An Apology

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By Ben Pensant.

‘Ever get the feeling you’ve been cheated?’

The above question was posed by drug-addled punk legend Johnny Rotter as The Clash performed their shambolic final gig in 1977. Weeks later the snotty singer was found dead in a grotty Chelsea bedsit after OD’ing on heroin and choking on his own dog chain. A more undignified demise you’d struggle to find this side of the SAS shooting Osama Ben Laden in cold blood without allowing the sweet-toothed radical his requested final meal of two Penguins and a cup of orange pop.

But as grim as Johnny’s squalid death was, I can’t be the only progressive who spent all week recalling his chilling final words. Because mere days after Brexit-bashing academic Victoria Batman had charmed us with her fannytastic displays of anti-democratic rage it emerged that the naked prof had been playing us all along. And it pains me to admit I was completely taken in by her wicked ways and perky nipples.

So yes, Johnny. You bet your spikey ginger arse I feel cheated.

For those with shite memories, last week I published a hugely popular blog about Novaru Media’s Ashley Sarkar, in which I suggested Dr. Victoria would be an ideal guest for Ash’s hypothetical chat show. As strong independent women I felt the two would compliment each other, as well as providing the added intersectional thrill of seeing everyone’s favourite sex-obsessed commie sitting inches away from a pair of bare titties. Indeed, it seemed Victoria was a perfect fit as she ticked every single box on the modern left check sheet. Sadly, my dream of seeing her tick Ash’s box would soon be well and truly over.

Because it turned out Dr. Victoria was a double-agent who had infiltrated the Good People like a wolf in sheep’s fanny-fur. As disturbing details of her past emerged it became apparent that the Doc had well and truly pulled the pubes over our eyes. Far from being one of us, it is now clear she is very much one them. That’s right: Victoria is a Tory. And she hates feminists too.

In news that sent shockwaves through social media, it was revealed this week that prior to giving passionate pro-EU speeches with her mott out, Victoria had penned bile-filled articles for alt-right hate-sheets. Only last year she was given a platform in Unheard to stick the boot into progressives who enjoy telling other women what they can and can’t do with their bodies, even defending the ungrateful, uneducated Grid Girls who think because they’re fully grown adults with shiny hair and pretty faces they can do what the hell they like.

“Modern feminism is looking more and more like a group of ‘clever’ women ganging up to pull the rug out from under the feet of other women” she raged, ignoring the fact that it’s not a rug they’re trying to pull from under these pea-brained dolts, it’s the pervy men shoving cameras up their skirts who they’re unaware of as they’re too busy painting their nails and blowing kisses at rapists in crash helmets.

She went on to smear modern feminism as “unfair, elitist and hypocritical”, deride the perfectly sane idea that denying women the opportunity to parade around in heels is for their own good, and even arrogantly tried to claim victimhood by detailing her own run-in with middle-class women who knew better than her what was good for her. In short, a few years back Little Miss Droppy-Drawers gave a lecture while dressed in a sheer black bodysuit. Days later the video of Victoria’s seminar was removed from the internet after a couple of attendees rightly complained that Victoria was objectifying herself.

That’s right, a handful of brave feminists did the sisterly thing to shield Victoria from the torrent of abuse and harassment that would inevitably come her way after alt-right trolls found out there was a video of an academic dressed like Eartha Kitt plastered all over the internet. And how does she thank them? She slags them off on online. Unbelievable.

Needless to say, at no point did she apologise for offending these poor middle-class women by forcing them to gaze at the sexually threatening black outfit she shoved down their throats. No, she mocked them instead, putting their lives at risk of assault from 5chan Incels determined to show these ungrateful bitches what’s what.

But if you thought her ideas about feminism were abhorrent, wait until you hear what she thinks of the welfare state. Indeed, the title of her 2015 CrapX piece – ‘Why Subsidising Other People’s Kids Must Have Limits’ – speaks volumes about her sinister motives.

“The bloated welfare state represents a threat to individual drive and prosperity” she raged, firmly putting the needs of the privileged few who benefit from capitalism before those of the marginalised many who exercise their right not to work if they don’t want to.

“If the state excessively tops up your earnings and subsidises the cost of your children, it risks destroying the inbuilt drive to provide”. Maybe. But if the state force-feeds you cans of Monster Munch it risks destroying the inbuilt drive to eat salad, find a job and save your cross-eyed children from the EX-Boxes Tory hawks planted in your six-bedroom council house.

She then went on to sketch a misty-eyed portrait of the bygone era in which poor people were forced to remain childless: “Unless you wanted to condemn your offspring to a life of poverty, you had little choice but to postpone marriage and sexual activity until you and your partner had saved enough or achieved the necessary regular earnings”. Sounds fantastic, Prof. Why not just dress the proles in red gowns and white bonnets and ban them from looking at each other until they’re earning as much as the rosy-cheeked Oxbridge intern who washes Theresa May’s fanny pads?

Clearly mindful of how well nods to Nazi witch-doctor Josef Mangala go down in right-wing circles, she then offered a jaw dropping justification for banning poor people from having kids: (Granted, she never actually said poor people should be banned from having kids but she really didn’t need to.)

“With reproduction tied to economic circumstances, excessive population growth was avoided and a high-waged and highly-skilled economy was the result”. It’s nice to know that during this halcyon era of economic boom the Tory establishment were grateful to us for not having kids, cutting the number of job applicants by half and allowing Tarquin and Clarissa to get to the front of the queue. Oh and don’t worry about who will look after your brats while you’re out doing the jobs we missed out on because we didn’t have a chauffeur to ferry us to the interview. There’ll always be a destitute childless wretch willing to take a dead-end job as a nanny. We might not be rich enough to have our own children but you’re happy to pay us a pittance to look after yours.

“Sacrifice and restraint yields rewards. As the saying goes, there is little gain without pain”. Great point Vic, though it seems you’ve written ‘pain’ instead of ‘some poor sod having his knackers cut off by the government just in case he pups his missus after one too many Babychams during Ant & Dec’s House Party‘.

She then insulted Labour voters everywhere by bastardising welfare state pioneer Edna Beveridge to serve her neoliberal narrative – “Even he would surely agree we have gone too far” – before signing off with a healthy dollop of old-fashioned Tory nationalism: “We are damaging the very thing that made the West best in the first place”. So that’s internalised misogyny, promotion of eugenics and rampant xenophobia. Congratulations Doc, you get to take the match ball home!

That so many of us were fooled by this evil woman just shows how far they’ll go to spread their poison, as well as how easy it is for good people to become victims of their own decency. Thankfully the twat is out of the bag and we can finally see Victoria for what she is. Indeed, in contrast to how she appeared last week when lighting up social media with her arse-cheeks, remove her naked campaigning from the equation and Ms Victoria seems pretty sensible. Which is why she must be stopped.

So I’d like to take this opportunity to apologise from the bottom of my heart for saying nice things about this foul exhibitionist. And I’ll continue apologising, vowing to Do Better and scrubbing my man-balls with sandpaper if need be. Nobody’s perfect, not even leftists, but what separates us from the fash’ is our ability to admit when we’re wrong. And while many of my liberal contemporaries have taken the equally brave step of deleting their words of support and pretending Dr. Victoria never existed, I elected to admit my infallibility with grace and contrition.

Having said that, it’s not entirely out fault we fell for her deception: deceiving people is what Tories do. And she wore her mask well, cloaking her true intentions in progressive pro-EU rhetoric. Why would anyone expect a woman who actively supports a neoliberal capitalist institution to be a neoliberal capitalist?

So the time has come to bid farewell to this duplicitous hag. I will never forgive myself for both lavishing her with praise and spending a whole moment imagining what it would be like to write ‘Fuck Brexit!’ all over her top bollocks. I can delete the complimentary tweets but I’ll never delete the memory of those bone-shaking vinegar strokes.

In the meantime, let’s forget her barber’s floor and remember her for what she truly is. She may have fooled us into thinking she was the most beautiful woman on earth but in our minds she will always look like this:
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Now if you’ll excuse me I’ve got some supportive tweets to write, because news has just come through that another brave lady has decided to fight Brexit by removing her bra on the telly. No idea who this Rachel Johnston woman is but she’s posh, she’s educated, and I can tell by looking at her there are zero right-wing skeletons in her knickers.

Get ’em off!

 

 

 

 

 

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Ash Of The Titans

 

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Ms Sarkar tots up how many lies have been told by Corbynites in the last hour.

By Ben Pensant

Left-wing journalists have been getting a good kicking recently. From the lay-offs at Buzzkill to the public shaming of writers who spent a week threatening a teenager, everywhere you look progressive pundits are being punished for fighting fascism, lying about people they disagree with and penning edgy think-pieces listing the 33 signs that your miniature schnauzer is a Nazi. Combined with the UK media’s systemic erasure of Corbyn supporters, pro-EU columnists and LBGTQED activists, don’t be surprised if this time next year the international left has been outlawed altogether, reduced to earning a living knitting rainbow keffiyehs and hiding in changing rooms at Forever 22 sucking off transwomen.

Thankfully there are plenty of voices on the left who refuse to be marginalised by the alt-right establishment. And last Sunday morning saw one such voice utterly DESTROY the BBC’s flagship ‘news’ show with nothing but a horny hammer, a sexy sickle, and a boatload of bullshit. Yes, I’m talking about Ashley Sarkar you idiot, the Novaru Media lipstick leftist who brought joy to regressives everywhere with her brave, ballsy, brutally honest assertion that “the idea Corbynistas have been misty-eyed about Venezuela is largely a myth”.

As usual, she was utterly correct. Because from OJ Jones and Aaron Pinkerman to Lady Di and John McDonald, high-profile Corbynites long ago stopped merely romanticising Venezuela. ‘Misty-eyed’ is how you describe tearful MAGA kids watching Birthday Of The Nation or Leave voters reminiscing about the murder of Steven Laurence. Loyal Jezzabels on the other hand have spent the last few years ogling their favourite socialist utopia like a catholic priest sizing-up a scout hut: bone-rigid and ready to bolt but forced to keep their mouths shut while the economic powerhouse they were giving the sex-eye in 2013 transformed into a penniless basket case whose only growth industry is cannibalism.

But her main intention was to deflect the ugly, slanderous and demonstrably true claim that her comrades are long-term admirers of a corrupt authoritarian regime whose leaders oppressed and impoverished their own people while living in mansions and counting their billions. That she did this in the same week poor Ken Livingston got lost looking for his slippers and wandered into a TV studio mumbling the word ‘sanctions’ over and over takes balls of steel. And when I say ‘balls’ I don’t mean those pathetic cisgender ones filled with white supremacist spunk: I’m talking about actual balls, women’s balls – shrivelled to pips and rendered empty by hormone blockers. Or better still, hacked off and rotting in a surgeon’s bin.

Luckily, that’s exactly what Ash has. Balls. And she’s not even trans! Like her namesake from Sam Ramsey’s Return Of The Living Dead series, she refuses to be cowed, no matter how many slavering Blairite Frankensteins try to eat her up. Though unlike him she’s neither white nor male therefore ten times cooler and if she had a cock it would be much bigger than his too. Got a problem with that, TERFYCHOPS?

You only find behaviour this courageous in sexually liberated left-wing circles. And you don’t get more sexually liberated and left-wing than Ash, who’s as happy lauding communism as she is catching boy-dick. (Just as long as the boy-dick belongs to a man who respects her boundaries, apologises daily, and demonstrates his solidarity with the sisterhood by sitting down when he goes for a piss.)

Yes that’s right, Ash fucks. Like a champion. GET OVER IT. Because when it comes to sex – which most things tend to with sexually liberated left-wingers like Ash – anything goes. ANYTHING. Everyone knows the horniest in society are those of us most in thrall to sexual expression, gender non-conformity, and a political ideology which viewed all those things as decadent. This is what makes Ash more sexually daring and dangerous than those boring blonde conservative women who think they’re wild and adventurous because they once necked on with a black man but shit their knickers if you pull a knife on them.

Needless to say, Tory trolls responded with the usual hatred, harassment and factual evidence (yawn). All of which she wisely ignored in much the same way Jezza, Seamus and co. ignored news reports of desititute Venezuelans forced to eat their own pets. Because Ash’s comment wasn’t intended for people on Twitter, neither the decent leftists who worship her sassy wit and love of shoes nor the evil fascists who hate her because she’s hotter and cleverer than them. No, her comment was solely for the benefit of the people we Corbynites see as our bread and butter: the grassroots, tabloid-reading Labour voters who couldn’t care less about Twitter, Novaru or South American shit-holes but are happy to believe bad Tories spread lies about kind Mr Jezza if a cool girl with nice legs says so on the telly.

The far-left, of course, are experts at this stuff, and Ash has learnt her trade from the best. Her big sister Owen Jones is the best in the business at appearing agreeable on TV by sugar-coating what he really thinks, saving his tributes to people who kidnapped and murdered teenagers and declarations that ‘no-one was ever killed by a wreath’ for Twitter.

Similarly, we all recall with fondness the genial, open-minded manner in which George ‘Georgie’ Galloway discusses Israel and Palestine in the UK media, which contrasts sharply with the vein-bursting hellfire he spews on Press TV, helpfully complimented with an endearingly crap Arab accent just in case anyone mistakes him for Gordon Brown and shoots him. (By the way Gorgeous, can I just say how impressed I am with your new tanning and botox regimes, which appear to have turned your head into a bust of Genghis Khan fashioned from old ladies’ sunburnt tits.)

All of which explains why Ash didn’t even try to explain her comment. Evil Punch editor Fraser Nielsen attempted to counter but was no match for Sarkar, and Andrew Mars was so blown away he completely forgot to take her to task, a unique form of inertia which strikes whenever Mars is presented with a Corbynite making an untrue, outlandish or completely fuck-witted comment. Fortunately for Ash, when people asked her about it on Twitter she had a perfect method of deflection ready as she’d already devoted her day to DESTROYING foul Tory/scouse sell-out Nadine Dorris, who had laid bare her white supremacy by getting Ash mixed up with a different brown-skinned leftist. This fortuitous intervention couldn’t have come at a better time, allowing Ash to pull an OJ and ignore all the inconvenient facts pouring into her mentions in favour of earning some much-needed victimhood. Cheers Nad!

All of which got me thinking. If the BBC are serious about promoting diversity it’s time they put our money where their mouth is. It’s all good and well discriminating against white people but more needs to be done to provide a safe space for marginalised Corbynites to have their say without being forced to share a sofa with violent right-wing thugs like Fraser Nielsen and Julia Hartley-Brexit. Which is why the only fair and sensible solution to the dearth of inclusivity at the Beeb is to give Ash her own section on The Mars Show, in which she follows up her now-seminal Venezuela comment by debunking other enduring myths, such as ‘the sun is hot’, ‘France won the World Cup’, and ‘those dipsticks at Novaru couldn’t lie straight in bed’.

Just watch as the programme’s pitiful audience share trebles overnight thanks to Ash’s natural sassiness, the public’s demand for left-wing voices, and a co-ordinated hacking of the ratings system by tech-savvy eggheads at Momentum’s Media Sabotage Division. And after the inevitable runaway success sees Ash’s slot expand – not for the first time! (did I mention that she fucks like a champion?) – she’ll be perfectly placed to give something back to the feminist community which inspired her. And I can think of no better way to do that than sticking two fingers up at the stuffy establishment and the uneducated morons who voted Leave by hiring that anti-Brexit professor who writes words on her tits.

Because Dr Victoria Batshit has spent this week spreading her anti-Brexit message by tearing through lecture halls and TV studios in much the same frank, daring manner in which Ash LAID WASTE to the BBC. Granted, no-one knows what that anti-Brexit message actually is as they’re too busy talking about her fanny. But still, she’s pleased all the right people on Twitter which as we know is much more important than actually having a point.

Naturally, Dr Victoria received way more support from liberals for making a political statement by wearing no clothes than the Formula One Grid Girls did for earning a living by wearing slightly skimpy ones. Which is just the sort of cognitive dissonance that sits perfectly with the proudly hypocritical Novaru outlook. And the nude prof’s warmth and decency would make her a perfect choice to share a sofa with the equally lovely Ms Sarkar. Indeed, I was touched by the kindness Victoria displayed in making the videos of her naked speeches two minutes long, which was just the right length for me to get exactly what I wanted from them. Twice.

All in all, I’m struggling to think of a better side-chick for Ash. Fingers crossed she also reaches out to rising US star Alexandra Orca-Cortez, who – with her bold plans to stop climate change by knocking down buildings and giving money to people who refuse to work – couldn’t be more Corbyn-friendly if she pledged to save the environment by carpet-bombing Israel.

With the likes of Batman and AOC on board Ash could take over The Mars Show in months, the only downside being that most of her target audience won’t get to see it as there’s more chance of Corbyn supporter going on The Apprentice than getting up at 9am. Still, all it’ll take to wake them from their slumber is the promise of Sarkar taking a leaf out of the Doc’s book and fighting the far-right with wit, humour, and unfettered knockers. If there’s one thing guaranteed to get them out of their beds it’s the thought of Ash bashing the fash and flashing her gash.

Inside Woman

 

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Nicola Huntly runs the transphobic E-wing gauntlet.

By Ben Pensant

There’s not much to love about Saudi Arabia. From sponsoring Israeli apartheid to bunging the west stolen oil in exchange for biochemical weapons, it’s not hard to see why the KSA sits at number one on the regressive left’s shit-list. But despite that it does serve one important purpose: it’s the only Islamic country we’re allowed to criticise. And zoy, do we do it with gusto.

Indeed, the glee with which principled leftists refer to the Saudis as ‘head-choppers’ is nicely contrasted with the way they scream ‘Islamophobia!’ if anyone calls the Palestinian Authority ‘Jew-killers’, the Supreme Leaders of Iran ‘gay-hangers’, or the Pakistani Government ‘women-who-drink-from-the-wrong-cup-imprisoners’.

So it’s all the more sickening when the right have a pop at Saudi Arabia despite the fact they’ve steadfastly ignored its western-funded barbarism for decades. Unlike the modern left, who only ever bring up the KSA when someone mentions Venezuela or Jezza’s fondness for regimes with similarly enlightened views on gays, Jews, and woman in lipstick. Which explains why they’ve spent the last month shamelessly ignoring all the GENUINE reasons to attack Saudi Arabia in favour of launching a racist attack on the quaint Islamic custom of murdering your own children.

Yes, I’m talking about Rahaf Muhammud al-Qunun – apparently the ‘Muhammud’ is silent – the spoilt little madam who has become the darling of the right-wing media after denouncing Islam, fleeing her Saudi family and rocking up in Thailand demanding everyone else clean up her blasphemous mess. And conservatives couldn’t have asked for a more perfect poster girl. Internalised Islamophobia? Check. Wild allegations of abuse? Check. Slamming her faith to curry favour with the alt-right? CHECK. And she wonders why her poor demonised parents are demanding she return home to face the music.

It sums up the skewed moral compass of the right-wing MSM that they only get animated about misogyny when it means they can have a pop at Islam. Much like they only condemn doxxing and death threats when they’re done by leftists, or object to racism and homophobia when it’s directed at teenage Trump-supporters and comes from marginalised black men dressed as Aladdin.

So it will surprise no-one that while Qunun was going through the ‘ordeal’ of being in ‘limbo’ in a ‘Bangkok’ ‘hotel room’, the brainless drones lapping up her sob story were completely oblivious to the other vulnerable woman being held against her will much closer to home.

Unlike Qunun, this oppressed female trapped within four walls isn’t granted the privilege of posting selfies, ordering room service, or being whisked to Canada like the spoilt white princess she wishes she was. Because this woman is languishing in jail for a crime she didn’t commit. Yes, society has decided it’s not just acceptable to lock up innocent women: it’s also okay to send them to MEN’s prisons. In 2019. So forgive me if I don’t consider Little Miss Apostateknickers and her free holiday to Montreal quite as important as the incarceration of Nicola Huntly.

Unsurprisingly, the same people who claim to care about women’s rights said bugger all about Nicola’s plight, which generated roughly 1% of the coverage Qunun’s did. So while those of us lucky enough to be white, straight and Christian looked the other way and enjoyed our Islamophobic festival of hate and chocolate, a WOMAN was forced to spend Christmas fending off rapists, gangsters and sweat-drenched guards in aviator shades. For shame.

And what was Nicola’s crime? What was deemed so horrific she should spend her days in fear of rape, murder, and having her bra-strap pinged in the dinner hall? It’s a question no-one wants to answer. Because Nicola Huntly did literally nothing. Nicola Huntly never hurt a fly. How could she? Nicola has only existed for a year: it was Ian Huntly who got her into this mess.

That’s right – because Nicola’s fun, vibrant, FEMALE mind is attached to the body of a man who murdered two children SHE has to pay the penance. Yet no-one can ever explain what the hell his has to do with Nicola. Why should a strong, independent woman be punished for something a white male did? A white male who was always a woman anyway? (Apart from the day he killed Holly Chapman and Jessica Wells when he was categorically male.) And let’s be honest, was his crime really that abhorrent? Is no-one willing to admit that maybe things aren’t so clear-cut? That Ian was provoked into killing two children and setting their bodies on fire?

Good luck getting any answers. The silence from the police, the courts and the murdered girls’ parents is deafening. Indeed, the only time they comment on Nicola is when they’re calling her ‘Ian’, a gross act of violent deadnaming which not only offends the trans community but also endangers the lives of child killers in knickers worldwide.

Transphobes predictably took to social media to argue against putting Nicola in a women’s jail, as if housing a rapist among females was some kind of dangerous act, like throwing a pit bull into a chicken coop. It’s no surprise that these are the same hypocrites who had zero sympathy with the Native American forced to fend off a slavering horde of white supremacist schoolkids last weekend, using only his shit-hot percussive talents and the military skills he honed while fighting in the Spanish Civil War.

Needless to say, none of the TERFs considered that there may be more to the story. And as it’s now as clear that Huntly has ALWAYS been a woman – apart from when he murdered Holly and Jessica – it’s pretty obvious Nicola was the victim of transphobic abuse, left with no choice but to fight back by murdering two little girls, slipping briefly into ‘Ian’ mode to carry out the justified act of vengeance before reverting to ‘Nicola’ in time for tea.

How dim-witted detectives never deduced this in 2003 is a mystery but that’s the filth for you. The Tory press can pretend these brats were blameless but we all know how cruel bullies are, especially when confronted with gender non-conforming kiddy-fiddling caretakers. I dread to think what these two little thugs put Nicola through before Ian said ‘enough’s enough’ and stepped in to defend her honour. Is it any wonder they ended up dead in a ditch?

But Nicola’s horrendous ordeal is merely the tip of the transphobic iceberg. Indeed, this sorry story has prompted me to wonder: how many other supposed ‘psychos’ are inside because of crimes committed in a previous identity? How many ‘rapists’ and ‘killers’ were incited into violence through abuse and discrimination? How many transwomen have to be wrongly imprisoned before their needs are put before those of cry-baby schoolgirls in bloodstained Man City shirts?

Needless to say, last month while Nicola was fighting tooth and nail to be treated like a human being, The Sport revealed that Stuart Sutcliffe – AKA The Yorkshire Killer – had been subjected to a sustained campaign of harassment in Slade Prison, involving threats, violence, and one cruel lag having a SHIT in his advent calendar. Ordinarily this would barely cause a ripple: just another privileged white male getting his just desserts for battering prostitutes to death, possibly the most toxic form of masculinity after manspreading and disagreeing with Jezebel writers on Twitter.

But take a second to join the dots and it’s hard not to shake the suspicion that this campaign of terror against Sutcliffe was predicated on transphobia. Once we accept that, it’s pretty clear he killed those women because they were taunting him with their biological fannies. Don’t believe me? Look at a picture of Sutcliffe in his heyday: welder’s thumbs, six-foot frame, massive kite. He couldn’t look more like a woman if he dyed his beard blue and attacked a 60-year-old hooker with a shovel on Hyde Park. (Not that he’d do that: the 60-year-old hookers prefer doing their business indoors with easy access to a bathroom and warm blankets. Worth bearing in mind if you ever escape and fancy a stroll down memory lane, Stu.)

So as a mark of solidarity, I hereby intend to identify Sutcliffe as a woman and send polite death threats to anyone on social media who doesn’t. Let’s call her Sophie, send all the silly-killy stuff Stuart to the nearest memory hole, and kickstart the campaign for her and Nicola’s sentences to be immediately quashed NOW. Last year was a horrendous one for women but let’s begin 2019 in a positive manner by securing the release of two people responsible for the deaths of 15 biological females.

After that? Well, one thing Britain has an abundance of is miscarriages of justice. Indeed, a marginalised Muslim is currently banged up in the slammer surrounded by infidels just because a few years back some balding gypsy called Levi Blofeld used his body to rape and murder women and schoolgirls. Needless to say, no-one is fighting his corner like they are Qunun’s. Not the right kind of Muslim, you see: too Islamic, too observant, too keen on hanging around bus stops asking 15-year-old girls how tight their cunts are.

I wouldn’t be surprised if ‘Levi’ is actually trans too. In which case it’s up to her how many women she bludgeons with hammers or flattens in her Land Rover. As the witch-hunt against Caitlin Janner proved, of all the abuse directed at the trans community, perhaps the most hateful is the right-wing obsession with their erratic driving.

Needless to say, as well as being forced to live among non-Muslims, she is also stuck in a men’s prison. Which is a wise tactic. Because we all know the real reason the transphobes don’t want Nicola, Sophie and Yusuf Raheem in woman’s prisons is because they’re terrified one of them might kick a TERF to death in the exercise yard. And with good reason. Because when Jezza becomes PM British jails will be rammed to the rafters with transphobic hate criminals convicted of everything from buying tampons in public to reading Women’s Own on the bus.

But we mustn’t hesitate. Because with the terrifying prospect of No Deal Brexit looming, the plight of innocent people locked up for something they did in another life is becoming increasingly urgent. This is why Jezza has refused to discuss No Deal, because he knows if we crash out of the EU without an arrangement anything could happen. Freedom of movement? Forget it. Never mind locking women up with men, we could have children sharing cells with Leave voters, refugees living among racist pensioners, principled liberals forced to breathe the same air as black Tories. Armageddon, basically.

So there’s a long way to go. And as beautiful as it will be when Nicola is once again free to kill whoever she likes, for every vulnerable transwoman guilty of nothing more than sharing the same body as a murderer there are hundreds of REAL threats, such as creepy ‘comic’ Lewis CK, inexplicably allowed to walk the streets sticking two fingers up at the left and courting the alt-right by doing exactly the same kind of material he’s always done. Or that MAGA Sandman kid, who is not only granted the privilege to attend a misogynist march demanding women are tied to radiators at gunpoint and forced to give birth to ugly children, he also does it while deploying the brutal tactic of every genocidal fascist in history: standing still and smirking. Let’s see how smiley he is after President Ocasia-Cortez has thrown him in a women’s prison full of Cherokee trans-vets with thousand yard stares and bongos fashioned from TERF-skin. His grin won’t be half as wide as his ringpiece after Showers With Drumsticks is finished with him.

But it’ll still be a picnic compared to what Nicola Huntly has been through. Perhaps the right-wing MSM should put as much effort into highlighting this injustice as they do indulging female cons, defending red-capped racists, and shilling for self-hating Muslims.

LOCK THEM UP.

 

 

For Vile Tommy The War Is Over

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TR and co. come face to face with OJ’S army and shit their pants.

By Ben Pensant.

The greatest weapon in the left’s arsenal is the ability to hold two conflicting opinions at once. It’s a skill dopey right-wingers call ‘cognitive dissonance’, a fascist concept invented by Hitler and weaponised by trolls to smear the type of people who abhor misogyny, homophobia and antisemitism but defend the planet’s most misogynist, homophobic and antisemitic religion.

So we can condemn western governments for oppressing and murdering their own people while simultaneously lauding communist regimes that oppress and murder their own people.

We can rage against toxic masculinity while demanding men are allowed to compete in women’s sports, enter women’s changing rooms, and be locked up in women’s prisons because they like wearing Betty Boop knickers.

And, as the recent Brexit Betrayal counter-protest illustrated, we can believe evil Tommy Robertson and his army of street thugs are the most dangerous force in British society while mocking him because only ten people turned up to his shitty march.

As usual, attendance figures varied depending on whose side you were on, with alt-right lunatics claiming the counter protest was dwarfed by 15,000 bigots in Union Jack underpants, while sensible observers correctly stated it was the other way round, the brave liberals turning out in their droves while the bigots totalled a handful of skinheads, the Ryanair racist and Nick Griffin’s cat.

Of course, this contradicts the left’s claim that the far-right are ‘on the rise’. Indeed, Owen Jones took to Twitter to gloat about the poor turnout despite the fact he’s spent all year telling everyone what a huge threat Tommy is. Presumably the bulk of TR’s million-strong army of fascists were at home shopping for Nazi memorabilia and polishing their helmets.

Still, that didn’t stop OJ and chums informing the world that they’d spent all day ‘fighting fascism’, as if they were dust-covered Katie Adies dodging missiles in a warzone as opposed to a bunch of berks wandering around London drinking nut-milk coffee. It was hard to read their frontline despatches without being blown away by the brave act of walking along a street in broad daylight. In fact, coming so soon after that posh bloke stuck it to the xenophobes by standing on a box shouting ‘bollocks to Brexit!’, I now know how people felt in 1973 when they saw that picture of the Chinese monk setting himself on fire.

Of course, that a lot of people were there to protest the government’s handling of Brexit rather than to support Robertson was irrelevant. Which is why Jones et al ignored it, temporarily suspending their hatred of centrists and neoliberalism to show solidarity with neoliberal centrists.

Because this march was ALL about Robertson. And one thing he and the left-wing media share is a belief that everything is about Tommy Robertson. And luckily, being annoyed that Brexit isn’t happening is exactly the same as being an attention-seeking bullshitter with a crap crew cut and more aliases than Keyser Spacey.

But this latest humiliation was the final nail in TR’s coffin, a downfall which began last month when footage emerged of Serbian schoolboy Jamal being assaulted by a racist bully. Bingo! Because nothing excites the modern left more than an immigrant getting chinned.

The subsequent reaction was beautiful. While most of the social media left were telling everyone how horrific the video is while gleefully re-tweeting it and sending his family death threats, Waitrose Britain’s favourite shock-jock James O’Brian weighed in with an offbeat take: he blamed Nigel Farage and the right-wing press.

“The tone of refugee coverage in most corners of the media made this inevitable. Inexcusable but inevitable. This little scrote will be made an example of but all the politicians and pundits who incited him won’t suffer a single consequence” he lamented, utilising his mind-reading powers to give a unique insight into someone he’s never met. But this is what we’ve come to expect from classy James: he exploited the death of a Polish immigrant to score a point against Brexit, you imagine he’s gonna think twice about doing the same to a bullied child? Please.

Hopefully his telepathy will work better than it did after the killing of Arkadiusz Joswik. But either way it won’t matter to James and his super-fans. As he put it to Howard Donaldson recently, the problem with The People is their “refusal to distinguish truth from false”. Something James knows all about having refused to distinguish truth from serial fantasist Carl Beech’s false claims that he was abused by a satan-worshipping Westminster paedophile ring.

Equally surprising was the response from comedy legend David Schreider, who took the original step of tweeting that notorious montage of racist headlines from The Scum and The Daily Fail, earning himself a free trolley dash around Holland & Barrett by becoming the millionth privately educated liberal to present it as evidence of those newspapers’ vile bigotry despite never having read them.

And he didn’t stop there, disseminating pictures of Nigel Farrage and his infamous ‘Breaking Point’ poster with a devastating caption: “The video of the refugee being bullied is shocking. If only there were some way of knowing who radicalised the bullies”.

Luckily, there IS some say of knowing what newspapers teenage bullies read and who their favourite politicians are: you just have to ask David ‘Will Graham’ Scheider. And thank god he’s here to highlight the dangerous hold middle-aged men in suits have over schoolboys who would struggle to pick them out of a line-up.

And in case anyone is worried this logic could be used to smear certain other problematic texts, fear not: intellectuals like David wouldn’t dream of applying the same logic to left-wing media.

So they won’t hold The Guardian responsible for the next jihadist attack because of all the pieces the paper have published supporting Islamic extremism.

When Antifa decide to violently shut down another college talk or attack innocent people with bike locks they won’t blame the BBC or CNN for all the gushing coverage they’ve given to the black masked warriors.

Should another Remainer be provoked into murdering his Leave-voting neighbour the last thing they’ll do is tell the editor of The New European he has blood on his hands for calling 17 million people ‘idiots’ and printing wacky cartoons about punching Brexiters.

And as commentators try to explain the motivations of the Strasbourg shooter there’ll be zero chance of David tweeting an extract from the Kerrang and smugly pondering who could have radicalised the marginalised madman. Because a religion observed by nearly two billion people, that theocratically rules over 40-odd countries and instructs its followers to kill or punish gays, Jews, women, ex-Muslims and non-Muslims is far less likely to influence the behaviour of its followers than a handful of hate-sheets that barely sell a few million copies a day.

But this doesn’t change the fact that Jermaine’s bully was brainwashed by all of them. That’s incontestable, despite the complete lack of evidence backing it up. Which shows how far the left have come. See, in the olden days, when leftists accused someone of being complicit in violence they would do two things:

1. Provide clear proof that the people in question were inciting violence as opposed to simply expressing right-wing opinions that frighten New Statesman subscribers.

2. Categorically confirm that the violence happened as a direct result of the perpetrator reading these right-wing opinions, as opposed to doing so because he’s a bigoted bully whose parents were EDL supporters with a penchant for abusing brown people in takeaways.

Luckily those dark days are over, the left now happy to accuse people of everything from racism to rape without a speck of evidence. And the fact that the bully leapfrogged the right-wing press altogether and went straight to ‘far-right hooly wankers’ was ignored by the principled voices claiming the tabloids had turned him into a fascist.

Because anyone can see his parents were incited into supporting Robertson by the rhetoric of The Scum et al in the first place, even though those papers regular attack the Luton loudmouth and his grubby street movement. Indeed, despite being malleable dupes ready to be moulded into racists at the drop of a Rob Liddle column, the bully and his parents somehow managed to avoid being brainwashed into thinking TR is a ‘thug’, a ‘menace’, or any other affectionate term the Tory press call him. Phew!

All of which brilliantly set up Robertson to sow the seeds of his own destruction. Clearly rattled by the outpouring of sympathy for a filthy forrin, TR followed O’Brian and Scheider’s lead and blamed someone else: the boy himself. In the most flagrant example of victim-blaming since The Guardian‘s Gaby Hinchcliffe suggested German women touched up on New Years Eve in 2015 provoked their own assaults by flaunting their sexual freedom and expensive smartphones, Robertson claimed the bully was acting in retaliation after little Jamelia attacked a schoolgirl.

Unsurprisingly, TR’s story turned out to be false. But even if it was true, how would we know the girl was blameless? Those women in Dusseldorf willingly rubbed their wealth and promiscuity in the noses of sexually frustrated penniless migrants, so what’s to stop some snooty teenage madam inciting a vulnerable young boy by wearing designer rollerskates and doing non-handers on her shiny BMX? And these privileged white harridans wonder why they get raped in kebab shops.

This is the difference between good victim-blaming and bad victim blaming. And Robertson’s brand is categorically the latter. Luckily, the final phase of his downfall had already begun. Because few things make the modern left wetter than legal action and Islamic extremism; combine the two and you get the joyous lawsuit against TR from Muhammud T Akunjee, the ambulance-chasing lawyer with links to CAGE, Al-Muharijoun and Salafi Media UK, those popular Islamist groups fond of defending terrorists, screaming ‘death to America!’, and producing videos of marginalised Muslims defending terrorists and screaming ‘death to America!’.

Naturally Owen Jones took to social media urging people to circulate Akunjee’s legal letter to Robertson. Because nothing screams ‘I hate lying extremists’ like retweeting a lying extremist. And OJ got his wish as Mr T’S  action received the thumbs-up from thousands of educated liberals, none of whom had bothered to spend five minutes researching the courageous crusader. Which is handy as they may have found out the odd inconvenient truth, like the fact that on the day of the Charlie Hebdon massacre he wrote on Facebook: “Please don’t REPEATEDLY poke a sleeping bear then cry when it bites your head off”.

This quaint proverb could mean any number of things, but try telling that to the right-wing trolls who accused Akunjee of blaming the cartoonists for their own murders. They even pointed to the light-hearted cartoon he posted that day showing the CH editor blowing himself up with a suicide vest made of rolled up copies of his racist mag, as if it magically proved Akunjee believed they had it coming. Sickening.

Thankfully, Mr T needn’t worry about bad press when useful geniuses like Owen have his back, allowing him to focus on his passion project: fighting extremism with extremism. Indeed, Akunjee also represented the parents of the three Muslim schoolgirls who fled the UK to join ISIS in 2015, one of whom had a penchant for burning American flags, taking his daughter to Islamist rallies, and cuddling cute teddy bears.

Naturally, Mr T ignored this when demanding the government apologise to the family for not spying on their daughters enough, which clearly played a much bigger part in radicalising the girls than one of them being brought up by an extremist. This was of course at odds with CAGE’s condemnation of the government for spying too much on Jihadi Jim, the marginalised Muslim who got so fed up with security services pestering him he ran off to Syria to rape children and cut people’s heads off.

All in all, little Jumanji couldn’t wish for a better ally. And I’m sure his family are delighted his plight has been championed by someone with a history of defending the same kind of people they came to Britain to escape from.

All of which paints a picture of someone every liberal should be supporting to show foul Tommy Robertson his days are numbered. Word on the street is he’s gone into hiding, the message that his vile Islamophobia will NOT be tolerated finally getting through his thick gammony skull. Fingers crossed we’ve also seen the back of his obsessive fans who worship him like a god and refuse to accept any criticism of their idol.

Now if you’ll excuse me I’ve got work to do. These ‘Jez We Can’ Winterval mittens won’t knit themselves!

 

Vag Of Dishonour

 

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Some micro-aggressive vaginas, yesterday.

By Ben Pensant

Modern progressives have a hard time dealing with creative types. Which is hardly surprising given how often creative types get it catastrophically wrong. Indeed, despite the arts providing some of the wokiest thrills this side of Novaro Media’s Winterval knees-up there’s always the threat of something deeply problematic lurking in the background.

So for every Lilly Allen there’s a Liam Gallacher. For every The H8 U Gave there’s a Huckleberry Flynn. For every satirical portrait of Nigel Farrage with his cock out there’s a racist doll-house featuring marginalised ISIS fighters played by the cast of Bigpuss. And for every PC moneyspinner like Hamilton! that strikes a blow for diversity by discriminating against white actors there’s a Vagina Monobrows sticking two fingers up at an oppressed minority by entertaining the hateful concept of women with fannies.

Not that this is news. As the movie industry demonstrates, while so-called artists are happy to seek Twitter cred by dipping their toes into social justice waters, they’ll happily ditch their beliefs and produce the most objectionable material imaginable if there’s a hefty paycheck involved.

And actors are the absolute worst when it comes to selling out in search of the right-wing dollar. Take lantern-jawed weirdo Mick Shannon, who took the lead role in this year’s nautical masterpiece The Shape Of Fishface. As well as providing meaty roles for a gay, a deaf and a coloured, Benicio del Toro’s Emmy-winning tear-jerker refused to shy away from one of the most pertinent questions liberal women have been asking for years: can you retain your independence while enjoying a sex-positive relationship with someone who bites the heads of furry animals and has a bell-end that smells like Grimsby docks? (A quandary Sharon Osborne struggled with for decades.)

Every actor who performed in this movie deserves a BIFTA just for being there, especially the queer, black and handicapped ones. Sadly, there’s always someone who can’t resist showing their true colours, and it will shock no-one to learn that in this case that someone was a white male. Imagine that.

Because despite donning rubber gills every morning to charm his way into a mute girl’s drawers by eating egg shells and flooding her flat, by night he was kicking off his flippers and sneaking off to Telly Viv to play an Israeli spook with a sexually aggressive moustache in BBC3’s Zio-prop hate-fest The Little Princess.

This is what they do. And it doesn’t stop there. Because it’s naïve to expect actors who work in theatre to be any less venal than their Hollywood counterparts. Which is why now more than ever it’s vital we leftists keep our eyes trained on the thespian community and show them that the days of taking whatever roles they like without getting publicly shamed by an army of zeros on social media are OVER.

So naturally I was delighted to read about the Women’s Respite Centre of East Minnesota Uni and their brave decision to no longer host productions of Eve Angel’s The Vagina Chronicles, the aforementioned crudely offensive play that has been inciting violence and delighting self-hating menstruaters for 34 years.

Their ballsy statement was issued following a survey of students and a workshop entitled ‘Not All Woman Have Vaginas’, a necessary if blindingly obvious position to defend in 2018 when women without vaginas have become such a potent demographic force they could comfortably fill the front stalls of the Liechtenstein People’s Theatre. Their understandable objections were that the play “centres on cisgender women”, its version of feminism “excludes some women”, and it “lacks diversity and inclusion”.

Needless to say, the TERF community were furious, belittling both the decision and the workshop: “Even if it were true that not all women have vaginas, why shouldn’t there be a play about the ones who do?” they bleated, as if making up 50% of the population somehow entitles biological females to have their stories told, regardless of how much they offend men in eyeliner.

Predictably, the right-wing trolls piped up: “People who find the play offensive could always not watch it!” they whined, as if this magically cancels out its hyper-dangerous content. Yep, in 2018 there are still people who don’t realise that the very existence of works of art which don’t represent every minority is problematic. (Unless the minority are Jews or lesbians, obvs.) But it’s hardly surprising. How can we expect tone-deaf dipshits to pick up on the dangerous mood music of filth like The Vagina Monolifts when they don’t even realise the very existence of women is problematic in itself?

As the EMU WRC put it, concerns about the play’s relevance to modern audiences “created a need to ask the question: do we still need The Vagina Monologues?”. Because as we know, to decide if a work of art is still needed we should ask not the millions of people who still flock to see it but the tiny percentage of blue-haired authoritarians who think an innocuous play featuring ladies talking about their private parts is as troublesome as a musical version of Mine Kampf.

Sadly, some of the survey respondents had clearly been brainwashed by the far-right, suggesting that the play should not be shelved but “modified or accompanied by a series of workshops addressing the diversity and inclusion it is lacking”. Jesus H.Corbyn. Look, in a perfect world I’d happily edit every offensive play ever written to suit modern audiences, like George Lucozade did with the Star Trek trilogy. But it ain’t gonna happen, people. These transphobes are nothing if not law-savvy, tying up their obnoxious opus in enough legal red tape to stop anyone with a conscience changing so much as a syllable.

“It is important to note that due to copyright laws we are unable to change the script” was the EMU’s terse response, leaving them with no option but to go for the most obvious course of action. And who could blame them? You made your bed, Evie. You don’t want people rewriting your stupid little play, swapping every female character for a 50 year-old bus-driver called Suzy with hands like shovels and a penchant for hiding under piles of knickers in TopShop? Fine, just don’t complain when people decide enough’s enough.

Which is exactly what the EMU WRC did, cutting through the ‘free expression’ nonsense and devising a simple solution to the thorny issue of reactionary plays that offend a miniscule percentage of an already-miniscule percentage of the population: BAN THEM. As soon as writers, directors and actors get the message that their hateful tales will not be seen by anyone they’ll sharp stop making them. And please, don’t bother bringing up the irrelevant fact that most trans folk couldn’t care less about The Vagina Chocolatelogs and have no desire to ban it. Since when have leftists given a flying fuck what the majority think?

Luckily, US colleges have been on the right page with regards to this foul production for some time. Indeed, it was previously re-booted by the American University’s Women’s Institute, who chose to stage a rival production called The Breaking New Ground Monologues. The idea behind this was to “broaden the focus from specifically female genitalia to multiple identities and bodies”, which they essentially achieved by taking a play about vaginas and removing the vaginas.

This intersectional approach was naturally attacked by TERF trolls, who sunk even lower than usual by suggesting that if the multiple identities and bodies were so bothered about representation they could always write a new play instead of butchering an existing one. A ridiculous argument which only exists in some alt-right dream world where the end goal is everyone being able to create what they like rather than what leftists allow them to. Still, as applaud-worthy as the WI’s actions were, they clearly didn’t go far enough. Here’s hoping in future they re-cast any revivals with first-wave transwomen and pay tribute to the early recipients of reconstructive surgery by renaming it The Split Bag Of Mince Monologues.

Because only strident steps like this will allow the theatre to regain its rightful position as the wokiest artform around. Fingers crossed this leads to Fifth Avenue and the East End getting with the program, saying ‘enough’s enough!’ and banning anything that makes more than a dozen Teen Cosmo readers cry.

The first show on my hit list would be Andrew Lloyd Webster’s Kats. Sure, it has great songs and fabulous costumes but it’s always bothered me that it excludes those of us who can’t lick our own arseholes.

Next up would be Confessions Of A Salesman by Norman Mailer. Again, a heartbreaking meditation on guilt and failure but has anyone ever considered how much a play about a working stiff being swallowed by the American Dream alienates people who’ve never done a day’s graft in their lives?

And don’t get me started on bloody Shakespeare. From penning a lighthearted romp about teen suicide to blacking up Orson Olivier for a laugh there’s no place for his ultra-offensive gibberish in 2018. The sooner the so-called Beard and his offensive cross-dressing antics are booted into the same memory hole as Mr Twankie, Mother Hen and Bobby Davros throwing Smarties at feral children the better.

Sadly, there is still work to be done, as only yesterday The Scum – who else? – gleefully reported on a vile ad campaign launched by Bodyshop, purposely created to offend women without vaginas. Taking the form of a grim 3 minute video, it purports to “celebrate the diversity of women’s genitalia”, which it does by ignoring the genitalia of women who don’t have women’s genitalia. Instead it features a parade of privileged females flaunting their femininity, micro-aggressively singing along to Praise Me by Beats International, and rubbing their biological motts in the faces of men who don’t have them.

In a bid to prove that “each vulva is unique” the film brazenly attacks the trans community by giving a rundown of the various different vagina types, forcing the terrified viewer to look at pictures of everything from The Cupcake and The Conch Shell to The Silk Purse and The Papaya. Needless to say neither The Clanger’s Nose nor The Hairy Yorkshire Pudding get a look in.

All of which shows that for all the sterling efforts of the EMU WRC we still have a long way to go. Hopefully the brave steps taken by those courageous US colleges, combined with the outrage generated by Bodypop’s foul video, may go some way to fulfilling the trans-activist community’s dream of full rights, complete acceptance, and world domination. And maybe – just maybe – edge us towards a beautiful, inclusive world in which the word ‘woman’ has been consigned to the dustbin of history: an obscene throwback to less enlightened times, something decent people are afraid to say in polite society, like the N-word or ‘Lord Valderama’.

Stick that in your vagina and smoke it.

Guilty Of Being Right

 

 

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James listens in horror as another braindead Brexiter whines about bendy bananas.

By Ben Pensant

There are many rubbish books I’ve never read. Take God Is Gay, in which alcoholic racist Peter Hitchens rants about Islam like a racist alcoholic. Of all the rubbish books I’ve never read GIG is by far the most rubbish. And believe me, I’ve not read a lot. Seriously, if you can name a high-profile pundit who’s not read as many books as me I’m all ears.

Another rubbish book I’ve not read is Sam Harrison’s The End Is Nigh, a hateful attempt by the celebrity atheist to smear Islam as stupid and murderous by describing how stupid and murderous it is. It was so hateful I threw up the second I glanced at the blurb on the back and stopped not reading immediately.

And don’t get me started on Shellfish, Wine And Monkeys, right-wing ruffian Rob Liddle’s attack on liberal sensibilities: the sickest cookbook I’ve ever not read. I dread to think what horrors it inflicted upon racist housewives nationwide, forced at gunpoint to slave over the xenophobic recipes within.

Frankly I don’t now where I find the time to not read all this stuff. But someone has to. And it’ll take more than the sheer volume of rubbish books I’ve not read to stop me not reading them. Luckily, for every rubbish right-wing book to not read there are a ton of awesome left-wing ones. And trust me, I’ve not read ’em all.

But how do I know these left-wing books are awesome? The same reason I know the right-wing ones are rubbish, silly. A glance at the author’s views on Brexit, Trump, and the female penis tells you everything you need to know. Which is why I’m utterly certain that How 2 B Right (In A World Gone To Shight) by gossip columnist-turned-voice of Waitrose Britain James O’Brian is the most awesome book I won’t read this year.

Check out the gushing praise on the book’s jacket from a diverse range of white, Oxo-educated media personalities who look and sound exactly like James. Just picturing Richard Heron and him out of Creepshow nodding and guffawing while James lectures people less middle-class than him tells me this could well be the bestest book I’ve ever not read.

And the title couldn’t be more apt. For James is right about everything. Which is why instead of reading H2BR I just need to gaze adoringly at his picture on the cover: sweating and exasperated after ‘debating’ yet another uneducated dipshit so dim you’d think someone was screening calls to make James look even more right by only letting through people who don’t know their arse from their elbow. Because an intellectual giant like James doesn’t need to engage with people who might know more than him. That’s how to be right. And to see how utterly correct he always is look no further than his principled, passionate, and baldly opportunistic response to the killing of Arkadiusz Jozwik.

Jossstick was the Polish immigrant who died during a racist attack in Hartlepool, an early victim of the hate crime wave that flooded Britain as a result of 17 million cretins voting to leave the EU. Despite scant details of the murder being made initially available, a host of Remain campaigners, Labour politicians and left-wing commentators immediately pinned the blame on The Scum, Neville Farage, and everyone who put a cross in the wrong box two months earlier.

Best of the bunch was James, who issued a heartfelt 15-minute monologue on his NBC show, highlighting a Bill Graham-esque knack for getting into the heads of criminals. Despite knowing very little about the crime or the killer, James utilised his skill for being right about everything to magically ascertain the killer’s beliefs, motivations, hair colour and shoesize . While the police dithered, expressing faux concern that the media were framing it as a hate crime, James showed no such reluctance and ploughed on in the name of rightness.

“You would have hoped that the kind of hate and vitriol they employed in the campaign had disappeared. But it hasn’t, it hasn’t gone anywhere” he lamented, bemoaning the clear equivalence between a few dodgy billboards and a man being punched to death.

“We’re being turned against each other on a scale not seen since the 1950s” he warned, with all the self-awareness you’d expect from a man who’s spent two years telling millions of people how stupid and racist they are.

“Does a politician like Farage know that talking about people speaking ‘foreign’ on trains leads inexorably to young people thinking they have the right to object to people speaking foreign in public?” he enquired, alerting listeners to that subculture of teenagers who take their cues on how to behave from ridiculous middle-aged gobshites rather than irritating pop stars and YouTube vloggers.

He was ably backed up by the media, with over 300 news pieces published following the killing pinning the blame on a politician most teenagers haven’t heard of and the 17 million nuggets he conned into voting Leave. Which is roughly 280 more than were printed after last year’s trial when it turned out the killing had bugger all to do with Brexit.

I’ve never felt more proud of the leftist establishment than I did when the full details emerged and everyone who had previously dined on the story – the Guardian, the BBC, David Lamming, Yvonne Cooper – suddenly forgot about it. Naturally James was at the forefront of this mass blackout, stubbornly ignoring the sad truth that the killing was a dumb street fight totally unconnected to Brexit which according to witnesses started after Josimar racially abused a friend of the boy who laid the fatal punch.

Because Mr O’Brian is far too principled to admit he’s wrong. Especially when he is. And a transwoman on a flying cow could see that Joselu only racially abused that teenager because of Brexit’s hate-filled mood music. That’s right, in Broken Britain even the immigrants are turning into vicious bigots. Shameful.

But no explanations were necessary. Because as we know, everything James says is right. Even 15-minute monologues in which everything he says is wrong. Similarly, when roly-poly Labour henchman Tim Watson publicly accused dead Tory Leon Brittas of being a paedophile, James was the first to defend him.

“What the hell do we want our MPs to use their positions for, if not to ensure that allegations of child abuse undertaken by people at the top of the parliamentary ladder are properly investigated?” railed James, deliberately ignoring the fact that when Watson made his speech police had already investigated and dropped the allegations upon realising they were about as robust as Watson’s weight loss regime.

Not that such minor details mattered to James, who along with Watson had become enchanted by ‘Nick’, the well-balanced young man who said Brittas was part of a Westminster paedophile gang who kidnapped, raped and tortured young boys in an Elm Street penthouse dressed as dolphins. He even claimed he’d witnessed creepy Conservative Harley Proctor murder two children, an accusation treated with the utmost seriousness by the Met, ensuring two years of agony, uncertainty, and financial ruin for beastly Proc. (If only he could’ve died with the accusations hanging over him like Brittas did. Maybe next time, Nick.)

Unsurprisingly, the right-wing press refused to believe their beloved Tory establishment might be partial to a bit of VIP kiddy-fiddling, slamming Watson for smearing an ‘innocent’ man. James had no time for such blind devotion to due process, calling The Daily Fail‘s demand that Watson apologise to the Brittas family “ever so slightly sleazy”. And James and Tom sure know how to spot ‘sleazy’, having apparently taken most of their cues from Exaro News, the now defunct truth-seeking website which originally promoted Nick’s story. A story which came to a cruel and premature end when it emerged that everything he said was utter horse-shit.

Needless to say, when the allegations were exposed as the ramblings of a serial fantasist, James shut up shop and pretended the whole thing never happened. Which just shows how right he was. Because much like James’ unswerving belief that Arkadiusz Jossysgiants was killed because of Brexit, his willingness to be taken in by a slander-happy conspiracy blog and their mentally ill poster-boy only adds to his charm.

Because this is what Good People do: locate the moral angle then exploit it for political capital while stuffing those awkward ‘fact’ things into the nearest memory hole. And nobody is more selective with facts than James. Indeed, as someone who regularly condemns fake news and incitement, I’m sure he had an ironic chuckle to himself about the possibility that his dissemination of fake news incited people into believing Brittass, Proctor, and countless other innocent men enjoyed fucking and murdering children.

As James noted last year after the right-wing press ignored unsubstantiated rumours about former PM Ed Heath in favour of persecuting vulnerable Muslim men provoked into raping teenage girls: “Isn’t it odd how so many people who dedicate their lives on social media to Pakistani grooming gangs are on the same side of the argument when it comes to Heath as the people who don’t listen to the victims?”.

Indeed, there’s nothing more odd than several hundred convicted child rapists generating more attention than one dead politician who to date has been found guilty of nothing more than possibly being a gay Tory (the very worst kind).

“What could possibly be a reason why a brown-skinned person demands derision and disgust, but a white-skinned person accused of identical crimes shouldn’t even be investigated?”.

Good question, James. The logical answer is that they hate brown people and refuse to believe their Tory paymasters could be child molesters. But the right don’t ‘do’ logical. No, these brazen apologists would have us believe the brown-skinned person(s) in question demands derision and disgust because it’s been legally proven they committed thousands of crimes up and down the country. Meanwhile the white-skinned person was let off the hook because the entirely uncorroborated accusations against him came from a deranged lunatic, involved everything from satanism to snuff movies, and were so fantastical and evidence-free that Oliver Stones is rumoured to be making a film about them.

They think we were born yesterday, don’t they? Well we weren’t: we were born today.

Luckily, with Theresa May breaking Brexshitter hearts by striking a deal to leave the EU without actually leaving the EU, James has spent the last few days being even more right than usual. In fact this past week has probably given him enough material to write a dozen new books for me to not read.

First he demanded Brexit mouthpiece Andrew Neal get sacked for calling mad cat lady Carol Cadfael a ‘mad cat lady’, accusing Neal of “compromising his ability to fairly report the most important stories of our time”. Damning words indeed from a man whose reporting of the killing of Arkadiusz Jocasta was about as fair as that time he introduced Muslim reformer Astra Nomani as a Breitbart writer despite having never penned a single syllable for them.

Even better was the tearful 52%-er who melted Remainer hearts by telling James how sorry he was for voting Leave. James assured the mysterious ‘Bill’ he shouldn’t just blame himself but also the evil politicians who brainwashed him into doing their bidding, showing once again the warmth, respect, and shameless condescension Islington’s number one shock jock regularly extends to stupid people he disagrees with. It’s a measure of James’ empathy that a genuinely remorseful Brexiter felt the best person to confess his genuine Brexit remorse to was a man who wanks himself silly thinking about patronising genuinely remorseful Brexiters.

Because being right is what James does, whether it’s comparing adult Grid Girls to 10-year-old chimney sweeps, raging at the inhumanity of Trump’s separation policy despite saying bugger all when it was going on under Obama, or shouting at women who dare to suggest they’d rather their teenage daughters didn’t have to share a changing room with middle-aged men stuffing their hairy nutsacks into ill-fitting tights.

It’s a relief to know someone like James O’Brian is dealing with this stuff so we don’t have to. Who knows how he puts up with it but thank Allah he does. As the great man himself said in the startling book (which I intend to not read just as soon as I’ve not read that Owain Jones one with the bowler hat on the front) : “I love my work. But the bullshit takes its toll”

It certainly does, James. It certainly does.

 

 

The Reel Thing: First Mxn

 

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Dan Gosling takes a small leap for man.

By Ben Pensant

No-one loves a bit of fantasy more than me. My first childhood crush was Jennifer Connery in Legend. I watched the Lord Of The Flies quadrilogy six times before it dawned in me the entire cast were whiter than Marvin’s ghost. And as the small group of people who bothered to read my seminal 2017 column A Play For Today know, I was such a huge fan of George RR Hartley’s A Song Of Tits & Dragons I adapted the first chapter into an experimental audio installation which shat all over the rubbish TV show.

But some flights of fantasy go too far. And new Lance Armstrong biopic First Mxn is the most flighty, fantastical flight of fantasy to hit the cinema since Stephen Soderberg convinced audiences that not only did Auschwitz exist but after it was liberated David Attenborough turned it into a holiday camp full of giant lizards. One suspects this dangerous piece of propaganda will fit in snugly on top of the wardrobe in the Oval office where Donald Trump hides his Chuck Morris and Howdy Doody videos.

But its greatest sin isn’t the brazenly nativist chest-beating, the most egregious example of which – the planting of the Confederate flag – was mercifully cut at the eleventh hour, cleverly averting the Twitter backlash which would’ve rightly greeted such rampant jingoism. (Though it’s frankly staggering that no-one thought to keep the scene but simply replace that vile symbol of bigotry with the Palestinian tricolor.) No, its worst crime is the way it recreates the moon landing in painstaking detail as if it really happened. I bet Stanley Kubichek’s spinning in his grave, wherever that is. (Area 54, probably.)

To be honest, the alarm bells were ringing long before I stole a tenner from my mam’s purse to buy a ticket and a packet of Fruity Bon Bons. (Or should I say ‘three packets’ as I trebled my bullet allowance by sneaking in without paying while a distracted usher explained the plot to some dispshit with a tartan shopping trolley who thought he was going to see an ’80s caveman romp with Pauly Short rather than a cynical piece of military propaganda. Winning.)

In fact, the nakedly misogynist title alone had me bristling. Still, at least the first person to pretend to set foot on the moon wasn’t a menstruater: in trans-inclusive 2018 there’s no excuse for a film called First W***n. To be honest, there’s no excuse for one called First Man either, which is why I’ve referred to it above using the commonly accepted intxrsxctixnxl varixtixn. We get it, Armstrong was male. Put his head on stamp if you must. But considering he never actually went to the moon – if he existed at all – I see no reason why we should pander to the TERF lobby by pretending this spaceperson was a cis when for all we know he was hiding two imaginary tits and a fanny under his helmet.

Needless to say, Kubichek and the terrified film crew who faked the original moon landing in Antarctica don’t get a look-in, erased from history by sinister puppet master Damien Chappelle. Chappelle, of course, is the privileged Lululand ‘auteur’ who literally tried to steal the best picture Oscar from glorious homo-ethnic tear-jerker Moonlight Mile. He’s got form. So it’s no surprise to see him playing the white man once again.

And boy does he go to town, deploying every trick in the book to appeal to brain-dead Trumpers who think the moon is made of cheese when anyone who’s read a book knows it’s made of pixels. The shallowness of the whole sorry production can be seen in the way he expects us to feel sorry for Armstrong just because his young daughter carks it. Yes, that’s right, a white male director demands we sympathise with a father who lost his toddler to leukemia 60 years ago when as we speak ICE-T agents are kidnapping Mexican infants in their sleep and drop-kicking them over The Wall for YouTube lolz. Unbelievable.

Not only that, he cynically tugs at the heartstrings by repeatedly reminding us how many of Armstrong’s fellow pretend cosmotrons perished while learning how to fly pretend spaceships to visit a pretend lump of chalk in the pretend sky. Diddums. Let’s just ignore the fact that anyone with an internet connection knows full well they were torn from their families and locked up in the same secret government location that houses Bigfoot, United 94, Kennedy’s brain and that alien who killed PJ and Duncan.

But the worst bit is Chappelle’s depiction of the landing itself, and not just because it pushes the ludicrous notion that Armstrong suddenly developed the power to bounce around on a distant planet without falling off it. Shamefully, it also ignores the well-documented fact that Armstrong’s oblivious co-pilot Buzz Aldridge spent most of his visit sitting in the rocket crying because Mr Giant Step told him there was a monster sleeping in the Lake of Tranquility who would eat them up if they made too much noise playing cricket. ‘Balls bigger than King Kong’ my arse. Poor Buzz. They may have only been on an old set borrowed from 2000AD: A Jazz Odyssey but either way, that must have fucking burnt.

Still, one thing Chappelle gets spot-on is his painstakingly accurate staging of Armstrong’s first steps. And sure enough, the scene looks every bit as fake as the one broadcast to the world in 1979, when sleight of hand and state-of-the-art special effects conned millions into believing they were watching someone walking on the moon rather than a bouncy castle under a bedsheet.

Don’t believe me? Have a look at this infamous picture of Armstrong taking his iconic stroll on the gravity-defying craggy rock:

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Impressive, huh? Looks pretty real, doesn’t it? Now take a peak at what the original photo looks like minus the CGI and digital trickery added in post-production:

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And this was 60 years ago: Christ knows what they could pull off today. Though perhaps Bibi and Donald should have stumped up an extra few quid to breathe digital life into a fleet of Star Trek figures, as the bloke above has more life in his arms than the predictably wooden cast. Token wife Claire Fox tries her best, spending the whole film ironing and looking scared, but it’s obvious she’s merely counting down the days until the shoot is over and she can be reunited with her kidnapped family dangling from meat-hooks in Hangar 17.

The repercussions of breaking her contract were clearly too dreadful to contemplate, and this must have bugged Dan Gosling too, who somehow manages to imbue his Armstrong with both deep arrogance and shifty awkwardness, like a Wall Street banker struggling to hold in a particularly gravelly shit.

The supporting players do what they can with the pie-in-the-sky subject matter, though the combined talents of the RAC would struggle to sell material this cartoonish. Still, as poor as they were at least they did a better job than the bumbling am-dram bell-ends who mugged and bobbed around like inflatable sex dolls back in ’68.

Or even worse, those charlatans ‘up’ in the International Space Wagon pathetically trying to convince us they’re hovering a million of miles above earth by performing lame tricks with floating pencils, when anyone familiar with the work of Jackie Ventura knows fine well they’re in a zero gravity caravan on a beach in Telly Viv.

Still, despite the movie’s inherent ridiculousness, I strongly recommend it as a damning indictment of the insane lengths went to by the Wrathchilds and their military industrial complex cronies to preserve the neo-con narrative. Luckily, the film has been on general release for almost a month now so you should be able to see it in a Zionist-free environment. I myself waited several weeks just to be completely sure that the population of Gateshead had already been.

But please, approach with caution. Don’t forget, this movie depicts what was until 9/11 Israel’s crowning glory, so you can imagine their minions wanting to repeatedly bask in how successfully they pulled the wool over the world’s ears. I’m pretty sure I got away with it but you can never be certain. In fact, I’m fairly convinced there was one at my screening hiding in the back row. That hotdog bun looked suspiciously like a bagel.

And if I’m not mistaken I heard a distinctly Hebrew-sounding guffaw during the sequence when an excited Buzz (below) is eventually allowed to exit the spaceship to play soccerball with Armstrong, only to find himself alone while his supposed friend sneaks off to fashion some souvenir ‘moon rocks’ from the lump of petrified wood that just happens to be hidden under a bush in the Apollo Creed Basin.

We are not alone…

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In space, no-one can hear you cry.