THERE is only one place to start right now.  Gaza.
 
TWO THOUSAND YEARS
 
Away in the rubble 
A brick for a bed
The little Lord Jesus 
Laid down his sore head
The bombs from the night sky 
Rained down where he lay
His mother was weeping 
The rest passed away 
 
The Romans, the exile,
the pogroms, the fear
The Bundists’ ‘stand fast now’ 
And Herzl’s ‘not here’ 
Sykes-Picot, the Nazis,
the Nakba, the wall
The little Lord Jesus
Despaired at them all.
 
Israel’s response to Hamas’s obscene murder and torture of countless civilians and sexual violence against women is so disproportionate that to refuse to call for a ceasefire is a collusion in a war crime. And given the grotesque actions of Hamas — make no mistake, there is no hint of justification for that from me, the brutalisation and settler land grabs do not justify unspeakable torture and murder of civilians and especially of people who have dedicated their lives to peace — to describe the Israeli response as “disproportionate” barely sums up its scale and brutality. 
 
There must be a ceasefire enforced by international peacekeepers, and a lasting solution to the festering conflict must be found, once and for all. The US needs to butt out and let the rest of the world get on with it. But it won’t: UN vetos and attempts at world-shaping by force are part of its DNA. 
 
And so it ever was. 
 
I can scarcely believe it, but this New Year’s Eve is the 40th anniversary of Airstrip One, my favourite of all my songs. It was written after lots of beer at the King’s Head in Shoreham, West Sussex, near where I grew up, walking back home along the harbour-front road, thinking about the imminent arrival of Reagan’s cruise missiles at Greenham and Orwell’s prediction that we would be “Airstrip One,” an unsinkable aircraft carrier for a foreign power. The pub is now demolished and it’s where the Ropetackle Centre, our lovely community arts centre, now stands.
 
THE BALLAD OF AIRSTRIP ONE

Another new year and too much beer 
and a puke into the sea
Though the lights of Shoreham Harbour 
still look the same to me
And some bloke on the radio 
is saying things that I’ve heard before
And he’s going on about Orwell 
and it’s getting rather a bore
And out there in the darkness 
there’s a Yankee with a gun
But we’re too wrecked to care right now 
‘cos the new year’s just begun
We’re having fun 
down on Airstrip One

The Harlow lights shine brightly 
as the wheels eat up the road
But the motorways are runways now 
and they’re carrying a deadly load
‘Cos the monsters are all mobile 
and there’s anarchy in the air
And the driver’s name is Sutcliffe 
and he’s too far gone to care
And if you think your Kentish prayers 
are mightier than the gun
I’ll tell you that you’re dreaming 
‘cos the countdown’s just begun
But we’ll still have fun 
down on Airstrip One

Some folks are anxious 
and some folks are cool
Read all the newspapers, 
don’t be a fool
Video nasties and sugary tea
That’s the way to get away scot free
On Airstrip One

There’s some choose civilisation 
and a promise unfulfilled
And there’s some choose extermination — 
when it’s someone else who gets killed
A gesture of insanity 
and a world left to the crabs
Five thousand years of history 
and now they’re up for grabs
So send that fucking cowboy 
riding off into the sun
And send with him the culture 
of the dollar and the gun
Then we’ll have fun
Down on Airstrip One
 
And even Reagan and Thatcher pale in the age of Trump and Braverman. It’s been a horrible, horrible year, with the one shining light for me the continuing story of how we, the fans, took Brighton & Hove Albion from bottom of the Fourth Division to top of our group in the Europa League. Direct action works. There is always hope. There has to be. Happy New Year. 
 
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