So the Indian film union has graciously lifted its boycott of Ranveer Singh, and the UK creative sector greets this as a triumph for free speech. How quaint. How very Victorian of them to applaud what is essentially a tantrum’s resolution.
Let us not mistake this for a principled stand. This is a trade dispute dressed in cultural grievance, and both sides have played their parts with the subtlety of a pantomime villain. Singh, the flamboyant actor, allegedly offended sensibilities with a magazine cover.
The union, in a fit of performative rage, banned him. Now, after negotiations, they have unbanned him. The UK creative sector, ever eager to virtue-signal across the Commonwealth, declares this a victory for expression.
But is it? Or is it just another example of the intellectual decadence that marks our age — where free speech is negotiated like a tariff, and artists are hostages to whichever lobby shouts loudest? The Fall of Rome, I remind you, was not heralded by barbarians at the gates but by the rot within.
We see that rot here. The union’s boycott was never about Singh. It was about power.
The UK’s applause is not about principle. It is about feeling relevant. And Singh, caught in the middle, becomes a martyr for a cause he never chose.
This is not freedom. This is a farce. And we applaud it at our peril.
