The Israeli Ministry of Truth
Enter Sir Geoffrey Norman.
The Ministry of Truth’s chosen bard.
A man who could deny a sunrise while standing in its glow.
Union Jack cufflinks. Darjeeling tea.
A voice like a boarding school expulsion letter.
Krishnan Guru-Murthy leans forward.
Calm. Surgical. Tired of the pantomime.
“Everything you say turns out not to be true.”
Sir Geoffrey doesn’t flinch.
No blink. No stutter. Just a smile shaped like policy.
“That’s what Hamas wants you to think.”
And there it is.
The spell.
The incantation.
The line that says:
Reality is negotiable. Truth is offensive.
We don’t deny. We rebrand.
Sir Geoffrey is a round peg
for the IDF’s square hole.
An old-school twat with a new-school brief:
turn genocide into press release.
He doesn’t spin.
He smothers.
Under euphemism.
Under protocol.
Under pure, unfiltered bollocks.
Because the game isn’t truth vs lies anymore.
No—
They’re not denying reality.
They’re replacing it.
They believe in ritual.
That if the lie is told clean enough,
often enough,
with just the right smirk,
then bullshit
can be breathed
into being.
It’s not deception.
It’s theatre.
Theatre of the absurd
with war crimes offstage.
Sir Geoffrey doesn’t lie about Gaza.
He clarifies.
Slowly.
Smugly.
Gaza? Doesn’t exist.
Babies? Hamas.
Flour? Dual-use terror powder.
Journalists? Hostile GoPro cells.
Alternate reading:
Their cameras upload rockets. Their pens write shrapnel.
And if you protest—he smiles.
“That’s what Hamas wants you to think.”
He says it like a spell.
Like a man trained in denial
by wizards from the Ministry of Truth
and customer service at Virgin Media.
You show him footage—he says it’s AI.
You read his own tweet—he’s never heard of Twitter.
You point out his wife—
“I don’t have a wife.”
She’s sitting right there.
“That’s what Hamas wants you to think.”
This isn’t lying.
It’s conjuring.
It’s mythmaking in real-time.
Propaganda with a necktie.
They don’t win arguments.
They end them
by making the premise
so fucking stupid
that continuing feels embarrassing.
This is power now.
Not subtle.
Not clever.
Just confident.
A man pissing on your leg
while holding a fire extinguisher,
insisting he’s putting out the flames.
They speak not to inform,
but to rewrite.
Not to prove,
but to punish.
Not to share the truth—
but to bury it
under applause,
denial,
and croissants of terror.
What they’re really doing
The truth is not universal to Sir Geoffrey.
It’s a painting. A placeholder.
A thing to be revised once the killing’s been cleaned up.
The truth is not fixed.
It is not sacred.
It is not shared.
To him, it is whatever they decide it to be next week.
And if we let them,
that’s all it will ever be.
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