. Inside, there was warmth and a quiet satisfaction.

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