While most Cold War cultural battlegrounds have long been paved over or turned into a theme park, Cuba has retained a place in the hearts and minds of the West’s luxury leftists.

Beautiful weather, sandy beaches, famous cigars and, of course, a long-standing enmity with the USA have all ensured the country remains perhaps the last stubborn redoubt of revolutionary, western hipsterism. So it made perfect sense that leading the charge in last weekend’s much trumpeted ‘aid flotilla’ to the island nation was the Irish language-speaking novelty rap act, Kneecap.

Much like their contemporary, Bob Vylan, they take delight in issuing inflammatory statements and then, when they receive the sought after reaction, pretending to be victims.

The trio (Liam Og O hAnnaidh, Naoise O’Caireallain and JJ O’Doherty) joined the ‘Nuestra America Convoy’, a self-described ‘humanitarian mission’, to Havana, to deliver 50 tonnes of humanitarian aid to help the beleaguered local population. As humanitarian missions go, it certainly made for a great photo op. It was also a rather inevitable target for accusations of breathtaking hypocrisy.

Promoted by American leftist group CodePink, the trip featured a cross-generation collection of cranky activists, such as the UK left’s beloved High Sparrow himself, Jeremy Corbyn, who joined forces with internet superstar Hasan Piker and the inevitable Owen Jones. It wasn’t so much an international flotilla of protesters as the line up for the next Guardian tent at Glastonbury.

Speaking at a press conference in Havana alongside Corbyn and Colombian Senator Clara Lopez, Kneecap’s Liam Og O Hannaidh claimed, with a typically inventive approach to historical reality, that there were similarities between Ireland and Cuba, such as ‘colonialism, forced starvation and oppression.’

He also added, with a typically modest understatement, ‘As Irish people, it’s just not in our nature to watch these things happen internationally or domestically and stay silent… It’s important that people who have a platform like us, who reach maybe a certain number of audiences… that we use that platform for what’s right and what’s good.’ Quite.

Of course, it’s not the first time that Kneecap have had a well-publicised dalliance with international pariahs. They first came to the attention of many when one of their members was charged under anti-terrorism laws for flying a Hezbollah flag at a gig in Kentish Town last year. That case was eventually thrown out but they cleverly milked it for all the publicity it was worth.

They also achieved another minor victory in 2025 when they took a discrimination case against the government when former business secretary Kemi Badenoch blocked their application for state funding, claiming she had discriminated against them on the grounds of nationalist and political opinion.

The award itself was a relatively paltry £14,250 but the band, their supporters and management saw it as both a victory and a validation. Since then, they have delighted in being a thorn in the side of what they see as an establishment engaged in a conspiracy to silence them.

Of course, quite how an establishment that awards them government grant money and sees them regularly promoted across all media platforms is actually silencing them is a matter of conjecture which has never been explained. But much like their contemporary, Bob Vylan, they take delight in issuing inflammatory statements and then, when they receive the sought after reaction, pretending to be victims.

For people of a slightly older vintage who have seen novelty acts come and go and who can remember when the word ‘kneecap’ meant something rather more sinister than a boy band dancing on stage while wearing masks, their antics veer between tedious and almost comically offensive.

But for a generation with no memory of the once routine terror tactic of permanently crippling young men, they portray a very safe form of cosplaying, revolutionary chic.

Of course, if Kneecap really were on the side of the ordinary Cuban, as they and their supporters like to loudly proclaim, they could have brought attention to the 1,200 political prisoners who still reside in the island’s jails. They could have mentioned the brutal suppression of protests in 2021 which saw dissidents receive sentences of up to 25 years. In fact, for a band who so keenly portray themselves as martyrs for free speech they might even have mentioned the infamous Decree 35 of the Criminal Code. That’s the law used to censor the very social media platforms so popular with the Kneecap’s millennial fans in every other country.

But not only would that have been a display of bad manners towards their hosts, it would have been an even graver sin: bad business. Because, like so many pound shop provocateurs before them, Kneecap and their manager know exactly what side their bread is buttered on.

Which, sadly, is more than can be said for the average Cuban, who took to the streets in large numbers to protest about food shortages last April. An event which our masked heroes, perhaps unsurprisingly, neglected to mention during their trip.