A group of friends sit around a table sharing stories and sipping mead. The men sport beards and the women sip from drinking horns – but these aren’t Vikings, they’re modern-day hipsters.
These meaderies often draw on Viking imagery in their branding. Their wares are called things like Odin’s Mead or Viking Blod and their logos include longships, axes, ravens and drinking horns. A few even have their own themed Viking drinking halls. This is part of what might be called the “Viking turn”, the renewed pop culture vogue for the Vikings in the past 20 years, which has made them the stars of a rash of films, TV shows, video games and memes.
Since the rowdy banquet scene in the 1958 film The Vikings, wild, boozy feasting has been a staple of the hyper-masculine pop culture Viking. This theme continues in the 21st century, from the History Channel’s Vikings TV series (2013-present) to games like Skyrim (2011) and Assassin’s Creed: Valhalla (2020).
But while modern media suggest that Vikings drank mead as often as water, history tells a slightly different story.
The banquet scene from The Vikings (1958).
Three stories are foundational for the Viking association with mead. The first is the Anglo-Saxon poem Beowulf, which survives in a single manuscript written in Old English and now in the British Library.
The story it tells is set in southern Sweden and Denmark in the early 6th century, so the warrior culture and lifestyle that Beowulf idealises are actually of a period considerably earlier than the Viking age (usually dated from the later 8th century onward). It does share a great deal of its substance with later Viking notions of the good life and so, for good or ill, they have tended to be conflated.
Most of Beowulf’s action plays out around mead-halls – the power centres of lords such as the Danish king Hrothgar, where the leader would entertain his followers with feasts and drinking in return for their support and military service. This relationship, based upon the consumption of food and drink, but inextricably bound up with honour and loyalty, is the basis of the heroic warrior society that is celebrated by the poet. Not surprisingly, therefore, episodes in which mead is drunk are frequent and clearly emotionally loaded.
A second high-profile appearance of mead comes in Norse mythology. At the god Odin’s great hall, Valhöll, the Einherjar – the most heroic and honoured warriors slain in battle – feast and drink. They consume the unending mead that flows from the udders of a goat named Heiðrún who lives on the roof. Norse myth, it should be noted, is sometimes quite odd.
Odin excreting mead in the form of an eagle, from an Icelandic 18th century manuscript. Det Kongelige Bibliotek
Lastly, another important myth tells of Odin’s theft of the “mead of poetry”. This substance was created by two dwarves from honey and the blood of a being named Kvasir, whom they had murdered. The mead bestows gifts of wisdom and poetic skill upon those who drink it.
The whole myth is long and complicated, but it culminates with Odin swallowing the mead and escaping in the form of an eagle, only to excrete some of it backwards when he is especially hotly pursued.
These are striking and impressive episodes that clearly demonstrate the symbolic and cultural significance of mead in mythology and stories about heroes of the Viking age. But that is far from proof that it was actually consumed on a significant scale in England or Scandinavia.
As far back as the 1970s, the philologist Christine Fell noted that Old English medu, (mead), and compound words derived from it appear far more frequently in strongly emotive and poetic contexts such as Beowulf than in practical ones such as laws or charters.
This contrasts strongly with the pattern of usage of other words for alcohol such as ealu (ale), beor (counter intuitively probably “cider”) or win (wine), which are far more frequently used in a functional and practical way. This led Fell to believe that the concentration on mead in the likes of Beowulf was a “nostalgic fiction”. Mead, she concluded, was a fundamental part of an idealised and backwards-looking imagined heroic world rather than something customarily drunk in the course of everyday life.
In 2007, a PhD candidate at the University of York demonstrated the same point in the Scandinavian sources: mjǫðr (“mead”) is far more common in the corpus of Eddic and skaldic poetry than it is in the saga stories of everyday life. Equally, both the word mjǫðr and compound words derived from it are used far less frequently in the sort of practical and purposeful contexts in which ǫl and mungát (the Old Norse words for ale) are plentiful.
Drinking horns on display at a Viking-themed pub in York. Author provided, CC BY
The strong impression in both England and Scandinavia is that, by the time sources like Beowulf were written from the 10th century onward, the plentiful drinking of mead by a lord’s retinue was largely symbolic. It represented the contractual bonds of honour in an idealised warrior society.
This was more a poetic image than a reflection of frequent real-life practice. The standard drink at feasts, let alone at normal everyday household meals, was far more likely to be ale.
Mead was once a highly prized drink – probably the most desirable beverage well before the Viking age, as its honoured place in Valhöll and Hrothgar’s hall suggests. However, honey’s scarcity made mead expensive and hard to source in northern Europe. By the Viking age, exotic Mediterranean wine, mentioned as Odin’s drink in the Grímnismál, may have begun to replace mead as the elite’s preferred choice.
So what, then, for modern mead-drinking Viking enthusiasts? The point is not, of course, that Vikings or any other early medieval people never drank mead – some clearly did, if not perhaps quite so often as is sometimes alleged – but rather that it served more as a symbol of a story-filled heroic neverland. But that is arguably exactly how many of today’s mead-drinkers also use it.
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Tesla has announced it is offering its CEO Elon Musk a performance-based pay package worth US$1 trillion. That’s right: 12 zeros.
To put this figure in perspective, it is double the amount of Musk’s existing fortune of US$500 billion (£380 billion) and equal to the GDP of Switzerland.
There are, of course, strings attached. The compensation will be be paid out in new shares on the condition that the company meets some ambitious goals within the next decade. Still, US$1 trillion is an absurd amount of money – even for someone who is already the richest person in the world.
So how do we make sense of it?
Tesla’s chair of the board Robyn Denholm warned shareholders that Musk might walk away from the company if they didn’t approve the unprecedented pay package. Shareholder confidence was no doubt buoyed by the recent rise in Tesla’s stock, with one investor describing Musk as “key” to the entire enterprise.
But what the chair of the board didn’t mention was that Tesla’s sales (and stock price) had plummeted earlier this year, thought to be largely due to Musk’s cost-slashing activities at the US department of government efficiency (Doge). After Musk stepped back from the Trump administration, Tesla’s share price rebounded.
So why award him this record-breaking pay plan? According to Tesla’s board, the package is meant to “incentivise” Musk to propel the company to new heights. In other words, Musk will aspire to achieve more if he is paid more.
This explanation rests on the longstanding myth of the “economic man” – the idea that humans are primarily motivated by financial gain. But behavioural economists such as Daniel Kahneman and Dan Ariely have long since debunked this. Humans often act in weird, irrational ways that don’t always make economic sense. They make decisions based on habits and emotions rather than careful calculation.
The figure of homo economicus offers only a partial account of human behaviour at best, and a misrepresentation of reality at worst. And what’s a few hundred billion dollars more to a man with a personal wealth that is already on a par with the total value of energy giant ExxonMobil?
To understand excessive executive pay, forget the rational “economic man”. In management studies, there’s a theory called the “the romance of leadership”. It tells us that people grossly overestimate the influence of leaders on organisations.
In his classic account of charismatic leadership, German sociologist Max Weber notes that people tend to attribute “extraordinary” qualities to certain individuals, making them appear capable of feats that are far beyond the reach of ordinary people. They become larger than life, at least to those who are in their circle of influence.
The deeds of charismatic leaders are rarely viewed by their followers in a clear-eyed way. As if blinded by their charisma, people tend to exaggerate the leader’s efficacy and ignore their shortcomings.
A typical product engineer at Tesla earns around US$115,000 a year, plus stock options. Musk’s pay package is several million times larger than the average salary at his own company. It’s enough to buy a Rolls-Royce Droptail – one of the world’s most expensive cars at around £25 million – every day for 90 years.
Only a true believer, someone with faith in the power of leadership, could think this is a good idea.
A Rolls-Royce La Rose Noire Droptail – one of the world’s most expensive cars. Rolls-Royce Motor Cars
Other companies are following Tesla’s lead. EV company Rivian recently awarded its CEO RJ Scaringe performance-based stock options that could exceed US$4 billion dollars. Small change for Elon, but probably a big deal for RJ.
In the case of Tesla, Musk is portrayed as a “visionary” leader, despite recent controversies. In the words of business professor Gautam Mukunda: “Tesla’s current valuation only makes sense if you attribute magic powers to Elon Musk.” So another part of the explanation is that Musk was awarded the biggest pay package in history because shareholders believe him capable of performing corporate miracles.
There is a good chance that the bonus never materialises. But what if it does?
Tech elites like to ask each other about their “P(doom)” – the likelihood that AI will destroy the world in the foreseeable future. Some of this is sci-fi hokum, based on the idea that AI will soon develop human-like agency and begin making decisions in its own interest. But decisions like the one made by Tesla’s shareholders could actually raise the P(doom) value for the world.
Why? Because AI is what Musk likes to spend his money on. The entrepreneur is building AI-driven businesses, including Grok, that have reportedly reproduced contentious arguments around climate change, claims about “white genocide” in South Africa and praise for Hitler.
After these incidents, parent company xAI said it had taken steps to make Grok “politically neutral”, which could allow space for more minority views and so amplify climate scepticism, and blamed the South Africa posts on an “unauthorised modification” to the system prompt. In response to the Hitler posts, Musk wrote on X that Grok had been “manipulated” and that the issue was being addressed.
The problem isn’t a superintelligent AI diverting every resource on Earth into making paperclips as in a well-documented thought experiment. The problem is a run-of-the-mill chatbot spouting dangerous nonsense.
Tesla shares dipped after the compensation package was announced. Perhaps the shareholders are finally on to something?
The authors do not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and have disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.
In clinical trials around the world, a surprising treatment is showing promise for people with terminal illnesses: psychedelic therapy.
For many, the hardest part of dying isn’t physical pain but the fear, anxiety and sense of meaninglessness that often accompany it. While palliative care in the UK is rightly praised for easing pain and managing symptoms, patients’ emotional and spiritual suffering is often less well addressed.
Standard treatments – such as antidepressants, counselling and mindfulness – may ease some symptoms but often fail to help patients accept their diagnosis or find meaning in their remaining time. This is where psychedelic therapy may offer support.
The therapy involves the use of psychedelics such as psilocybin in combination with psychological support. This approach is designed to help patients explore difficult emotions, shift perspective and achieve profound psychological breakthroughs.
In twolandmark studies, a high dose of psilocybin with psychotherapy was shown to reduce depression and anxiety in patients with life-threatening cancer. These effects were rapid and, in many cases, sustained for up to six months, with many participants reporting improved mood, emotional clarity and reduced fear of death.
Some also described experiences of deep emotional release, awe and a sense of connection during psychedelic therapy – altered states that appeared to help patients reframe their relationship to dying.
Recognition of the potential of psychedelics for treating severe mental health conditions generally has led to significant regulatory shifts in several countries. For example, Australia, Germany and Canada are beginning to allow access to psychedelics for people with serious or treatment-resistant conditions.
Meanwhile, the EU has invested millions in research into psychedelic-assisted therapy. But in the UK, progress remains slow. Psychedelics are classed as substances of little or no medicinal value and are tightly controlled by the Misuse of Drugs Regulations. This makes research slow and access nearly impossible. Even clinical trials face costly licensing requirements and delays, discouraging researchers and limiting innovation.
A timely debate
Questions about how best to support people at the end of life are especially timely, as the end of life bill is currently being debated in parliament. While the bill focuses on legalising assisted dying, it has also sparked wider debate about the quality and scope of end-of-life care.
Access to good palliative support is not always guaranteed – a concern shared by both supporters and opponents of the bill. Against this backdrop, the limits of conventional approaches to psychological suffering become harder to ignore.
The bill opens up space to consider the potential role of psychedelic therapy, and to reflect more broadly on what it means to die well and whether current systems adequately support that goal.
The bill has prompted renewed public interest in how we treat psychological distress in the final stages of life. A recent YouGov poll found that most UK adults support relaxing restrictions on psilocybin research, especially for people with terminal illness. This suggests that public attitudes may be ahead of policy.
The bill provides an opportunity to question why the UK continues to implement such strict legal controls that hamper research and access to much-needed treatments, and why it lags behind other countries’ approaches. It invites a broader conversation about how the UK supports those facing the emotional and existential challenges of dying.
Clinical evidence, public attitudes and the changing international landscape all highlight growing interest in psychedelic therapy as a complement to conventional approaches like counselling. For those nearing the end of life, it may offer a rare chance to face death with less fear and more meaning and emotional clarity.
Psychedelic therapy won’t be right for everyone, but for some, it could mean meeting death with peace instead of despair.
Joanna Neill is affiliated with DrugScience, Onaya and Heroic Hearts Project UK.
Laura Downey and Muireann Quigley do not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and have disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.
Shannon McCoole ran one of the world’s largest dark web child abuse forums for around three years in the early 2010s. The forum provided a secure online space in which those interested in abusing children could exchange images, advice and support. It had around 45,000 users and was fortified with layers of online encryption that ensured near-complete anonymity for its users. In other words, it was a large and flourishing community for paedophiles.
McCoole eventually became the subject of an international investigation led by Taskforce Argos – a specialist unit in Australia’s Queensland Police Service dedicated to tackling online child abuse networks.
Key to the investigation – and McCoole’s eventual arrest and conviction – was a piece of linguistic evidence: his frequent use of an unusual greeting term, “hiyas”, as noticed by an investigating officer.
Investigators began searching relevant “clear web” sites (those openly accessible through mainstream search engines) for any markers of a similar linguistic style. They knew the kinds of websites to search because McCoole would speak about his outside interests on the forum, including basketball and vintage cars.
A man was discovered using the giveaway greeting on a four-wheel drive discussion forum. He lived in Adelaide and used a similar handle to the paedophile forum’s anonymous chief administrator. Another similarly named user – also using “hiyas” as a preferred greeting term – was discovered on a basketball forum. Suddenly, the police had their man.
This linguistic evidence contributed to the identification, arrest and eventual conviction of McCoole. But it didn’t end there. After McCoole’s arrest, Taskforce Argos took over his account and continued to run the forum, as him, for another six months. Police were able to gather vital intelligence that led to the prosecution of hundreds of offenders and to the rescue of at least 85 child victims.
McCool’s case is breathtaking, and it offers a compelling demonstration of the power of language in identifying anonymous individuals.
The power of language
My journey into forensic linguistics began in 2014 at Aston University, where I began learning about the various methods and approaches to analysing language across different contexts in the criminal justice system.
A forensic linguist might be called upon to identify the most likely author of an anonymously written threatening text message, based on its language features; or they might assist the courts in interpreting the meaning of a particular slang word or phrase.
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Forensic linguists also analyse the language of police interviews, courtroom processes and complex legal documents, pointing out potential barriers to access to understanding, especially for the most vulnerable groups in society. Without thoughtful consideration of the linguistic processes that occur in legal settings and the communication needs of the population, these processes can (and do) result in serious miscarriages of justice.
A particularly egregious example of this occurred when Gene Gibson was wrongly imprisoned for five years in Australia after being advised to plead guilty to manslaughter. Gibson was an Aboriginal man with a cognitive impairment and for whom English was a third language. The conviction was overturned when the court of appeal heard Gibson had not understood the court process, nor the instructions he was given by his appointed interpreter.
So forensic linguistics is not just about catching criminals, it’s also about finding ways to better support vulnerable groups who find themselves, in whatever capacity, having to interact with legal systems. This is an attempt to improve the delivery of justice through language analysis.
Something that struck me in the earliest days of my research was the relative lack of work exploring the language of online child sexual abuse and grooming. The topic had long received attention from criminologists and psychologists, but almost never linguists – despite online grooming and other forms of online child sexual offending being almost exclusively done through language.
There is no doubt that researching this dark side of humanity is difficult in all sorts of ways, and it can certainly take its toll.
Nonetheless, I found the decision to do so straightforward. If we don’t know much about how these offenders talk to victims, or indeed each other, then we are missing a vital perspective on how these criminals operate – along with potential new routes to catching them.
These questions became the central themes of both my MA and PhD theses, and led to my ongoing interest in the language that most people never see: real conversations between criminal groups on the dark web.
Anonymity and the dark web
The dark web originated in the mid-1990s as a covert communication tool for the US federal government. It is best described as a portion of the internet that is unindexed by mainstream search engines. It can only be accessed through specialist browsers, such as Tor, that disguise the user’s IP address.
This enables users to interact in these environments virtually anonymously, making them ideal for hidden conversations between people with shared deviant interests. These interests aren’t necessarily criminal or even morally objectionable – consider the act of whistleblowing, or of expressing political dissent in a country without free speech. The notion of deviance depends on local and cultural context.
Nonetheless, the dark web has become all but synonymous with the most egregious and morally abhorrent crimes, including child abuse, fraud, and the trafficking of drugs, weapons and people.
Combating dark web crime centres around the problem of anonymity. It is anonymity that makes these spaces difficult to police. But when all markers of identity – names, faces, voices – are stripped away, what remains is language.
And language expresses identity.
Through our conscious and unconscious selections of sounds, words, phrases, viewpoints and interactional styles, we tell people who we are – or at least, who we are being from moment to moment.
Language is also the primary means by which much (if not most) dark web crime is committed. It is through (written) linguistic interaction that criminal offences are planned, illicit advice exchanged, deals negotiated, goals accomplished.
For linguists, the records and messages documenting the exact processes by which crimes are planned and executed become data for analysis. Armed with theory and methods for understanding how people express (or betray) aspects of their identity online, linguists are uniquely placed to address questions of identity in these highly anonymous spaces.
What kind of person wrote this text?
The task of linguistic profiling is well demonstrated by the case of Matthew Falder. Falder pleaded guilty to 137 charges relating to child sexual exploitation, abuse and blackmail in 2018. The case was dubbed by the National Crime Agency (NCA) as its first ever “hurt-core” prosecution, due to Falder’s prolific use of “hidden dark web forums dedicated to the discussion and image and video sharing of rape, murder, sadism, torture, paedophilia, blackmail, humiliation and degradation”.
As part of the international investigation to identify this once-anonymous offender, police sought out the expertise of Tim Grant, former director of the Aston Institute for Forensic Linguistics, and Jack Grieve from the University of Birmingham. Both are world-leading experts in authorship analysis, the identification of unknown or disputed authors and speakers through their language. The pair were tasked with ascertaining any information they could about a suspect of high interest, based on a set of dark web communications and encrypted emails.
Where McCoole’s case was an example of authorship analysis (who wrote this text?), Falder’s demanded the slightly different task of authorship profiling (what kind of person wrote this text?).
When police need to identify an anonymous person of interest but have no real-world identity with which to connect them, the linguist’s job is to derive any possible identifying demographic information. This includes age, gender, geographical background, socioeconomic status and profession. But they can only glean this information about an author from whatever emails, texts or forum discussions might be available. This then helps them narrow the pool of potential suspects.
Grant and Grieve set to work reading through Falder’s dark web forum contributions and encrypted emails, looking for linguistic cues that might point to identifying information.
They were able to link the encrypted emails to the forum posts through some uncommon word strings that appeared in both datasets. Examples included phrases like “stack of ideas ready” and “there are always the odd exception”.
They then identified features that offered demographic clues to Falder’s identity. For example, the use of both “dish-soap” and “washing-up liquid” (synonymous terms from US and British English) within the same few lines of text. Grant and Grieve interpreted the use of these terms as either potential US influence on a British English-speaker, or as a deliberate attempt by the author to disguise his language background.
Ultimately, the linguists developed a profile that described a highly educated, native British English-speaking older man. This “substantially correct” linguistic profile formed part of a larger intelligence pack that eventually led to Falder’s identification, arrest and conviction. Grant’s and Grieve’s contribution earned them Director’s Commendations from the NCA.
Linguistic strategies
The cases of McCoole and Falder represent some of the most abhorrent crimes that can be imagined. But they also helped usher into public consciousness a broader understanding of the kinds of criminals that use the dark web. These online communities of offenders gather around certain types of illicit and criminal interests, trading goods and services, exchanging information, issuing advice and seeking support.
For example, it is not uncommon to find forums dedicated to the exchange of child abuse images, or advice on methods and approaches to carrying out various types of fraud.
In research, we often refer to such groups as communities of practice – that is, people brought together by a particular interest or endeavour. The concept can apply to a wide range of different communities, whether professional-, political- or hobby-based. What unites them is a shared interest or purpose.
But when communities of practice convene around criminal or harmful interests, providing spaces for people to share advice, collaborate and “upskill”, ultimately they enable people to become more dangerous and more prolific offenders.
The emerging branch of research in forensic linguistics of which I am part explores such criminal communities on the dark web, with the overarching aim of assisting the policing and disrupting of them.
Work on child abuse communities has shown the linguistic strategies by which new users attempt to join and ingratiate themselves. These include explicit references to their new status (“I am new to the forums”), commitments to offering abuse material (“I will post a lot more stuff”), and their awareness of the community’s rules and behavioural norms (“I know what’s expected of me”).
Research has also highlighted the social nature of some groups focused on the exchange of indecent images. In a study on the language of a dark website dedicated to the exchange of child abuse images, I found that a quarter of all conversational turns contributed to rapport-building between members – through, for example, friendly greetings (“hello friends”), well-wishing (“hope you’re all well”) and politeness (“sorry, haven’t got those pics”).
This demonstrates the perhaps surprising importance of social politeness and community bonding within groups whose central purpose is to trade in child abuse material.
Linguistic research on dark web criminal communities makes two things clear. First, despite the shared interest that brings them together, they do not necessarily attract the same kinds of people. More often than not they are diverse, comprising users with varied moral and ideological stances.
Some child abuse communities, for example, see sexual activity with children as a form of love, protesting against others who engage in violent abuse. Other groups openly (as far as is possible in dark web settings) seem to relish in the violent abuse itself.
Likewise, fraud communities tend to comprise people of highly varied motivations and morality. Some claim to be seeking a way out of desperate financial circumstances, while others proudly discuss their crimes as a way of seeking retribution over “a corporate elite”. Some are looking for a small side hustle that won’t attract “too many questions”, while a small proportion of self-identifying “real fraudsters” brag about their high status while denigrating those less experienced.
A common practice in these groups is to float ideas for new schemes – for example, the use of a fake COVID pass to falsely demonstrate vaccination status, or the use of counterfeit cash to pay sex workers. That the morality of such schemes provokes strong debate among users is evidence that fraud communities comprise different types of people, with a range of motivations and moral stances.
Community rules – even in abuse forums
Perhaps another surprising fact is that rules are king in these secret groups. As with many clear web forums, criminal dark web forums are typically governed by “community rules” which are upheld by site moderators. In the contexts of online fraud – and to an even greater extent, child abuse – these rules do not just govern behaviour and define the nature of these groups, they are essential to their survival.
Rules of child sexual exploitation and abuse forums are often extremely specific, laying out behaviour which are encouraged (often relating to friendliness and support among users) as well those which will see a user banished immediately and indefinitely. These reflect the nature of the community in question, and often differ between forums. For instance, some forums ban explicitly violent images, whereas others do not.
Rules around site and user security highlight users’ awareness of potential law enforcement infiltration of these forums. Rules banning the disclosure of personal information are ubiquitous and crucial to the survival and longevity of these groups.
Dark web sites often survive only days or weeks. The successful ones are those in which users understand the importance of the rules that govern them.
The rise of AI
Researching the language of dark web communities provides operationally useful intelligence for investigators. As in most areas of research, the newest issue we are facing in forensic linguistics is to try and understand the challenges and opportunities posed by increasingly sophisticated AI technologies.
At a time when criminal groups are already using AI tools for malicious purposes like generating abuse imagery to extort children, or creating deepfakes to impersonate public figures to scam victims, it is more important than ever that we understand how criminal groups communicate, build trust, and share knowledge and ideas.
By doing this, we can assist law enforcement with new investigative strategies for offender prioritisation and undercover policing that work to protect the most vulnerable victims.
As we stand at this technological crossroads, the collaboration between linguists, technology and security companies, and law enforcement has become more crucial than ever. The criminals are already adapting. Our methods for understanding and disrupting their communications must evolve just as quickly.
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Emily Chiang has received funding from UKRI – Innovate UK.
When the British government recently announced its plan to emulate Denmark’s asylum and immigration system, it framed the move as a way to restore fairness and regain control. But for those who know how Denmark’s system actually works, the move raises serious ethical — and practical — questions.
This is not the first time the UK and Denmark have looked to each other for ideas on tough migration policies. In 2022, both considered schemes to send asylum seekers to Rwanda and for claims to be processed there.
In the end, neither country went ahead. Denmark paused its proposals and the UK’s scheme was blocked by the courts and then ditched after a change of government.
Indeed, it is the only country in Europe to have revoked refugee protection on a large scale. And the first to reorient its laws away from integration and towards return.
I have spent years studying Denmark’s migration system and interviewing the refugees affected by it. My forthcoming book, Un-welcome to Denmark, traces the laws governing entry, residence and expulsion in Denmark’s Aliens Act, which has been amended more than 100 times over 36 years (1983–2019).
For context, that pace of change is unusually high, making Denmark’s immigration system one of the most frequently revised in Europe. And this has created near constant uncertainty for those living under it.
A tougher system
The turning point for Denmark’s asylum system came in 2015, when a change to the Aliens Act allowed authorities to revoke refugee status if conditions in someone’s home country had improved — even when those improvements were fragile or unpredictable.
Between 2017 and 2018, roughly 900 Somali refugees lost their residence permits. Then in 2019, just as the Social Democrats returned to power under Mette Frederiksen, parliament approved a package of legislation that has widely been described as a “paradigm shift” in Denmark’s asylum policy.
Under this tougher system, Syrian refugees who held temporary protection had their permits reassessed. In 2022 alone, nearly 400 Syrians left Denmark, fearing they would lose their refugee status and sought protection elsewhere in Europe.
Residencies were revoked, but refugees could not be deported, because Denmark had no diplomatic relations with the then Assad government. So people were placed in so called “departure centres” — facilities designed to house people expected to leave the country (and under stricter conditions than standard refugee shelters).
Some of the Syrians I spoke with, who were detained at these centres, described the experience as extremely unpleasant — a non-life — seemingly designed to push them to leave voluntarily.
A life in limbo
Denmark has become a pioneer in restrictive immigration policies. And this has come with serious legal, ethical and moral challenges.
The European Court of Human Rights has, for example, previously found that Denmark violated the right to family life under the European Convention on Human Rights due to a three-year waiting period for refugees with temporary protection.
Last year, the European Court of Justice accused Denmark of racial discrimination for planned mass housing evictions in previously so called “ghetto” neighbourhoods (now referred to as parallel societies, where a high proportion of residents are migrants.
Refugees I’ve spoken with have told me how they often feel that integration is pointless if they might still be deported. Social isolation and limited rights for asylum seekers are the norm. Families face long waiting times for reunification despite few cases and refugees face temporary permits that hinder long-term planning.
The system is clearly designed to discourage settlement through restrictive living conditions and a lack of control over daily life, which creates a huge amount of stress and fear for those living under such rules.
Harsh and destabilising
Denmark’s asylum system shows how far a (supposedly) centre-left government can go in tightening migration policies while maintaining political support. The Social Democrats inherited a strict framework and have continued to apply it, including temporary protection, reassessment of refugee status and the use of departure centres.
For the UK, which is now considering adopting similar policies, the Danish experience offers cautionary lessons. These measures may reduce asylum numbers, but they come at a human and legal cost. Families are left in uncertainty, long-term planning is impossible and life in departure centres can be harsh and destabilising.
Any government looking to copy this approach should look beyond the statistics and consider the real experiences of the people affected. Denmark’s story is a reminder that migration policy is not just about managing numbers — it is also about the lives that are shaped by those policies.
This article was commissioned by Videnskab.dk as part of a partnership collaboration with The Conversation. You can read the Danish version of this article, here.
Michelle Pace received funding from the Carlsberg Foundation for her forthcoming monograph entitled Un-welcome to Denmark. The Paradigm Shift and Refugee Integration (MUP, December 2025). (Details here: https://www.carlsbergfondet.dk/en/what-we-have-funded/cf21-0519/). She is also an Associate Fellow, Europe Program, at Chatham House.
The BBC has long weathered accusations of bias. So why did the latest scandal lead to the resignations of the BBC’s director general and head of news? Many have pointed to the BBC board’s internal divisions over how to respond to a memo – leaked to The Daily Telegraph – alleging the BBC had “systemic problems” with its impartiality. A longtime critic of the BBC, the paper prominently reported on its claims.
But there has been limited scrutiny of the document at the centre of the chaos itself, and the man who put it together: Michael Prescott. Prescott was appointed as an external adviser to the BBC’s editorial standards committee, but left earlier this year.
Having repeatedly complained to the BBC board about the broadcaster’s coverage on a range of issues, Prescott grew frustrated that the news division failed to take them seriously. In the memo, he wrote: “What motivated me to prepare this note is despair at inaction by the BBC Executive when issues come to light.”
The memo highlighted the broadcaster’s supposedly imbalanced coverage of the 2024 US election, which was viewed as favouring Democratic over Republican issues and voices. In the reporting of racial diversity and immigration, the memo claimed to identify sloppy journalism and selection bias that underplayed stories about illegal immigration. In coverage of biological sex and gender, Prescott argued the “trans issue” was largely covered from one side that celebrated “the trans experience”.
He also found “simplistic and distorted narratives about British colonial racism [and] slave-trading” that lacked expert voices. And on the ongoing conflict between Israel and Palestine, Prescott concluded that BBC Arabic favoured pro-Hamas perspectives.
How did Prescott conduct this review?
The memo included occasional references to studies (not publicly available to read) produced by David Grossman. Grossman, a former BBC journalist, prepared the reports in his role as a senior editorial adviser to the BBC’s editorial guidelines and standards committee.
There was no information in the memo about how Grossman was appointed to this role. Nor was there transparency about how the specific topics raised were selected for analysis. As journalist David Aaronovitch has pointed out, the Prescott memo does not include “a single word … about the BBC’s political, business, education, health, royalty, home affairs, climate change or crime coverage, or even Ukraine”.
Leaving aside its narrow focus, on the issues Prescott did interrogate, there were no research questions or objectives, method, sample, time frame or, crucially, analytical framework for examining output. While the memo is not a peer-reviewed research paper, to allege “systemic issues”, you need to adopt a more systematic approach to analysing news output across a broad range of issues over time.
As someone who has researched the impartiality of journalism over two decades, I believe these are all essential to transparently conveying how and why you arrived at the conclusions.
When the BBC has typically commissioned studies, including thematic reviews of news and current affairs output, the focus was justified alongside methodological details.
For example, in a 2024 review of migration coverage, the author – migration researcher Madeleine Sumption – carried out interviews with external experts and BBC journalists and executives, focus group research, samples of BBC content and complaints from audiences. From the outset, she acknowledged the limitations of the study by prominently stating: “The judgements in this report are necessarily subjective.”
Despite Prescott’s report being filled with anecdotal evidence, it included no such disclaimers. The memo featured a response from the BBC about the partial selection of stories: “Cherry-picking a handful of examples or highlighting genuine mistakes in thousands of hours of output on TV and radio does not constitute analysis and is not a true representation of BBC content.”
This was dismissed by Prescott as “defensiveness”. Prescott wrote in the introduction that his “views on the BBC’s treatment of the subjects covered … do not come with any political agenda”.
Researching impartiality robustly
At Cardiff University’s School of Journalism, Media and Culture, my colleagues and I have researched the impartiality and accuracy of journalism over many years. We have, for example, examined the reporting of the four nations of the UK and devolved politics, coverage of election campaigns, the use of statistics, role of fact checking and the allocation of airtime to parties.
Our studies have been robustly designed and transparently explained to ensure they accurately convey how they were conducted and the conclusions drawn.
Take, for instance, our studies of the four nations. These examined the extent to which England, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland were covered over a set period in UK-wide news. They also looked at how accurately the policy responsibilities of the UK government was reported compared to the decisions by the Scottish, Welsh and Northern Ireland executives.
Above all, we found England was often represented as a stand-in for the UK, with a focus on London-centric politics. We also found a lack of clarity about the nations being responsible for governing in areas such as health and education.
We constructively worked with broadcasters and regulators, helping to raise awareness of stories that could be reported more effectively to promote better understanding of politics and public affairs across the UK.
More recently, we systematically tracked how broadcasters allocated airtime to the UK’s major parties. Our research showed the evening TV news bulletins focused more on Reform UK than the Liberal Democrats. Other recent studies demonstrated how the UK’s main political panel shows, such as Question Time, selected panels made up of largely Labour and Conservative guests.
Our studies have systematically tracked patterns of coverage over long periods of time, assessing the accuracy and impartiality of broadcasters through an analytical framework. Broadly speaking, we have not found evidence of any systemic bias as alleged in the Prescott memo. Nor have we alleged flagrant breaches of broadcast impartiality.
We have, however, identified blind spots where more context, background and explanation would help audiences understand often complex political and social issues.
The Prescott memo that sparked the BBC’s current crisis has not been transparent or robust in design or approach. The analysis itself falls well short of the standards of impartiality it demands.
Stephen Cushion has received funding from the BBC Trust, Ofcom, AHRC, BA and ESRC.
In the capital, Tehran, and in Mashhad, the country’s second-largest city, in the north-east, some reservoirs are at less than 5% and 3% capacity, respectively.
Authorities have begun cutting off water at night in the capital, according to reports. Iran’s president Masoud Pezeshkian has even warned of possible evacuations if “it doesn’t rain soon”. Images have surfaced on social media showing university students protesting water shortages on campuses.
Water shortages pose a serious security risk in Iran. In the summer of 2021, protests broke out in Khuzestan province in the south-west of the country due to severe water shortages. A few months later, farmers in Isfahan gathered to demonstrate over the Zayandeh-Rud River drying up.
Today in Shiraz (home to iconic cultural landmarks such as Persepolis) as well as the historic cities of Isfahan and Yazd, land subsidence is cracking buildings, collapsing roads and threatening monuments as excessive groundwater extraction weakens the soil beneath them.
More than 90% of Iran’s water is extracted for farming, with much of it lost to inefficient irrigation practices. Studies show the country’s ambitious dam-building campaign, intended to enhance food and energy self-sufficiency, has disrupted natural ecosystems and contributed to the drying up of major wetlands and lakes. These include Lake Urmia, once the Middle East’s largest salt lake, now reduced to a bed of salt that could fuel dust and salt storms across the region.
While climate change has contributed to the worsening drought, Iran’s water crisis has mainly been caused by poor management. The government’s focus on agricultural expansion and dam construction has often come at the expense of sustainability, while limited regulation of groundwater extraction including widespread drilling of around one million wells, half of which are illegal, has severely depleted aquifers across the country.
Iran’s foreign policy and isolation from the international community are also key drivers of its water crisis. Sanctions have meant that Iran has limited access to new technologies. These include advanced irrigation systems, high-resolution satellite monitoring such as InSAR data (which can detect land subsidence), cloud-based AI platforms for detailed urban or infrastructure-level monitoring, smart sensors, and precision agriculture tools.
Iran’s water levels are so low, that supplies are being turned off regularly.
The absence of such technologies has deepened inefficiencies, accelerated land subsidence and exacerbated the depletion of vital water resources across the country. Foreign investors are also hesitant to fund projects in Iran because of sanctions, further blocking opportunities for innovation.
Iran’s divided decision-making system has made the problem worse. The ministry of energy, the ministry of agriculture and the department of environment often operate with different priorities. One builds infrastructure for hydropower, another pushes for farmland expansion, while the environmental office doesn’t have enough resources and power to make major changes. These conflicting agendas have created confusion, inefficiency and widespread overuse of water.
But Iran’s water crisis goes beyond its borders. For instance, the country shares bodies of water with Afghanistan and Iraq. Disputes over water, such as the long-running disagreement with the Taliban over the Helmand River, have already increased tensions.
As lakes and rivers dry up, their exposed beds could turn into vast sources of sand and dust. These particles can travel thousands of kilometres, crossing national borders and degrading soil and air quality across the wider region.
Scientists, academics, and the media have discussed the causes and consequences of Iran’s water crisis for a long time. What’s talked about far less, however, are the potential solutions – and whether anything can actually be done to address parts of the crisis and answer the question on the minds of more than 80 million people: Is there still hope?
The short answer is yes.
Assuming the country gains access to modern technology and finance through changes to its foreign policy (which means for instance that sanctions are removed), this could turn the tide. In the short term, the priority must be halting groundwater depletion through strict monitoring, smart meters on wells, and integrating satellite data with on-the-ground measurements.
Real-time water accounting – using tools such as space satellites Grace and Sentinel – can identify critical areas and guide emergency action. The government must also inspect areas affected by subsidence or over-extraction. This might include schools, which have suffered lots of problems with subsidence historically, causing cracked walls and other damage. Then it must take immediate action, including temporary closures or relocations where safety is at risk.
AI and digital twin technologies (digital replicas of environments) have proved to be highly effective in sustainable natural resource management.
An example of this is how the €10 million (£8.8 million) EU-funded AI4SoilHealth flagship project leverages AI and big data analytics to monitor and quantify soil health across Europe. Managing water resources is no exception. Integrating AI-driven models and using new digital tools can enhance forecasting, optimise usage, and help inform policy decisions.
Long-term recovery also depends on governance. Iran needs a unified national water authority that aligns energy, agriculture, and environmental goals around sustainability.
Legal caps on groundwater abstraction, and economic diversification away from water-intensive crops are essential. Incentivising efficient irrigation and wastewater reuse plus adjusting water pricing to reflect scarcity would help.
The country must diversify its economy so that fewer livelihoods depend on water-intensive industries, such as farming. Together, these steps could stabilise Iran’s water systems and prevent further environmental, social, and economic damage.
Iran’s environmental crisis is human-made and so is the solution. With these changes, the country could secure its water systems, and give its public more security.
Nima Shokri receives funding from European Commission for the AI4SoilHealth project.
Sanam Mahoozi does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.
That trust in media is declining throughout the world is almost an unquestioned truth today. But researchers have found it hard to clearly demonstrate how we went from an era of high trust in 20th-century media to one of low trust in the digital age.
The ways people engage with media and where they go for trusted information are changing. From 2011 to 2024, my colleagues and I at the Glasgow University Media Group have charted these trends through a series of focus group studies.
Our findings, summarised in my book The Construction of Public Opinion in a Digital Age, suggest that many people feel journalism today represents the interests of the powerful and does not speak for them.
For audiences of 20th-century broadcasting and press, trust largely rested on what we might call a leap of faith. With only a small number of news outlets – and where organisations like the BBC were given exclusive access to politicians and experts – there were few alternatives for audiences to turn to for information. Most people didn’t have access to other sources or direct experience of what was reported in the news – though when they did, they trusted news reports less.
Traditional media outlets now rely on digital platforms to deliver their content, where it competes with an expanded range of alternative information sources. Mainstream news continues to be led by the perspectives of government, business and economic experts. But digital platforms also allow the voices of social media influencers, independent journalists, activists and everyday users to be heard. This gives audiences easy access to perspectives which directly and regularly challenge the narratives presented in news.
In this environment, journalists working for mainstream news outlets are expected to prove they best represent the interests of their audiences – it is no longer taken as gospel by readers, listeners and viewers.
Focus group participants told me and my colleagues over many hours of discussions that they see mainstream journalism as being bound up with a political system that is failing. For example, journalists may positively report percentage points of economic growth and demand sensible spending plans, but many people simply don’t believe things will get better.
In our most recent study, which analysed media content and audience reception in relation to the cost of living crisis (and will be published as a book in 2026), we found that journalists, in line with politicians, reported the crisis as a short-term shock, temporarily raising food and energy prices.
But our participants understood the crisis as one of long-term decline in their communities and standard of living. In other words, there is a disconnect between the priorities and beliefs of journalists and their audiences.
This disconnect was evident across all demographic groups studied – yet not all are affected to the same degree. Our findings point to a correlation between those most disaffected with the political system – particularly those really struggling – and the likelihood of investing trust in alternative “news” sources.
Where do you get your news?
With more choices than ever for where to get information, people now move between different platforms and devices depending on their needs and circumstances. During the pandemic, millions tuned in to the BBC for the latest health guidance. At other times, people follow algorithm-driven social media feeds for entertainment and news.
Our research indicates, however, that most people have a dominant mode of engagement they rely on to deliver trusted information. These fell largely into three categories in terms of preferences:
1. Mainstream sources
Older and highly-educated participants tended to rely on mainstream news. They invested trust in official forms of evidence and authoritative voices such as politicians and experts.
2. Non-mainstream sources
Lower-income participants were more likely to engage with sources which were seen as free of the mainstream “agenda”. Trust was often invested in partisan podcasters, independent outlets and bloggers – as well as social media posts more generally – who shared their scepticism of public institutions and establishment figures.
3. Mix of sources
Younger participants were more likely to filter news through aggregation apps like Google News, friend endorsements, or simply be led by platform algorithms. They decided who to trust by comparing multiple sources, often giving more credibility to social media influencers who were more relatable and seen to better represent their interests.
It is important to note that these these are generalised categories – it is not the case that all those on low incomes go to social media for their news, nor that young people don’t access mainstream outlets.
New information sources are emerging in the context of algorithm-driven platforms which push provocative content to users, as well as political groups which amplify and distort people’s frustrations.
The danger is that as greater numbers move away from traditional news towards information sources without any formal verification processes or proper scrutiny of political parties, uncertainty about who or what to trust may only deepen.
Interestingly, there was one source across our studies which held a unique position of being widely trusted across a broad range of groups. That was the website MoneySavingExpert and its founder, Martin Lewis. As a financial journalist who then set up his consumer website, Lewis brings his expertise to often personalised, everyday financial concerns.
At a time when mainstream journalists are seen to parrot political rhetoric, Lewis positions himself on the side of the public – most notably during the cost of living crisis, making an emotional appeal to politicians to “help people” live on TV.
If journalists want to re-engage with communities lost to online alternatives, the remedy may lie in lessons that can be learned from figures such as Lewis, and his innovative model of trust which seems to work so well for the digital generation.
Catherine Happer receives funding from UKERC, Avatar Alliance Foundation and the University of Glasgow.
The winner of this year’s Booker prize, Hungarian-British writer David Szalay, has often been accused of overwriting. His earlier short story collections and novels sometimes lost readers in their ornate, over-detailed descriptions. It seems he’s taken that criticism to heart. After abandoning a novel he had been working on for nearly four years in 2020, Szalay has returned with Flesh – a book that, contrary to its title, strips the story right to the bone.
A short, propulsive read, Flesh took the prize because of its singularity. The judging panel said: “Szalay has a talent for only telling the good parts. This is the story of a man’s life, from his youth to deep into adulthood, and yet there are gaps left in the protagonist’s life that Szalay leaves uncovered. He generously allows the reader to fill them in.”
For our reviewer, Tory Young, who researches 21st-century literature, the novel was “deeply affecting.”
The 1987 adaptation of Stephen King’s The Running Man is one of many spandex-filled Arnold Schwarzenegger films my partner has made me watch. As far as Arnie movies go – and I do enjoy the occasional one (True Lies, for instance) – The Running Man is pretty dreadful. So, if not for the involvement of director Edgar Wright, I probably wouldn’t have been tempted to see the new adaptation.
Fortunately, Wright’s signature flair for fast-paced action and lead actor Glenn Powell’s undeniable charisma makes this version a winner. In fact, according to our reviewer, King expert Matt Jacobsen, it’s “the most fun you’ll have at the cinema this year”.
As well as film recommendations, we like to share books in The Conversation office. The one that’s perhaps been passed around the most is Louise Kennedy’s masterful debut novel, Trespasses. It follows the relationship between Cushla, a young Catholic woman, and Michael, an older married Protestant man during the Troubles in Northern Ireland. No doubt we’ll all be tuning into the excellent new Channel 4 adaptation, starring Tom Cullen and Lola Petticrew.
Romances between Catholics and Protestants are still often controversial in Northern Ireland. Laura Smith, a researcher at the University of Liverpool, regularly interviews Northern Irish women in these mixed-denominational relationships. She found that the show’s themes of forbidden love still ring true for these couples.
Trespasses is available to watch on Channel 4 On Demand
Apple TV had me at “Emma Thompson” with their new drama Down Cemetery Road. Add Ruth Wilson to the mix, and I’ve been counting down the days to its release. Now that it’s here, it doesn’t disappoint.
Art conservator Sarah (Wilson) and private investigator Zoë (Thompson) uncover evidence that the UK government deliberately maimed its own soldiers during secret chemical weapons testing on the Afghanistan battlefield. The result is thrilling, but also sharp, funny and unexpectedly thoughtful – all set to a brilliant soundtrack featuring Björk, PJ Harvey and Billie Holiday.
Down Cemetery Road is available to watch weekly on Apple TV
Also playing on my speakers this week is LUX, the stunning new album from Spanish singer-songwriter Rosalía. It’s a remarkable piece of work, with lyrics in 14 different languages, weaving together a tapestry of styles drawn from a rich variety of storytelling traditions and cultures.
If you’re wondering where to start, check out the music video for the lead single, Berghain (which also features Björk). In it, Rosalía goes about everyday tasks – ironing, visiting the doctor – while a full orchestra squeezes into the room, accompanying her haunting, operatic voice.
Our reviewer found that through its exploration of faith and courtly love, LUX evokes the tradition of the Spanish troubadour. No wonder Madonna has called Rosalía a “true visionary.”
This article features references to books that have been included for editorial reasons, and may contain links to bookshop.org. If you click on one of the links and go on to buy something from bookshop.org The Conversation UK may earn a commission.
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Set in the Oxfordshire village of Ramsden in 1916, The Choral inhabits a world where the war is distant – yet its shadow lies over every street. Many of the young men are gone to the front, their names echoing through the church and village hall. Those left behind hover between waiting and pretending that life continues as before.
The film reunites Alan Bennett’s pen and Nicholas Hytner’s direction for their fourth film together (The Madness of King George, The History Boys, The Lady in the Van). Bennett’s eye for endurance and small absurdities, his distinct blend of humour and heartbreak, lends the story a warmth which threatens but never fully falls into sentimentality.
Determined to keep something of the village’s heart intact, the local choir opens its doors to all. The remaining boys – “fodder for the mill, fodder for the front” – join with nervous energy and untested voices. Around them unfold the small dramas of youth: crushes, jealousies, the thrill of being noticed – all under the dark cloud of war.
At times, the film recalls early Downton Abbey: the lightness of routine belying a deeper unease as the order of things begins to tremble. Hytner’s direction keeps the tone measured, his pacing unhurried, the village life unfolding in laughter across fields, flirtation in the lanes, and the faint hum of something approaching.
Ralph Fiennes, in superb form, is characteristically restrained as Dr Guthrie, the new choirmaster whose time in Germany prompts quiet gossip and complicates his loyalties. Dressed in tweed with a pocket watch gleaming, he brings calm authority tinged with sorrow. Alongside the enemy across the Channel, Guthrie sees the human faces behind the rhetoric of war, and thus he is both insider and outsider.
Beneath his composure runs a conviction that compassion itself has become a form of dissent. When Jacob Dudman’s traumatised soldier laments “life’s fucking shit”, Guthrie replies simply: “So, sing.” It becomes the film’s credo: music as both defiance and survival, a way to hold despair at bay. That spirit finds its fullest expression in Mary (Amara Okereke), whose voice lifts through the air with a brilliance that soars towards the transcendent.
Disappointingly, in a story otherwise so attuned to compassion, the film’s portrayal of women feels thin. The women of Ramsden are treated as narrative currency, their sexuality quietly commodified and offered as recompense for men’s suffering. The Choral would struggle to pass even the most forgiving version of the Bechdel test: the few conversations between women are framed by men’s absence or desire.
The film hints at a worldview in which women and sex are treated as rites of passage, experiences the young men are owed before war denies them adulthood. Yet for all the attentiveness to male sorrow, its compassion remains finely tuned to the loss which binds the village, finding moments of truth despite its blind spots.
While the choir scenes are wonderful and the climactic performance is deeply moving, the film is most affecting in its quietest moments. Jubilant farewells at the railway station are almost immediately shadowed by trains bringing home the wounded. The innocence of departure meets the silence of return, and in between lies everything the village will lose.
When a young woman rejects a soldier newly home, Hytner captures the moment with painful clarity: the war has already cut him off from the life he fought to reclaim. The village photographer (Mark Addy) records the last flicker of innocence, freezing faces that might have stepped from the stanzas of Philip Larkin’s poem MCMXIV “grinning as if it were all / An August Bank Holiday lark” – still radiant with a trust in life that history will soon betray.
The Choral is both elegy and celebration: a reminder that even in the quietest corners, song can sound like survival – the fragile note of hope that refuses to fade.
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Laura O’Flanagan does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.
