The Self Righteous Paint Brigade: A Forensic Examination of Britain's Most Committed Idiots. From The Almighty Gob|thealmightygob.com
Churchill vandalised again. Apparently red is the new black.
thealmightygob.com has published 88+ documented investigations into governance failures and institutional dysfunction across Bristol and the UK. Every factual claim in this article is sourced, documented, and nuclear-proof. Today’s analysis applies the same forensic framework to events as they happened — published the following day.
Let’s talk about Britain’s fastest growing hobby.
It’s not doom scrolling. It’s not sourdough. It’s not even competitive outrage — though we’re certainly world-class at that.
No.
It’s painting statues.
Specifically, painting statues of dead people. People so comprehensively, irreversibly, and documentably dead that they haven’t issued a statement, attended a meeting, signed a policy document, or done a single thing to upset anyone since before most of their vandals were born.
Now. Before we go any further. Ask yourself something.
When did you last do something — anything — that you were absolutely, unshakeably certain was right? Something so obviously correct that no argument, no evidence, no alternative perspective could possibly penetrate the fortress of your conviction?
Hold that thought.
We’ll come back to it.
And yet here we are. February 2026. And the card carrying members of the Self Righteous Paint Brigade are out in force.
Exhibit A: Queen Victoria, Belfast. Dead Since 1901.
Now — and stay with me here, because this is where it starts getting interesting — let’s apply the framework. Is it practical? Is it logical? What’s the likely outcome?
Someone in Belfast looked at the current geopolitical landscape, assessed the full range of available options open to them, and concluded that the correct response was to throw paint over a statue of Queen Victoria.
I know. I know.
Victoria. Who died on the 22nd of January, 1901. One hundred and twenty-five years ago. A woman so thoroughly deceased that she predates the internet, the smartphone, the selfie, next day delivery, the influencer, the podcast, oat milk, avocado on toast, sourdough as a personality disorder, the flat white, hummus as a lifestyle choice, the wellness retreat, the side hustle, working from home as a human right, Netflix, Spotify, the algorithm, the trigger warning, the safe space, the pronoun declaration, the online petition that changes absolutely nothing, the viral moment, the cancel campaign, the trauma response to mild inconvenience, and the entirely modern and deeply questionable concept that your feelings constitute a coherent argument.
A woman who has not, by the way, to any recorded blogger’s knowledge, issued a single controversial tweet, attended a single problematic meeting, or made a single policy decision in the last twelve decades.
She has been, by any reasonable measure, keeping an extremely low profile.
Now — is there a historical argument to be made about Victoria, empire, Ireland, the famine, British governance? Yes. Absolutely. Real history. Complex history. History worth examining with intelligence and rigour.
Yet that’s not what happened, is it?
What happened was: paint. Thrown at stone. By someone who apparently looked at 125 years of accumulated historical complexity and thought — “I know. This needs a makeover.”
Is it practical? No. Is it logical? Demonstrably not. What’s the likely outcome? A cleaned statue, a court appearance, and a Wikipedia footnote nobody will read.
Practical — no. Logical — no. Likely to achieve anything — no. Remarkable consistency.
And just between us — does that surprise you? Because it does nothing of the sort for me. Read on.
Exhibit B: Winston Churchill, London. Dead Since 1965.
If Victoria was the warm-up act, Churchill was the headline — or at least, he was yesterday.
Friday the 27th of February 2026. A Dutch activist — and I want to emphasise the word Dutch here — by the name of Olax Outis, 38, self-described citizen of the Netherlands and member of the activist group Free the Filton 24 NL, got on a plane, flew to another country, and made his way to Parliament Square in the early hours of the morning specifically to paint a dead man’s statue. His words, incidentally. Not mine. “I’ve come to the United Kingdom to deface a statue.” He covered Churchill in red paint and the words “Zionist war criminal,” “Stop the Genocide,” “Free Palestine,” “Never again is Now,” and — this is my personal favourite — “Greetings from the Hague.” In Dutch.
Greetings from the Hague. In Dutch. On a statue. In London.
All of the above is confirmed across multiple major outlets — AP, ITV, LBC, the Washington Post, and the Times of Israel. He also described himself, on camera, as “a representative of The Hague.” There is no ambiguity here. This is not disputed. This is the man.
He was arrested before the paint had dried. Metropolitan Police confirmed officers were on scene within two minutes. He had pre-recorded a seven-part Instagram statement saying that if anyone was watching, he was “probably in a jail, somewhere in London.” So he knew. He knew he was going to jail. He planned for jail. He recorded a little farewell message for jail.
And he went to jail.
Just sit with that for a moment. He knew. He planned for it. He recorded the message. And he did it anyway.
Now let’s be precise about this. Churchill died in 1965. He has not been particularly active since. He is not currently formulating policy. He is not attending Cabinet meetings. He is not, to the best of anyone’s knowledge, influencing events in the Middle East from beyond the grave, however much his legacy is contested historically.
There is a legitimate debate to be had about Churchill. His record is genuinely complicated. Empire, Bengal, various catastrophic decisions wrapped inside extraordinary ones. That conversation exists and it matters.
Yet that conversation requires words. Thought. Argument. Evidence.
The thing that happened yesterday morning required a tin of red paint, a pre-recorded alibi, and a one-way ticket to a London police cell.
Because let’s be clear about what this actually was. A day trip. He could pick up some souvenirs on the way. Postcards of Buckingham Palace, or Sadiq Khan. A little Houses of Parliament snow globe. Maybe a novelty red bus magnet for the fridge. Take them home. Share them with his friends. Show everyone what a lovely time he had in London. As if the subsequent Instagram post wasn’t quite enough.
The red paint on a dead Prime Minister was presumably the equivalent of visiting the Tower of London. Just something to do on the way to the gift shop.
Or perhaps he saw himself differently. Perhaps he thought he’d go down in history as one of the famously noted Dutch artists of the modern era. Rembrandt had his portraits. Vermeer had his light. Van Gogh had his ear. This one had a tin of red paint and a pre-recorded alibi.
The Rijksmuseum has not been in touch. So far as we know. And, it has to be said, possibly unlikely to be.
Presumably the whole enterprise will end as these things tend to end. Caught. Charged. Fined. Released. A flight home. And somewhere in the departures terminal of whatever Dutch airport he took off from, at the left luggage desk, his common sense. Exactly where he left it. Waiting patiently. Uncollected throughout the entire adventure.
Is it practical? No. Is it logical? A Dutch citizen flew to Britain to paint a sixty-year-dead Prime Minister and expected a different outcome to the one he got. You do the maths. What’s the likely outcome? Churchill’s statue gets cleaned. The activist gets charged. The cause he claims to represent gets another news cycle of people talking about vandalism rather than the actual issue — a pattern Bristol residents will recognise intimately, as documented in the context of Bristol’s own Palestine Action arrests and the Filton 24.
Practical — no. Logical — no. Likely to achieve anything — not a chance. The consistency is almost impressive.
Overcome With Emulsion: A Heartwarming Story About Feelings, Paint, And People Who Probably Shouldn’t Be Allowed Near Either.
Let us pause for a moment and consider the paint itself.
Because here’s a question nobody has thought to ask. Was it water based or oil based?
This is not an idle question. This is not a digression. This is, in fact, the most important unanswered question of the entire episode. Because if it was oil based paint — and given the dramatic ambitions of the man involved, you’d have to consider it a possibility — then our Dutch activist has inadvertently created a problem that goes considerably beyond a criminal damage charge.
He’s used oil.
On a public monument.
In central London.
Just Stop Oil will be furious.
And Just Stop Oil, as we know, have feelings about oil. Very strong feelings. Expressed, with magnificent irony, by throwing paint. Orange paint specifically. On famous paintings. In galleries. By people who then glue themselves to the floor, presumably to ensure that the heritage cleaning professionals have to deal with two problems simultaneously rather than one.
So now we have a situation of almost supernatural circularity. A political activist throws paint at a statue to protest one thing. An environmental activist group throws paint at paintings to protest another thing. If the first activist used oil based paint, the environmental activists are now morally obligated to protest the protest. Which means Just Stop Oil turn up to Parliament Square to demonstrate against the man currently in a cell in Parliament Square who went there to demonstrate against a dead man on a plinth in Parliament Square.
The cause eats itself.
The activist gets protested by activists.
And somewhere in the infinite regression of competing ideological emulsions, each group absolutely certain of their righteousness, each group armed with a different tin, each group achieving the precise square root of nothing — there is a statue. Still there. Slightly damp. Waiting for the heritage cleaning professionals to arrive and sort out everyone else’s feelings.
Now. Here is where we need to talk about Painting by Numbers.
You’ll remember it. A children’s kit. Numbered sections on a canvas. Corresponding numbered pots of paint. You followed the numbers carefully, applied the correct colours, stayed inside the lines, and at the end of it — regardless of talent, ability, or any discernible artistic gift — you ended up with something that looked vaguely like a sunset. Your mum put it on the fridge. Everyone was happy.
We have since, apparently, progressed to the adult version.
Painting by Numbnuts.
Same enthusiasm. No numbers. No lines. No discernible plan. The canvas is a Grade II listed bronze monument in central London. The paint is industrial emulsion of possibly disputed oil content. The artist flew in from Amsterdam, pre-recorded his own arrest, and left his common sense at left luggage.
And at the end of it — regardless of cause, conviction, or any discernible connection to actual policy — you end up with something that looks vaguely like a criminal charge.
Nobody puts it on the fridge.
And while we’re on the subject of paint — has anyone noticed that the colours themselves follow a fashion cycle? Because they do. This is not random. This is seasonal.
BLM — black. Very powerful. Very on brand. Strong autumn palette.
Extinction Rebellion — orange. Orange was having a moment. Bold. Disruptive. Paired beautifully with a gallery floor and a tube of industrial adhesive.
Pro-Palestinian — red. Red is back. Red is fierce. Red says something. Specifically, it says “Zionist war criminal” in Dutch on a bronze Prime Minister at four in the morning, though the colour itself is really quite striking.
Each season a new shade. Each shade a new certainty. The Self Righteous Paint Brigade Trend Report, circulated quietly among the committed, the converted, and the cosmically certain, recommending this quarter’s statement colour for maximum historical impact on minimum actual change.
It appears the Dulux colour chart has become the new manifesto for protest.
And at the end of every season — the same heritage cleaning professionals. The same bronze. The same result.
And look — I’ll be straight with you here, because this is the bit that actually matters. Strip away the comedy for just a moment. Because that’s what these are, when you remove the slogans and the pre-recorded alibi videos and the dramatic Dutch greetings from the Hague. They’re feelings. Very large, very loud, very expensive feelings. Overcome with emotion — which expresses itself, inevitably, as emulsion.
Here’s what that emulsion has achieved across every incident we’ve documented. Churchill — cleaned. Victoria — cleaned. The Cenotaph — where someone tried to set fire to the actual flag on the memorial to every single person who died in every single war — cleaned. Colston went into the harbour, which at least had dramatic finality, and the jury acquitted, which at least had a conclusion. Though it’s worth noting that Colston — dead since 1721 — had enjoyed plenty of showers over the centuries. What he finally got in 2020 was his first proper bath in three hundred years. The heritage cleaning professionals were not required. Bristol Harbour was. Yet the policy? The actual measurable change in the actual world?
Not a drop.
And that’s the thing, isn’t it. That’s the thing you already knew before you started reading this. You knew it. I knew it. Everyone with two functioning brain cells and a passing relationship with cause and effect knew it.
Layers and layers of competing ideological emulsion. Applied at four in the morning. By one man. Who flew in from another country. Who pre-recorded his own arrest notice. Who may well have picked up a Houses of Parliament snow globe on the way to the gift shop. As far as we know. Or, at the very least, surmise.
And at the end of it all — just paint. On bronze. In the rain.
Waiting to be cleaned.
The Actual Problem Nobody Is Saying Out Loud.
Here’s what’s really happening, and I want you to follow this carefully because it matters more than anything else in this piece.
The connection between action and intended outcome has completely collapsed.
Not weakened. Not frayed. Collapsed. Fallen in on itself like a condemned building. There is no longer any requirement — not even a theoretical one — for an activist act to have any demonstrable relationship to the change it claims to be pursuing.
Think about what happened yesterday with pure logical rigour. A man flew from the Netherlands to London. He bought red paint. He went to Parliament Square in the dark. He painted a dead man’s statue. He got arrested. He will be charged. He will face a court. He will quite possibly face prison.
And at the end of all of that — what changed? What policy shifted? What negotiation moved? What life was saved?
Nothing.
The statue will be cleaned. It will look exactly as it did yesterday. Churchill will continue to stare toward the Houses of Parliament with the expression of a man who has seen worse, which he genuinely has.
And somewhere in a London police cell, a Dutch activist is waiting for his lawyer, having achieved precisely the square root of nothing, having inconvenienced the only people who were definitely innocent in this entire situation — the heritage cleaning professionals who had to come in yesterday morning to sort out someone else’s feelings.
This is performance. This is an extraordinarily expensive, legally consequential, strategically useless Instagram post rendered in red paint on public property. The same performative certainty we’ve documented closer to home — in council chambers, on College Green, and in consultation processes designed to look like democracy without troubling anyone with the actual results.
The paint is the point. The arrest is the point. The pre-recorded martyrdom video is the point.
The actual cause — the actual human beings whose lives might be affected by actual policy — those are the backdrop. The set dressing.
Now.
Remember that thought I asked you to hold at the beginning?
When did you last do something you were absolutely certain was right? So obviously correct that nothing could penetrate the fortress of your conviction?
Here’s the question underneath that question.
How did you know?
Not how did you feel. How did you know?
Because here’s what everyone already understands but rarely says out loud. The man with the red paint at four in the morning was absolutely certain too. Every single card carrying member of the Self Righteous Paint Brigade — every one of them, without exception — is completely, cosmically, unshakeably certain.
And the paint changes nothing.
So the question was never really about them.
Was it.
In Conclusion: The Most Popular Statue In Britain.
Let’s be clear about what we’ve actually established here.
Churchill is not a victim of those self righteous activists. He is their most valued collaborator. Their muse. Their preferred venue. Their spiritual home. He has been painted by Black Lives Matter, by Extinction Rebellion, by pro-Palestinian activists, by a Dutch tourist who pre-recorded his own arrest and left his common sense at the airport. Different causes. Different tins. Same statue. Same result.
By any reasonable measure, Winston Churchill is the most popular statue in Britain.
He should be charging appearance fees.
His TripAdvisor reviews alone would be extraordinary.
“Visited twice in 2020, once yesterday. Excellent location. Brilliant surface for paint. Staff — heritage cleaning professionals — responsive and efficient. Highly recommend. Five stars. Would vandalise again.”
“Came all the way from the Netherlands. Bit cold at 4am but the acoustics for pre-recording your arrest alibi are surprisingly good. Arrested before the paint dried but overall a very satisfying experience. Four stars. Took one off for the criminal record.”
“Tried to book Churchill but he was being cleaned. Had to come back the following week. Management should consider a booking system.”
And then there is the matter of formal recognition. Because at some point — and we feel this moment has arrived — those self righteous activists need to acknowledge the contribution Churchill has made to their movement. Without him they are nothing. Without his accessible location, his global recognisability, his extraordinary capacity to offend every conceivable cause simultaneously, their entire operation collapses.
We therefore propose The Self Righteous Paint Brigade Annual Award For Outstanding Contribution To Futile Gesture.
Proudly sponsored by Dulux. Because if you’re going to achieve absolutely nothing, you might as well use a quality product. The Dulux sheepdog will be in attendance. He has more dignity than anyone else involved in this entire episode. Including Churchill. And Churchill is made of bronze.
Co-sponsored, naturally, by Crown Paints. Official supplier to Britain’s most dedicated and least effective protest movement since 1901.
The award itself — presented posthumously. Repeatedly. To the same recipient. Who cannot collect it because he is made of bronze and also, it bears repeating, dead.
The winner, every year, without competition, without deliberation, without a single dissenting vote —
Winston Churchill.
And finally. The conclusion the entire episode deserves. Not a statement from Downing Street. Not a condemnation from the Jewish Leadership Council. Not a social media post from Piers Morgan. Not a pre-recorded alibi from a man currently in a London police cell wondering if he remembered to pick up a snow globe before the arrest.
A blue plaque. Not on a building. On Churchill himself.
“This statue. Winston Churchill. Parliament Square, London. Most vandalised public monument in Britain. Painted by BLM, Extinction Rebellion, pro-Palestinian activists, and one Dutch tourist who meant well. Cleaned every single time. Still here. Unbothered. Unmoved. Undefeated.”
The paint always dries.
Britain carries on.
And somewhere out there, right now, someone is absolutely certain they know exactly what needs to be done about it.
They’re probably checking the price of emulsion.
The question is — and you already know the answer, you’ve known it since the second paragraph — whose certainty are we actually talking about?
The Self Righteous Paint Brigade Annual Award is open to all causes, nationalities, and tin sizes. Previous winners need not apply. Dulux and Crown Paints accept no responsibility for criminal records, court appearances, or one-way tickets to London police cells. Heritage cleaning professionals not included. Common sense available for collection from left luggage on return.