It may come as a surprise to younger leftists, but there was a time when socialism and fun went hand in hand. Yes, really. Indeed, as anyone lucky enough to have been part of the burgeoning activist scene of early ’90s Newcastle will recall, a commitment to fairness, equality, and mass subordination wasn’t always synonymous with having a face liked a slapped arse.
Of course, these days progressives have no choice but to be as miserable as sin, as the relentless onslaught of right-wing nastiness leaves little room for bonhomie. And it wasn’t a hell of a lot better thirty years ago but at least we had people like Bob Sanderson around, bringing hope, warmth, and unabashed joy to action-packed speeches on the New England Shoemakers’ strike of 1760.
But it wasn’t just Bob’s natural charm and ready wit that brought happiness to the eager young militants who hung in his every word. He also had a deep affinity with youth culture, having been a key figure in the punk movement until he was excommunicated from the scene after an unfortunate tour bus misunderstanding involving Slits vocalist Viv Libertine. Sadly, such false accusations would follow Bob throughout his career, but it would take more than right-wing hawks planting jars of Rohypnol in his dungarees to curb Bob’s passion for music and politics.
Luckily for us, he brought that passion with him when he made the journey north and launched one of his most brilliant creations: the annual NBIS Socialist Jamboree, a mind-bending fusion of pop, culture, pop culture, and politics. And as heard in the seminal speech below, on a balmy summer night in 1992 he unveiled exciting plans for the biggest and most ambitious jamboree yet. It was also my very first one, and if you listen very carefully you can hear audible moans of teenage excitement as Bob announces the line-up.
It was a night few will forget, not least the hundred-odd attendees who demanded refunds after none of the bands they’d paid to see turned up. Indeed, there was inevitable disappointment among music fans who’d arrived expecting to see energetic agit-pop sensations Sensor tear through a set of lively rap-metal bangers but were instead treated to local drone rock trio Cowfuck playing the same bum-note on a variety of broken power tools for two hours straight. (Cowfuck would split up straight after this show following a drug-fuelled argument over creative differences and stolen pillows, which made this seminal set all the more special for the four of us who managed to stay awake long enough to hear the spontaneous key change in the 118th minute.)
Alas, the smattering of no-shows were due to issues beyond Bob’s control, such as weather, transport, and his failure to book any actual bands. But it was also clear that with the hated criminal justice bill looming, sinister forces were attempting to sabotage the jamboree, the same sinister forces that would later blame Bob for pocketing the takings when it was obvious to everyone who read his fifteen page newsletter that the money was eaten up by the administrative costs incurred printing off thousands of flyers for bands who had more chance of playing on Mars than a lentil-stained stage in Byker.
But the jamboree was never just about the music, despite being advertised as exactly that. Indeed, much like the moon landing hoax or that time Zionists in fake beards crashed those jets into the Twin Trade Centre, everyone remembers where they were when they heard that incendiary fraggle-rockers Senseless Thing would not be appearing but local performance artist Sylvia Platt had kindly agreed to fill in with an avant garde interpretation of the collected works of Andrea Dawkins performed in total silence using sign language. On stilts. And no-one will forget what they were doing when Sylvia fell headfirst off the stilts, not least the elderly labrador who broke her fall.
Luckily, such bad luck failed to ruin the night, and it ended on a high note when popular UK hip-hop crew The Credit to the Nations became the first and last of the advertised acts to actually appear. Their set thrilled at least a third of the remaining twenty audience members, though the part-timers who’d left early missed a treat, as The Credits delivered a spellbinding show of experimental new material, none of which had been previously performed. Or, apparently, rehearsed.
Needless to say, despite the open mouthed awe and shock of those who witnessed the gig, it didn’t take long for a scurrilous rumour to spread: The Credits hadn’t actually played, the band providing the industrial beats were two pissed former members of Cowfuck wearing clown trousers, and the hyperactive frontman rapping, body popping, and generally owning the stage like a pro was not Credits MC Little Credits Bloke but Bob himself crudely daubed in makeshift blackface. Vile.
As you’d expect, this depressingly inevitable lie was backed up with ridiculous circumstantial evidence such as his inability to rap, the fact that he was three feet taller than Little Credits Bloke, and the way excessive perspiration caused by some over-exuberant breakdancing had caused boot polish to melt all over his microphone. Such laughably bad faith attempts to smear Bob weren’t worth entertaining, and neither was the cynical claim that the real Credits were playing a packed show in Brixton that night. The ’90s right would do anything to fit up decent men trying to make a difference. Sound familiar?
But those of us who were actually there know the truth, no matter how much the naysayers whined about Little Credits Bloke’s bold artistic choice to infuse every track with lyrics from Hello John Got a New Motor? and My Uncle Billy Had a Ten Foot Willy. And as you’ll hear in the clip below, the palpable sense of excitement generated by Bob’s passion and enthusiasm had little to do with the musical superstars he promised would appear but didn’t. It was Bob’s very essence which made the jamboree so special, not dreadlocked greboes or disc-spinning Islamists. And if you don’t believe me, why not press ‘play’, pour yourself a glass of warm cider, and spend a little time in that long gone era when putting a smile on a young person’s face was just as important as beating them up if they voted Tory.
Life changes fast these days. Indeed, as Matthew Roderick said in The Breakfast Club, “If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could end up missing someone getting dogpiled on Twitter”. Granted, that iconic piece of dialogue should be quoted with caution as it was written by an evil Republican. In fact, I’d have no complaints if you reported me to the nearest rainbow truncheon-wielding police officer simply for repeating it. However, as all students of ’70s cinema know, Ted Hughes was a notorious plagiariser, so it’s a safe bet he stole that line from a superior left-wing filmmaker like Ken Roach or Sly ‘Sylvester’ Stallone. Which explains why it popped into my head just now.
Either way, if you close your eyes and pretend it was scripted by a progressive rather than a dead right-winger with appalling taste in shirts it’s a deeply positive sentiment full of wisdom and vimto. And it’s one that’s ever-present in the minds of modern leftists terrified of missing the memo informing them that a viewpoint considered perfectly acceptable on Monday has morphed into the most dangerous idea since Hitler split the atom by the weekend. No-one wants to be the last New Statesmxn reader to find out it’s mandatory to capitalise the word ‘BLACK’ or that it’s deeply transphobic for lesbians to hold hands with other lesbians.
Thankfully, the most dedicated progressives – me, Jeremy Corbyn, that Canadish transwoman who took a beautician to court for refusing to wax her arsecrack – have no trouble keeping up with the latest developments. And we’re equally comfortable educating and lambasting reactionary bozos who refuse to get with the frickin’ pogrom. So a quick primer:
While free speech may have been a principle dear to leftists’ hearts back in the ’90s, in 2021 it’s a tedious, problematic inconvenience that only matters to right-wing comics furious that they don’t get to make fun of ‘pakis’ and ‘woofters’ anymore.
While ten years ago it was generally agreed that men had penises and women had v*****s, to even suggest such a thing nowadays makes you a bigot, a conversion therapist, and a genocidal maniac who wants to eradicate the planet’s transwomen population by banning them from pissing in front of ten-year-old girls.
While liberals have long agreed that harassing and assaulting people on the streets because they’re Jewish is Not On, in this day and age the only people who still think that are Zionist shills, anti-Corbyn Nazis, and dumb female music hacks with names that sound a bit like ‘fart’.
Approach every interaction with these bullet points in mind and you can’t go wrong. And if you still go wrong then belt up and take the abusive DMs like a (trans)man. Fortunately, while keeping up with the OJ Joneses is paramount, it’s worth remembering that change isn’t everything. Because some things never change. And one such thing is the glorious fact that no matter where you are or what time it is, there will always be a gang of hard leftists trying to get someone sacked for taking the piss out of them.
True, in recent years there’s often a gang of hard rightists trying to get someone sacked for taking the piss out of them too. But they’re nowhere near as good at it and their targets are rubbish. Frankie Boil? Katie Brand? Charlie State and Naga Mingemunchy? One is a racist scotch bastard, the other’s a pretend feminist who regularly fat-shames herself, and the last two work for the Brexit Broadcasting Corporation. You can cancel the lot of them for all I care.
No, it’s on the left where you find the people who really excel at this stuff, the uber-grasses who take their hatred of jokes they don’t like to fantastical extremes. For them, snitching isn’t just a fun hobby: it’s their catnip, their lifeblood, their reason to get out of bed in the afternoon. Which is why the Cult of Corbyn continue to protect their hero, even though thanks to the racist British electorate he’s about as relevant as a cutting edge gag about Noel Gallacher’s eyebrows.
Indeed, Kool Aid Corbynites are like those Vietcong snipers who’ve been hiding in the jungle for the past fifty years patiently waiting for the next US offensive. Because as all leftists know, no war is ever truly over. Which is why we were primed for combat when evil centrist Gary Newbon took a potshot at our lord and saviour last week, unleashing a torrent of tankie fury not seen since that time Ken Starmer pumped in the House of Commons and blamed it on Jezza.
For anyone living under a rock, Newbon is the fake academic who recently felt our wrath after tweeting a photo purporting to show Corbyn reading The Fourth Protocol of the Elders of Zio to a group of schoolchildren. And to add insult to injury, the book which had been crudely photoshopped to resemble The Fourth Protocol… was actually The Bear Who Came to Tea by popular children’s author and time-served Corbyn cultist Martin Rosen.
So not only did Newbon mock a beloved book that has brought joy to millions, he also disrespected a harmless childrens’ story about bears. Sickening. Luckily we had Rosen and Jezza’s backs, immediately inundating both Twitter and Newbon’s employers with angry complaints demanding punishment. Particularly vociferous was former sci-fi author Simon Magann, whose brave, passionate, and feverishly obsessive response to Newbon’s foul tweet was to spend all day reporting and re-reporting him to Northumberland University, the corrupt higher education institution which inexplicably employs ‘Doctor’ Newbon, presumably because the government’s lopsided diversity quotas require all colleges to give at least one job to a far-right fascist who smells of shit. Our grounds for his dismissal hinged on a brilliantly disingenuous attempt to turn the tables and accuse Newbon of antisemitism, despite the fact that the photo-shopped picture he posted was clearly attacking antisemitism. Because it’s not just jokes we don’t like that get our goat, what really annoys us are jokes we don’t understand.
All of which was no less than Newbon deserved. Because his vile accusations would have been revolting enough at any time, but to pounce when the far-left are already under attack due to the diabolical situation in Israel takes some nerve. Yep, this pretend professor is so tone deaf he decided to unveil his dirty little meme just as leftists are literally fighting for their lives and defending progressive values by attacking Jews on the streets of London and New York. But he didn’t just offend the frontline warriors: he also dished out a huge kick in the teeth to their media allies who’ve been fearlessly ignoring those leftists fighting for their lives and defending progressive values by attacking Jews on the streets of London and New York. A decent person would stay in their lane at such a sensitive time but not Newbon. No, he thinks this is the perfect time to launch an unprovoked cyber attack on a kind jam-maker who’s spent his life opposing all forms of racism and a gentle kiddies’ poet who just happens to be one of the only non-shifty Jews on Twitter. Shameful.
Luckily, those of us dobbing him in either didn’t know this or didn’t care, and within hours both the tweet and Newbon’s account had been deleted. At present his whereabouts are unknown and the investigation by Northumberland Uni is ongoing, though a few days ago his four-eyed mug was plastered all over The Spacktator, which ran a vile, fawning piece by self-hating homo-jock Stephen Paisley. Needless to say, Newbon dug himself an even deeper hole by appearing in that Nazi fanzine, a fanzine so full of Nazism I’ve still never read it. All things considered, it’s fair to say Newbon won’t be presenting Match of the Day again any time soon.
See, this is what happens when you mess with the masters. Everyone and his weird militant uncle knows The Fourth Protocol… isn’t really antisemitic, it simply posits the demonstrably sane idea that Jews are behind every bad thing ever. Which in case you forgot, is a perfectly agreeable view shared by people the former Labour leader has spent his career defending and supporting. Which means it couldn’t possible be racist because Jezza isn’t racist. Kapeesh? The fact that we’re still making this point six years since he burst onto the scene is outrageous but I guess this is what happens when people are too wrapped up in their grubby ideology to think straight.
But it’s their loss. Personally, I’d be be over the moon if Corbyn sat me on his knee and read me that iconic tome. And I’ve no doubt he’d be happy to whisper sweet blood libels into my ear too. Luckily, the Angel of Islington is an old hand at this game, and he responded on Twitter – where else?! – with a cheeky post expressing how ‘saddened’ he was that anyone might suggest he would share this ‘antisemitic falsehood’. Ha. He might have about as much influence on world events as the Romanian orphan who irons Pritti Patel’s scanties but he’s still an absolute boy when it comes to trolling the fash’.
And he was utterly correct too. Corbyn would never share antisemitic falsehoods. Why bother when he can write forewords for books that promote them, invite ‘honoured citizens’ who spread them for tea and sandwiches, or refer to murderous terrorists whose entire ideology is informed by them as ‘friends’ who are ‘dedicated to peace and social justice’?
The sad thing is, Newbon could have been one of us if he’d just wound his bloody neck in. Because much like Rachel O’Riley and Tracey Ann Doberman, Newbon has a decent pedigree for reacting to mild disagreements on the internet in the same petulant manner as we do. And as demonstrated by a brief Twitter exchange he had with a witty, handsome young man last year, Newbon is just as incapable of understanding how satire works as the proud leftists calling for his head.
Because during this breathtaking chat Newbon played the role of decent liberal to a tee, passionately arguing that Boris Johnston’s infamous column about “picaninnies with watermelon smiles” was deeply racist. And when his witty, handsome opponent pathetically argued that the piece was actually critiquing racism by using imperialist language to mock Tony Bliar’s white saviour complex, Newbon responded like so many leftists before him and blocked the witty, handsome young man immediately. Take that pretty boy!
So you’d think Newbon of all people would understand what Rosen and his army of snitches mean when they say his crude tweet was antisemitic even though it clearly wasn’t, because it’s the same argument he made when throwing a strop with his funnier, better looking adversary. But no, clearly Newbon opted to take the Zionist dollar instead. Well, he’s made his bed, and if Northumberland Uni have an ounce of decency they’ll tie him to it, beat him with bars of soap, stick a pillow over his smug four-eyed face, and set fire to the bastard before firing him out of a rocket into the nearest synagogue.
Anyway, if you’ll excuse me, all this talk of telling on people has reminded me that there’s a vile Faceberk account I need to report immediately for saying Angela Raynor is “alright looking for a ginge”. But not before I’ve finished knocking up this hilarious meme of Boris the Butcher reading Mine Kampf to a cage filled with Yiddish toddlers.
What makes murderers kill? It’s a question that’s perplexed psychologists, intellectuals, and duffel-coat clad militants for aeons, none more so than South African socialist and honorary Geordie Bob Sanderson, who took a break from fighting fascism and sexual harassment charges to search for the answer on a crisp summer night in 1992. And it was on that day, from the cider-sodden function room of the Cumberland Arms, Byker, that this darling of the north-east Marxist scene succeeded where so many academics had failed. Tellingly, the answers he found remain as pertinent today as they were back then: Western imperialism. Patriarchy. The Jews. Always the Jews.
It was quite a night. Little did we know when we entered the venue and handed over our twelve pound subs that we were about to embark on a mission to save a damaged young Muslim whose path in life had taken him from the mean streets of Gaza, to the glitz and glamour of Wall Street, to the unremitting horror of San Chris Quentin. Sadly, Emil Habib would soon become another victim of systemic racism: executed for supposedly unspeakable crimes and smeared as a ‘serial killer’ by bigoted hacks simply because he kidnapped, murdered, and barbecued several people. All of which was a huge kick in the teeth to Bob, who spent weeks planning a candlelit vigil for unlucky Emil, fighting tooth and nail to influence the American judicial system from a rain-lashed car-park in Bensham.
See, it wasn’t just murderers in berets or balaclavas who received Bob’s full-blooded support. No, he stood up for oppressed maniacs of all colours, creeds, and cannibalistic perversions. And as you’ll hear, he was well ahead of the game when it came to blaming Islamophobia for turning peaceful immigrants into depraved mass murderers.
So as Israel once again flexes its genocidal muscles, what better time to wind back the clock and listen to a principled leftist speak with great authority about a country he’s never been to and a conflict he knows sod all about. This seminal speech also serves as a timely reminder of what can be achieved by true progressives when they put their enormous heads together, a stark contrast with the Labour Party’s dismal showing in last week’s local elections, which grimly demonstrated how low the party has sunk since binning the kind, gentle socialist who steered them to two defeats in a row.
For my part this marks something of a return to my passion project, having only recently resumed the mammoth task of curating the Sanderson archive after spending the last six months evading Covid by hiding under my bed. Thankfully, I was able to once again dive into the treasure trove of cassette recordings stored in my childhood home after my mother kindly agreed to carry her 15-stone frame up a flimsy ladder to deep-clean the loft. That she did so while battling cancer only emphasised her dedication to preserving Bob’s remarkable memory. (Though if you’re reading, mam, perhaps next time when you finish you could take your snotty, blood-stained hankies with you? Dunno if you’ve noticed but we’re in the middle of a pandemic. Just sayin’.)
So put your feet up, pour yourself a mung bean smoothie, and step back in time to the brutal wasteland of Major’s Britain. I hear there’s a man of principle trying to save a young Muslim’s life. And by pressing ‘play’ he might just save yours too.
Recorded and edited by John Egdell and Michael Atkinson.
There’s been much heated discussion recently about what constitutes racism, most of it conducted by racists. And like all heated discussions about racism conduced by racists, they reinforced the racism coursing through racist Britain like a racist plague. You think Covid-18 is deadly? Imagine if it was racist too. Oh hang on, it is. Cheers for peppering your killing spree with racism, Boris. You blonde racist.
As anyone with half a Critical Racism Theory degree knows, the question is not “What constitutes racism?” but “What doesn’t?”. And the answer is: Nothing. Nada. Knackers. Because literally everything constitutes racism, and if someone sayssomething is racist then it is, unless that someone is a Tory or Jewish. Unsurprisingly, despite the racially charged events of 2021, grasping this simple rule is too much for the right-wing planks of Ingrate Britain.
So it’s down to muggins to dish out some cold, hard truth for the dozy racists at the back. Sadly, the following five examples of what constitutes racism are but a tiny fraction of the racism that regularly sends shockwaves all the way from Political Twitter to Race Bait Twitter (stopping off to cause a stir at Cancel Everyone Twitter and Clueless UK Comedian Twitter). One of them was even an actual major news story involving a trial and that, though just because something is covered by the lying MSM doesn’t make it any more topical than a sitcom star telling an anecdote about the Queen five years ago. So for the umpteenth time, here are this month’s top five things that make you a racist:
5. If you think racism isn’t as bad as it used to be you’re a racist.
Fact. You might be able to convince Scum-readers that racism is nowhere near as widespread as leftists want it to be but you can’t fool me, no matter how many government-funded studies conclude that racism doesn’t exist and anyone who disagrees can jump on the next ship back to Kingston Park. We see you.
Yep, I’m talking about the Sewell Report, the vile ‘investigation’ into institutional racism that offended everyone who read it, as well as several thousand who hadn’t. I won’t regurgitate the report’s fascistic findings, partly because they’re too offensive to repeat but mainly because I’ve no idea what they are. All you need to know is that it claims there is no racism in the UK whatsoever. The fact that it doesn’t is irrelevant, and if you’re tempted to examine Sewell’s findings with your own eyes before voicing an opinion that makes you a racist too.
It was also a kick in the teeth of privileged leftists who’ve spent years empowering minorities by massively exaggerating the scale of UK racism. Which is understandable because otherwise they’d have to admit it’s actually class disparities that are behind most western inequality, the very same class disparities that privileged leftists benefit generously from.
So ignore it, condemn it, call it the most racist screed this side of that Rod Lidl column about the black savagery of Welsh Muslims, but whatever you do, don’t read it. It’s not worth it. And anyway, what kind of government gives an important job like investigating systemic racism to an obnoxious art critic who died in 2015?
2. If you think it’s okay to cast black actors as anything other than boxers, drug-dealers, or pirate radio DJs then you’re a racist.
End of. You can moan all you like about perpetuating stereotypes and limiting black people to roles deemed significantly ethnic by middle-class liberals but I’ve ignored it all before.
Yes, I’m talking about BBC Diversity Guru Miranda Leyland, who recently made the alt-right cry with some so-2021-they-hurt criticisms of Idris Elbow’s deeply problematic cop show Luther Blissett, a cop show so deeply problematic I still haven’t watched it.
Needless to say Miranda’s bravery enraged Tory Twitter, where her complaint that Luther wasn’t authentic enough because he doesn’t have any black friends or eat Caribbean food went down like a bucket of Caribbean food. Yes, evil conservatives and gun-toting Republicans still think an actor’s skin colour is less important than his acting ability. Unreal.
Predictably, she was smeared and abused right, right, and centre, but it’s clear the actual problem was that she didn’t go far enough. Because casting black people in roles in which their skin colour is irrelevant is a huge slap in the face to modern progressives, especially educated white ones. Perhaps if more black people had voted Labour and allowed St. Jezza to unlock their talents it might be okay for them to play detectives and doctors. As it is, until we achieve total equality they should only ever be cast as slaves and cannibals.
No doubt this will rattle walking Bounty Bar Idris but he’s always been a bad ‘un. In fact, the only vaguely authentic black man he’s ever played was drug baron Stringer Stanfield in The Shield, and even he was considerably more privileged than most due to his marriage to white pop singer Lisa. Since then it’s been one sell-out after another: touting himself as the new James Bond, advertising Rupert Maxwell’s evil Skynet channel, playing a sodding viking in Thor: Hammer of the Gods. Rumour has it Elbow is such an establishment stooge he was even invited to Prince Edinburgh’s funeral but refused after the BBC Diversity Department politely asked him to turn up wearing a rastacap with a huge ghetto blaster on his shoulder.
Internalised racism. Plain and simple. I bet his cock’s tiny too.
3. If you see or hear anything simian-related and don’t automatically think about black people then you’re a racist.
Case closed. You can pretend it’s the other way round, that instantly associating black people with words like ‘monkey’ is waaay more racist, but you’re wasting your time because it’s not: you are.
Yep, inbetween the Sewell outrage and Elbagate a horrific video re-surfaced showing frog-faced actor Del Boy Jason telling a story about the Queen mistaking a foreign ambassador for a ‘gorilla’, shining a light on systemic racism in 2021 like only a thirty-second clip from five years ago can. Needless to say, it was immediately shared and condemned by hordes of self-righteous liberals, some of whom had even watched it.
The charge was led by Corbynite poet laureate Kerry Ann Mendoza, taking a well-earned break from penning the most moving pieces of prose since Yum, Yum, Bubblegum, Stick it Up the Teacher’s Bum. And her witch-hunt against an ageing white actor for saying something beastly in a video she didn’t know existed ten minutes earlier proved hugely popular, particularly with third-tier British comics annoyed at vile Jason for making more people laugh by falling over a bar than they have in their entire careers. Comedians get plenty of stick these days, but it’s refreshing to know there’s a burgeoning army of UK comics who refuse to take the right-wing dollar, demonstrate an ounce of self-awareness, or spend five seconds researching something before mouthing off about it on the internet.
All of which should have been the end of it: Job done. Career ruined. Twitter mob sated. But the gaslighting right couldn’t help themselves, downplaying Jason’s racism by claiming the ambassador in question was white. Which apparently he was. But as those of us who understand racist tropes know, the fact that he wasn’t black is irrelevant: so irrelevant I refuse to explain why. Deflect your way out of that one, racists.
Luckily, what followed sorted the true leftists from the charlatans. So the previously-brave comedians frantically back-peddled, either quietly deleting their tweets or conceding that the Queen’s comment wasn’t bigoted but maintaining that Jason had ‘made it racist’, presumably because they’re terrified to accept that an old white bloke off the telly is less weirded-out by black people than they are.
But genuine progressive values were exemplified by Kerry Anne and her warrior cult: the mentally ill activists and Kool-Aid Corbynites who point-blank refused to admit their mistake. Instead they doubled down, insisting that the real racists were Jason, the Queen, Kirstie Young, Will I Peas, the camera crew, the BBC, everyone who watched it, everyone who didn’t watch it, Boycie, Triggers, Mr Ed, Crappy Doo, and every single right-wing fruitcake who thinks there’s something wrong with assuming when someone says the word ‘gorilla’ they’re talking about a black person.
Clearly these loons learnt nothing from Roseanne Connor. Or Danny Barker. Or Alastair Stuart. Shameful.
4. If you think a cop being found guilty of killing an unarmed black man by kneeling on his head for 9 minutes is a good thing then you’re a racist.
Period. The Derek Thauvin verdict may have delighted liberals but true progressives know there’s no greater sign that we live in a racist society than locking up white cops for clicks. And that’s exactly what the racist jury did when they sent evil Thauvin and his errant knee to chokey to live a life of luxury in a cushy cell surrounded by pet mice, hookers, and copious tins of pineapple chunks.
Indeed, all the verdict did was reassure right-wingers that they’d eradicated racism and police brutality by imprisoning one cop, when everyone knows the only way to achieve that is to defund the police and imprison them all. (And yes, when I say ‘defund’ I bloody well do mean ‘abolish’.) That the black communities being methodically genocided by these bastards-in-blue would suffer even more if there were no police officers around is irrelevant. Take it up with the Republicans who created this mess when they invented slavery. Any unfortunate consequences that arise from allowing criminals to do what the hell they like is on them.
Thauvin’s conviction also sent out the white supremacist lie that racism isn’t as bad as it was in 1930, a lie made all the more vile because it’s 100% true. But even worse was the way it disenfranchised millions, denying poor blacks and middle class whites – but mainly middle-class whites – the opportunity to fight racism by smashing windows and chinning old ladies. What kind of society snatches away the right to set fire to electronics stores in black communities from the most marginalised trust fund recipients on earth? I’ll tell you what kind of society: this one, and it’s getting more racist by the second.
5. If you think it’s a white cop’s job to stop a black child being stabbed to death then you’re a racist.
No ifs, no buts, no coconuts. Because as the recent footage of a white cop fatally unloading on a harmless knife-wielding teenager demonstrated, there’s nothing more racist than saving a black girl’s life. And while we’re here, since when was black people not dying part of the plan? How the hell is that going to help us eradicate bigotry, destroy capitalism, and convince gullible celebrities that systemic racism is everywhere, cops kill black children for kicks, and the only way to stop it is by kneeling in solidarity with a crank-left street movement who want to abolish prisons and fill the streets with rapists and murderers? We need more dead black people, not less.
Thankfully, the media were onboard, instantly drawing parallels between Keith Floyd and the heartbreaking death of some black girl whose name I can’t be bothered to look up, disseminating the principled lie that the racist cop simply showed up and sprayed bullets everywhere as opposed to intervening in a knife-fight which was about to turn fatal.
Yes, that’s right: a knife-fight, that age old rite-of-passage for African-Americans everywhere. Or rather, it was, until whitey decided it was his job to stick his oar in and issue deadly lectures to vulnerable black youths with blades in their hands. Sickening. The sooner these imperialists get back in their lanes the better. And while they’re at it, would it be too much trouble to learn how to wound crazed knife-attackers rather than murderlise them? If Twitter SJWs can become firearms experts overnight then it shouldn’t be too much to expect a redneck with a badge to be able to shoot straight.
Luckily, the left-wing commentary on the sad death of Ma’Khia Whatserface was sublime. Because as all liberals know, the correct way to respond to incidents of the police shooting black people is to compare them to incidents of the police not shooting white people, such as racist mass shooter Dylan Ruth.
Like most left-wing arguments, it’s utterly foolproof. That the two incidents were wildly different and the police would have shot Ruth too if he were about to kill someone when they found him is irrelevant, as are the hundreds of white people shot by police every year. Equally irrelevant are the black Americans regularly apprehended without being shot.
Because all that matters is conflating two disparate high profile incidents by drawing inane comparisons disguised as incisive gotcha!s, while completely ignoring the sheer volume of narrative-upsetting incidents deemed unworthy of mention because they weren’t filmed and posted on Twitter. And if you think you can counter such brilliantly flawed logic by quoting tiresome crime statistics and arguing against allowing black teenagers to murder each other in the name of diversity then I’m afraid that makes you a…well, do I really need to say it?
The saddest thing is these five example are merely the tip of the racism iceberg, which is kind of like a normal iceberg except it looks even more like a Klan hat. Other things that make you a racist include: voting Tory, reading TheDaily Fail, watching Lines of Duty, shopping at Liddle, and being white. But if you’ve got to the end of this frankly bloated blog and still don’t know what constitutes racism then don’t worry, it doesn’t mean you’re stupid. It just means you’re a racist.
Now if you’ll excuse me, all this talk of racism has reminded me there are a handful of shifty Zios on Facebook I need to send some polite death threats to before lunchtime. No rest for the woke-ed!
Editor’s note: It’s been a tough few weeks for the alt-right. Or rather, a GREAT few weeks, if you’re one of those people who love outrage. And if you’re not then why are you reading this and what the fuck is your problem?
Either way, from blood clots to peaceful riots, the events of the last month have clearly RATTLED the fash, which explains why I was contacted this week by Graham Reaper, an affably psychotic right-winger with a hell of a lot of time on his hands. (To go with the blood of dead Covid babies.)
His uncharacteristically polite email asked if I would be interested in publishing a column he’d just written: a semen-splattered, toe-curlingly offensive piece detailing his anger at the left’s continuing fight against fascism. As you can imagine, my initial reaction was one of horror, but after giving myself a day to calm down, I got to thinking: my army of five readers need to see this.
See, it appears poor Graham is under the impression this blog was set up by a fellow evil right-winger with the intention of satirising the left, and that Ben Pensant is a made up character, like Titania McGhee or Kerry-Ann Mendoza.Bless him.
Still, despite Graham clearly having shit for brains, it’s always useful to see what we’re up against. Which is why I decided to publish his grubby missive as a timely reminder that the right can be every bit as sensitive, hypocritical, and utterly deranged as us. As Al Pacino said in Goodfellas, keep your enemies close and your Nazi weirdos closer.
Luckily, Graham is too stupid to know my real motive for promoting his hatred – obviously: he’s right wing! – which also means I can say anything in this intro and he’ll think it’s all part of the ruse. The Tory bellend.
And before you ask, yes I’ve already reported myself to the police for giving a platform to a bigot. Though to be fair, some of Graham’s targets are thoroughly deserving of scorn: it’s just a shame he hates them for all the wrong reasons. For instance, the BBC is evil because it’s pro-Brexit and anti-Corbyn, not because it employs women with funny names who make jokes about flags. And the problem with Alys Roberts is not that she doesn’t believe in Jesus but that she works with Tommy Robinson.
Still, you can judge for yourselves below. And if you’re in any doubt as to the kind of desperate animal we’re dealing with, consider this: Graham insisted his piece wasn’t published ’til at least 72 hours after Easter Weekend so as not to interrupt the Anglo-Christian tradition of eating chocolate for three days, rendering it about as topical as pointing out that Liam Gallagher looks a bit like Parker out of Thundercats. At this rate we night get a damning indictment of Emily Maitliss disrespecting the Duke of Edinburgh by calling him a ‘wrinkly old tart’ just in time for Christmas. What a knacker.
By Graham Reaper
It isn’t hard to find reasons to #DefundTheBBC. In fact there are so many I don’t have space to list them, but rest assured they’re all variations on the same point: it’s stuffed with people I disagree with. And not just people I disagree with but people I disagree with who wear sandals, eat asparagus, and don’t know the words to the National Anthem. Consequently, the Beeb’s output has become a constant stream of dangerous left-wing propaganda so dangerous and left-wing that it terrifies me even though I haven’t watched the channel since 1997.
From biased news ‘reports’ and woke soccer ‘coverage’ to anti-British ‘comedies’ and x-rated radio ‘channels’, the menacing socialist messaging is endemic. So it surprised no-one when yet another right-on BBC presenter decided to mark Easter Weekend by making an offensively innocuous comment about Jesus that enraged three people and a church mouse in the real world but reduced thousands to tears in the wonky world of Twitter.
This time it was pink-haired professor-of-something-or-other and presenter-of-rubbish-documentaries-that-no-one-watches Alice Robertson, who traumatised all manner of christians, conservatives, and christian conservatives by terrorising Twitter with the eye-poppingly vulgar opinion that zombies aren’t real:
“Just a little reminder today. Dead people – don’t come back to life”
Pitiful. And the most insulting thing I’ve seen on social media since Steve Bellend drew that cartoon of Princess Priti dressed as a cow, deeply offending sikhs, livestock, and fat women. But this was even worse, and not just because Alice’s knuckle-headed approach to punctuation made it sound like she was urging dead people not to come back to life. (Though it wouldn’t surprise me if she was doing that: commanding historical figures like Nelson, Powell, and Manning to stay buried as there’s no place for white male pioneers in the progressive hellscape envisioned by Alice and her muff-munching cronies. Anything’s possible with these satan-worshipping freaks.)
What made it even more appalling was the fact that Alice is supposed to be a historian. Please. A three-minute analysis of her filmography tells you exactly what kind of ‘history’ is peddled by this UK-hating little madam, with nary a profile of Wat Tailor or the Puddle Lane Martyrs in sight. There are lots of unwatchable shows about furry elephants, though, which I know are unwatchable as I literally haven’t watched any of them.
But when it comes to the Bohemian Broadcasting Cretins Robertson is just the tip of the iceberg, her disgraceful tweet coming mere weeks after two of her colleagues did a massive shit all over the Union Jack. Yep, it’s not just in the arena of junk science and pretend history where the BBC’s woke nonsense rules supreme. They really ramp up their efforts to indoctrinate impressionable minds in the godforsaken world of breakfast TV, aided and abetted by metropolitan elitists forcing their non-binary toddlers to watch the news while they conduct zoom chats with pony-tailed publishers, and shellsuit-clad dolewallers plonking their kids in front of giant flat-screens while they spend my hard-earned taxes on Space Raiders and smack.
And in this murky Marxist malaise the BBC recently showed their true colours, as two of the most virulent libtards on TV mocked hardworking Brits everywhere by – brace yourself – taking the piss out of a bit of cloth. Yes, really. And they weren’t finished there as one of them – a repeat offender whose foreignish surname I refuse to learn how to spell – rubbed salt in the wounds by liking a couple of lighthearted tweets laughing at said libtards taking the piss out of a bit of cloth. Shameful.
Predictably, it is now nearly three weeks since this disgusting episode and the BBC still haven’t sacked Charlie State and Naga M********. (‘Naga’? If she had any decency she’d be called MAGA.) Indeed, yesterday it was announced that the BBC and Ofcon would be taking no further action against the vile pair, a slap in the face to hardworking crybabies everywhere, and a clear message that our national broadcaster thinks it’s perfectly okay to poison tiny kiddy-brains by mocking a meaningless multi-coloured bedsheet. (Their victim, classy Tory MP Rupert Jenrick, also had a picture of our Queen behind him, which explains the unconfirmed-but-clearly-factual rumour that Naga spent the entire interview mouthing the word ‘slag’.)
As you’d expect, this ghastly duo were defended on the grounds that their target wasn’t patriotism but virtue signalling politicians: an utterly preposterous claim as everyone knows only left-wing people virtue signal. In fact, recent tests conducted by renowned social scientist James Delingpool proved conclusively that Tories are physically incapable of virtue signalling. (As are Brexiteers, Republicans, anti-vaxxers, gun-owners, and anyone who regularly masturbates over both Her Majesty and Donald Trump – often at the same time – and doesn’t care a jot who knows it.)
Thankfully, on social media right-leaning Brits pounced, demonstrating their dedication to free speech by demanding the BBC sack Naga and (proper) Charlie. Which is when the ‘sensible’ liberals waded in. You know the type – Corbynites call them ‘centrist scum’ and for once those crusty, terror-fanboys have a point. Because being left-wing is bad enough but being neither left-wing or right-wing issodding depraved.
Needless to say, these milktoast fence-sitters illlustrated their stupidity by accusing us of behaving like SJWs just because we clearly did. Yep, in the year of our Lord 2021, there are still people who believe that right-wing and left-wing ideologues are both hyper-sensitive authoritarians who thrive on outrage, identity politics, and putting people out of work because they said something ghastly. Which is utter bollocks for one simple reason: their targets are innocent while ours are wankers who totally deserve it.
But the main difference is they did it first. And if we’re serious about winning this culture war then we need scalps and we need them NOW. The fact that these scalps are actually the careers and livelihoods of people whose only crime is having a different opinion to us is irrelevant. They laid the first glove, they can DEAL.
As usual, what these ‘both sides’ wankers ignore is the question of consistency. Because we all know the reaction would’ve been very different if these two clowns had been mocking the Scottish flag or a blue one with yellow stars on it. (You can prise my refusal to consecutively type the letters ‘E’ and ‘U’ from my cold dead hands, commie.)
Because in times of war, you can’t simply criticise this double standard: you have to counter it with another double standard that says it’s perfectly okay to demand mouthy TV presenters are sacked for making jokes and spouting anti-christian drivel because it’s high time they were hoist by their own retards. It doesn’t matter that neither State nor M*******y have ever demanded someone lose their job for making a joke. Sweary scotch nonce Frankie Boil hasn’t either but we still reported him to the police after some ungrateful black harridan joked about ‘killing whitey’ on his shitty show. And Katy Brand has never tried to cancel anyone either but we still wanted her charged with incitement after the roly-poly lesbian quipped about throwing a poisoned milkshake at Lord Farage. Don’t like getting blamed for bad stuff other left-wing people do? Then stop being left-wing.
And it’s painfully obvious that if ‘Professor’ Roberts had tweeted “cows – don’t fly” during Ramadamadan or she’d have lost her job in a heartbeat. But simply pointing out this inconsistency is never enough: you have to also say how disrespectful her comment and accuse her of hating christians, despite the fact that this is exactly the kind of thing we attack Muslims for when they lose their shit over cartoons or Richard Dorkins tweets.
Fact is, if you’re part of the woke supremacy then you deserve the pushback. Which is why both incidents inspired social media righties to do what we always do when a BBC person says something abhorrent: we demanded former England rugby star Garry Lineker gets the bullet too, despite the fact that the World Cup winner-turned-traitor-to-the-shirt has bugger all to do with either Breakfast Time or rubbish documentaries about saving Woolly Mammoths. That he never talks about politics on The BigMatch is unimportant. We pay his wages therefore he should keep his views to himself on the internet too, just like Andrew Neal never used to.
And so what if Lineker’s political takes are fairly inoffensive opinions shared by millions of normal people? Millions of normal people disagree with those views too but I don’t see them speaking their minds on Twitter while pocketing millions from the licence fee. And if this juvenile tit-for-tat point-scoring does nothing to challenge cancel culture but simply encourages and inflates the whole sorry shitshow then so be it. Why should lefties have all the fun? At least our censorious antics are done in the name of protecting British values, like democracy, individualism, and crying like fucking babies.
As libertarian barrister Hal Holbrook put it, those calling for Naga and Charlie’s heads weren’t right-wing snowflakes, they were “ordinary Brits who dislike the BBC’s sneering contempt for patriotism”. Because as everyone who’s never met a normal person knows, ordinary Brits are renowned for demanding people are fired for making jokes. So while Holbrook – last seen mocking the size of Joe Bidet’s locked down inauguration crowd compared to Trump’s four-years-prior-to-Covid turnout – is the last person you’d want defending you in court, few legal eagles are more suited to fighting your corner if you ever get called a massive hypocrite for trying to cancel two ponces off the telly.
Luckily, the BBC’s refusal to remove the gruesome pair backfired spectacularly, leading to a serious, welcome, and boring-to-everyone-but-a-handful-of-opportunistic-media-whores debate on national flags, with the government sticking it to the left by vowing to henceforth fly them from all government buildings forever. Ha! They may be gleefully eradicating our freedoms with their pretend pandemic but at least they still know how to own the libs.
Similarly, Alice’s vile tweet successfully generated discourse and outrage every bit as tedious, as right-wing god-botherers fed up of celebrities trashing their faith proudly reaffirmed their belief in a bearded wizard with holes in his hands. Meanwhile, all those sad ‘normal people’ in the Real World who wish the left and the right would both go fuck themselves got on with their empty, nonline lives.
Which begs the question: how do we reach these dullards? How do we convince them that things people say on Twitter are way more important than friends, family, and Fortnight? The answer is simple: we up the auntie. Fortunately, one of the few benefits of multiculturalism is that there’s always something new to get outraged about, usually involving blokes in turbins. And with impeccable timing, the same week Charlie attacked the flag the auntie was well and truly upped as another group of entitled zealots spent all week demanding someone was fired for offending them. Only this time the offender was a teacher, the offendees were Muslims, and the thing that offended them was a cartoon of Mohammud sucking off Jesus. (Thank god it was Mo giving the gobble and not JC otherwise the teacher would have had me gunning for him too. Phew!)
Yep, the Battersby School protest was a grim affair. But on the bright side, the teacher who showed the picture has been forced to move house, which means there’s still a good chance he might get killed. Because if there’s one thing guaranteed to wake the masses from their selfish slumber it’s innocent men being murderlised by mad muzzies. But the best bit is it gifts me – or, ideally, someone else – a free pass to pop down to Islington-via-Salford Keys and behead Naga, Charlie and Professor Droopy Drawers. And if this seems a somewhat extreme reaction bearing in mind none of them had anything to do with a hypothetical Islamist murdering a teacher whose name I’ve forgotten, well, what can I say: They started it.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have important stuff to do. These 3,000 words on the BBC’s refusal to adorn the GMB coffee table with a permanent bust of Prince Phillip’s head won’t write itself…
Nothing excites the modern left more than women being murdered. (Apart from women being murdered by coppers. Or manhandled by them.) In fact the only thing that comes close is women accusing mystery noblemen of racism but we’ll come to that later. No, the death of a woman at the hands of a misogynist brute is music to the ears of leftists, especially when the suspected misogynist brute is a bastard in blue. Indeed, the only time murdered women don’t cheer us up is when the misogynist brute responsible is Black, Muslim, or an immigrant. When such fates conspire we tend to keep a respectful silence, wait for the full story to emerge, and focus on cautioning against the inevitable backlash against the Black, Muslim or immigrant communities: a backlash so inevitable it never arrives despite the fact that we really want it to.
Of course, if the misogynist brute turns out to be Black, Muslim and an immigrant then we have two simple options: pretend it never happened or convince ourselves he only did it because he once got harassed at an airport by a racist sniffer dog. Because as everyone knows, you can’t respond to a human killing another human until you know who the killer is. And yes, when I say ‘who the killer’ is I absolutely mean ‘what colour they are’, ‘which god they believe in’, and ‘whether they have a cock or a fanny’.
(Unless they’re a woman with a cock or a man with a fanny in which case it’s none of your bloody business who they murder, terfy-chops. And if it’s the former then all discussion about misogynist violence must be shelved so we can focus on demanding the assailant is placed in a woman’s prison and send death threats to anyone who calls him a him. Including me.)
So naturally the last two weeks have been the most joyous for progressives since that glorious fortnight when Jeremy Corbyn RATTLED the BBC by accusing them of airbrushing his beret. Because the disappearance and murder of Sarah Everard gave principled leftists a rare opportunity to do what we do best – exploiting dead people to score points against something we don’t like. Or rather, four things: the police, men, men, and the police. And men.
Naturally, news of Sarah’s disappearance was initially met with sour-faced right-wing nuggets predictably suggesting she was partly responsible for walking home alone. Which was met with sensible points from level-headed people attacking such rank victim-blaming. Which was met with a tsunami of rage from principled leftists furious that the narrative was being controlled by right-wing nuggets and sensible level-headed people, smothering both with the kind of hysterical scaremongering and good-natured misandry not seen since oppressed CEO’s daughter Caroline Criado-Whitehouse got her non-consensual knickers in a twist over a toy elf with teabags for knackers.
Because we can’t simply say women should be free to walk wherever they like without being raped or murdered. No, we have to say that every time they leave the house they’re dicing with death, despite the fact that attacks on women are mercifully rare.
We can’t simply say that the onus should be on men not to assault, rather than on women to avoid being assaulted. No, we have to say that all men are responsible and it’s their job to stop assaulters assaulting.
And we certainly can’t say that conviction rates for rape are higher than most other violent crimes and this should be used to encourage victims to come forward. No, we have to say that if you’re raped you won’t be believed and your attacker will walk free so you might as well hide under your bed because if you show your face in public you’re asking for trouble. (Which sounds a bit like what those right-wing nuggets said earlier. Or at least it does if you’re bloody stupid.)
But mainly you have to avoid saying anything with substance and churn out a never-ending stream of vague generalities then cry when you’re asked to elaborate. The most popular of these is the oft-repeated “Men need to step up and stop men killing women!” and it’s equally banal variants, “Its on men to stop men killing women!” and “If you’re not stopping men killing women then you’re just as bad as them!”
Fortunately, there is no duty whatsoever to explain what this actually entails. As anyone who’s glanced at Twitter recently knows, the age-old question “How does a normal bloke with zero superpowers or detective skills stop wife-beaters and sexual sadists from murdering women?” is the ultimate headscratcher: a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma, buried beneath a self-righteous tweet from a joyless blur-tick harpy who hasn’t a clue what she’s talking about.
Thankfully, such requests – or rather, ‘demands’. You must always call them demands – are easily batted away with either a curt “If you don’t know I’m not going to tell you!” or a link to that Mary Claire article on ten ways men can make women feel safe, none of which explain how crossing the road when walking behind a lone woman at night deters some other bloke from strangling her. The fact that it’s somewhat difficult to stop men killing women if you don’t know any murderers, are unsure where to find one, and suspect they wouldn’t listen to you anyway is utterly irrelevant. As is the fact that murderers tend not to announce their crimes in advance so every man in five-mile radius can race to the scene of the would-be crime and grapple with the beast before he starts slashing. Put simply, if you need this spelled out then perhaps the problem is you, not the brave woman demanding you fix something completely out of your hands because, well, just because. And even asking the question makes you as complicit as the animal plunging the knife.
Ah, complicity: the modern leftist’s favourite word-bomb in the war against people we disagree with. Because there’s nothing more satisfying than holding millions responsible for the actions of a minority; breaking our own rules to gleefully embrace our inner bigot and blame men, Tories, white people, Leave voters, lesbians, landlords, fishermen, glassblowers, and anyone who isn’t Black, trans or Muslim for stuff they had bugger all to do with. Indeed, when a marginalised Muslim does something naughty we do a complete 170 and brand anyone a racist who dares to tell peaceful followers of Islam that it’s ‘on them’ to stop other Muslims bombing buildings or raping children above chippies.
So it was great to see this cognitive dissonance represented in the various offbeat ‘solutions’ to the problem of femicide, the most principled the suggestion by Green Party Dame Countess Jones that a curfew be introduced to keep men off the streets after 6pm. Genius. Of course, the Duchess later clarified that her comment was actually an obviously un-serious attempt to make men understand how women told to stay at home to avoid being attacked feel, but not before scores of blue-haired man-haters and dick-tucking male feminists decided that it was a jolly good idea, demanding it becomes law before the entire female population of Islington is wiped out. They were joined by their equally gullible counterparts on the right, who spat fascist feathers at Lady Green’s hypothetical proposal. The difference, of course, is that leftists took her seriously because we’re Good People while the righties did it because they’re idiots.
That this came in the same week Queen Megan broke the nation’s heart with her tale of woe made it all the more special. Because as awful as Sarah Everett’s ordeal must’ve been, it was nothing compared to the trauma of marrying into the most privileged family in Britain. Sure, getting kidnapped and murdered is devastating but is it really as bad as being asked an inappropriate question about your baby’s skin colour by some unnamed aristo? Imagine the horror of learning that the snooty, archaic institution you’ve married into boasts one or two people with snooty, archaic views? And imagine being a time-served SJW and finding out your new family are every bit as obsessed with pigmentation as you and your befuddled husband? Sarah got off lightly.
Fortunately, Megan’s interview had a delightful sting in its tail, as it inadvertently left to wide-faced Tory Pierce Morgan getting the bullet from TVAM after committing the heinous crime of not believing a woman. Yes, really. Indeed, having briefly gone up in the left’s estimation after becoming a fully-fledged COVID scaremonger, Pierce spectacularly pissed on his chips when he countered a claim he didn’t like by saying it wasn’t true then storming off in the huff. (A manoeuvre beloved by the modern left but one that only works if you voted Remain or own a manhole cover signed by Jeremy Corbyn.)
Brilliantly, monstrous Morgan’s departure allowed OJ Jones to rock up to the TVAM sofa the next day, finally able to appear on the show without catching fascism from the former Scum editor as the producers replaced one petulant narcissist with a penchant for walking with another. At this rate, when OJ inevitably storms off after Susanna Reed calls him a ‘knob jockey’ don’t be surprised if they give his job to him out of The B-Gees who isn’t dead.
But as fun as this was it wasn’t the best thing to come out of Ms Everready’s death. Because something even better was around the corner: A protest! With banners! And singing! And coppers manhandling women! What more could you want? It almost makes me wish women got murdered more often. Yep, there’s nothing we love more than an excuse to descend on Hide Park armed with bedsheets and vacuous slogans. And while the fascist authorities insulted women everywhere by banning the demo, leftists were on hand to make damn sure the vigil turned into one. Which then turned into a mini-brawl after the Metropolitan police gave the activists hellbent on politicising Sarah’s murder exactly what they wanted by breaking up the peaceful wake and arresting several women for endangering public health via chanting in a park.
Cue furious condemnation from people who’ve spent the last year supporting soft authoritarianism but are now frightfully upset to see it used against their own. Which is understandable – when we said we wanted the police to enforce COVID restrictions we were talking about working-class idiots having barbecues, not Gender Studies professors using a young woman’s corpse to push crank-left nonsense.
All of which allowed us to drop any pretence that this was about Sarah Everest and absorb her well-timed death into standard BLM/Antifa-inspired narratives about defunding the police, destroying society, holding all men responsible for every bad thing ever etc etc etc. Then, abley assisted by various ambulance-chasing MPs, we fired the first volley in 2021’s war against misogyny by demanding a woman loses her job. Not that the Metropolitan Police Commissioner is any kind of woman, with her brutish demeanor and toxically masculine surname. In fact, if she had any decency she’d call herself Cressida Girldick.
Tell you what, Cressy. Why don’t you leave the protesters alone and solve some actual crime for a change? Because while your attack dogs were knocking seven colours out of oppressed RADA-graduates there were evil right-wingers calling people nasty names all over Twitter. Why not send your boys around to turn them over? Or save your heavy-handed tactics for the anti-lockdown protest this weekend? You’ll get few complaints from leftists if you batter that shower of shite. Because as we know, aggressive policing is only a problem when it’s used on people we agree with. What, you thought we had universal values or something? Behave!
So all in all, a terrible two weeks for Sarah Everlast but a brilliant fortnight for the left. So brilliant that even the unwanted intervention of Sarah’s so-called ‘friend’ couldn’t derail this latest progressive juggernaut. Luckily, the article her turncoat pal wrote for Tory bible Spike! – in which the self-righteous little madam criticised people for politicising her friend’s death – was largely ignored by the media due to its problematic blend of alt-right messaging and simple common dignity. Phew!
Though it was somewhat disturbing to learn that this is the kind of person Sarah associated with. Then again, we’re talking about a woman who fragrantly broke COVID restrictions when walking home alone, knowing full well her inevitable murder would force hundreds of women to risk their lives by descending upon a field in London to pay tribute to the selfish young lady responsible for putting them in danger. Hmm. It’s looking increasingly likely that her killer had a point. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was simply trying to make a citizen’s arrest when maskless Sarah spat at the poor bloke and chased him with her shoe, leaving him with no choice but to defend himself by kidnapping and murdering her.
Like all decent leftists, I watched Donald Trump’s impeachment hearing with the most palpable sense of impending doom since that time my mam put brown sauce on my fish-fingers rather than next to them. Okay when I say “watched” I mean “read what people on Twitter who hadn’t watched it but had read what other people on Twitter who also hadn’t watched it were saying about it”. But as every progressive knows, when you’re one of The Good People you’re automatically exempt from pointless chores like researching things before commenting on them, otherwise you end up in a grim netherworld where Rod Lidl isn’t a wife-beater, BLM aren’t cuddly anti-racists who just want everyone to get along, and the child abuse allegations against Woody Alan and Spacko Jacko contain more holes than a first draft by M. Night Shawarma.
So as the crack squad of Democrat House Cleaners revisited the awful events of January 6th we remained on tenterhooks, listening in horror as they presented extensive evidence that Trump single-handedly incited the riot, evidence so extensive they left it on the bus and printed off some Twitter screenshots with the wrong dates on instead.
Luckily, the vile sermon Trump gave to his adoring army of red-capped fascists an hour before the insurrection was enough to prove he was guilty of incitement, despite the fact that anyone who actually watched it knows that in amongst a boatload of tedious self-aggrandisement and endless waffle about stolen elections he quiet clearly asked them to protest peacefully. Luckily, very few of us have watched it and as any idiot knows, there’s no such thing as a peaceful right-wing protest.
Indeed, it’s blatantly obvious that when Trump told the crowd to “march over to the Capital building to peacefully and patriotically make your voices heard” what he meant was “dress up as animals, smash some offices, have a couple of heart attacks, and kick a copper to death”. Sure, the fact that these goons were already armed suggests that with or without Trump’s rhetoric they probably weren’t intending to spend the day holding hands on the White House lawn singing Give Peace a Chance. But we’ll leave such irrelevant speculation to the alt-right and call the carnage what it was: the most clinically co-ordinated coup d’etente since Thatcher’s fuck-buddy Augusto Pinocchio set fire to the Argentinian parliament on 9/11.
Speaking of which, even fake leftist Nick Coen had a rare moment of sanity when he called the riot “the 9/11 of the 2020s”, proving that while he may be an evil anti-Corbyn hack he’s just as partial to ridiculous hyperbole as his arch nemesis OJ Jones. (Though someone should probably tell Nick the difference between 9/11 and the Capital was that the Twin Towers deserved to get invaded by a bunch of weirdos with silly beards.) Still, at least he highlighted one of the most enduring examples of left-wing cognito dissonance: the ubiquitous idea that Trump, like Boris the Bastard, is both woefully incompetent and an evil genius capable of seizing power by brainwashing a gang of biker housewives and gun-wielding virgins.
All of which led to the day of reckoning last weekend, as we anxiously waited to see if the senate-or-congress-or-whatever-it-is would vote to retroactively impeach the orange beast, barring him from running for office again. Which, of course, was the whole point of the entire doomed-to-failure-from-the-start charade. (What, you thought Democrats actually cared about democracy, the rule of law, and five dead fascists? Do keep up!)
Still, I couldn’t shake the awful fear that the unthinkable was about to happen. As I awoke early on Sunday afternoon I opened Twitter with dread, my eyes stinging as the verdict loomed into view and the world changed forever…
Two words that will haunt me for at least a week. As the enormity of what had occured sunk in I fell to the floor, weeping like a broken egg. And they were the most satisfying tears of joy I’ve shed since that seminal night in 2017 when St. Jezza utterly demolished the Tories by losing an election to them. Because the last thing 2021 needs is President Pussy-Grab disappearing for good.
What, you thought I wanted him barred from running again? Are you insane? Trump is the best thing to happen to the modern left since that kind, gentle jam-maker from Islington decided he’d had enough of fighting fascism by supporting fascists and ploughed his genius into destroying the Labour Party instead. Trump is our Big Bad, our Dark Vader, our Professor Magneto, and it would be criminal to erase him from the conversation. Because without him there is no conversation.
“But he’s done so much bad stuff!” cry milk-toast pretend-leftists. To which I reply: of course he bloody has! That’s why we need him. Do you know what a world in which there’s no right-wing President to get outraged about looks like? A Rolo Emmerich film, that’s what. It’s precisely because Trump is evil that we need him around. Forever.
Sure, it would take days to list all of the heinous shit he pulled during his term of terror. Indeed, I originally tried to log it all but started hyperventilating by the time I got to “Mocked a disabled Muslim while force-feeding disinfectant to a Syrian baby in a cage at a Klan rally”. But despite Trump’s general awfulness, it was a truly liberating moment when I finally admitted what myself and millions of bereft progressives were thinking: I missed him like crazy.
At least the impeachment hearing reminded us how much we hate him. But it wasn’t the same as seeing him stalking the world stage, plotting to exterminate minorities with his psychotic tweets and uncouth table manners. And the fact that Trump didn’t even bother turning up to his own trial just shows what a pointless farce it was, so pointless and farcical I still haven’t seen any of it.
But the fact remains, we came perilously close to losing Trump for good. Which would be a disaster for the modern left. How are we supposed to fight fascism without fascists to fight? You might as well tell us Waitrose is closing down or COVID has vanished overnight.
Just look at the barren wasteland social media has become since Trump was booted off Twitter, with clickbait columns shelved and hysterical accounts rendered irrelevant. Worst of all, celebrity progressives have been left with nothing to opportunistically whine about, as they tend to be oblivious to bad stuff that happens when Democrats are in power. Because a shiny left-wing president rich actors love is way less fun than an orange right-wing one they despise but were happy to indulge, suck up to, and pose for photos with when he was just a common-or-garden privileged narcissist like them.
Don’t get me wrong, the left winning is always magical, and it’s comforting to know that when Queen Kamala takes over after Joe gets stuck in the bath one too many times we’ll finally have a President I’ve cracked one off over. Also, watching this delightful duo reverse Trump’s more problematic policies will be thoroughly satisfying. Indeed, given Biden and Harrison’s track records, don’t be surprised if they round up all the black men Trump pardoned and throw them back in jail. Which will be a joy to watch but it’ll never replicate the thrill of being permanently outraged by that walking Wotsit and his slappable balloon knot gob.
So let’s stop dwelling on how nasty he and his fans are and thank them for making the last four years such a blast. Let’s recognise that they played the game as dishonestly and hysterically as us and hope in time they’ll find peace, go to jail, or die violently. (Though to be honest I’d much rather they joined us. They’ve got the intolerance, crybaby posturing, ridiculous costumes, and creepy fanboy devotion to wealthy sociopaths down to a tee. They basically are us, the only difference being that we’re always right and they’re all Nazis.)
Because as abominable as the post-election meltdown was, the fact is the MAGA-heads behaved exactly like you’re supposed to when your team gets beat. And Trump’s last ditch attempt to play the good guy by refusing to accept the result and blaming it on a conspiracy was straight out of the modern left’s playbook. Next thing you know he’ll be calling voters idiots and dressing up as Wonder Woman.
Thankfully it didn’t wash. If he were truly decent he’d have done the honourable thing and let COVID-18 kill him. So it was left to his hardcore base to unleash their inner Remain-zealot: accusing people who voted Democrat of being brainwashed and screaming deranged abuse at anyone who dared to ask if there was any actual evidence to back up their claims.
But this was just the beginning of his copycat antics. Not content with feigning decency by taking the huff over losing a vote, he then had the cheek to incite a gang of protesters. Did no-one tell him only leftists are allowed to do that?
Which brings us back to the storming of the Capital. I’m sure I wasn’t the only progressive who felt a surge of envy and admiration as the tooled-up MAGA mob overturned desks and murderlised a policeman. They even out Antifa’d Antifa by chanting meaningless slogans and dressing up as extras from the infamous paintball episode of Byker Groove. At one point I almost forgot they were fascists.
Not that I’d tell them that. As liberals our job is to attack the opposition outright, regardless of the fact that if they were draped in Jezbollah flags and wearing Che Given t-shirts we’d be cheering them from the rooftops. And that’s exactly what left-wing pundits and politicians did, condemning the rioters for smashing up property, assaulting police officers, and intimidating innocent people despite the fact that they spent most of last year applauding rioters for smashing up property, assaulting police officers, and intimidating innocent people. Likewise, right-wing commentators defended these valiant MAGA goons, despite spending most of last year admonishing valiant BLM goons for doing exactly the same thing.
Because in 2021 you can’t be appalled at all bad behavior. No, it’s entirely dependent on whose side the people behaving badly are on. And for all their faults, the Trumptons get this. Indeed, in these divisive times it’s refreshing to see extremists on the left and the right bonding over our mutual hypocrisy.
Mind, even when they get it right they end up getting it wrong. Memo to the fash: if you want to woo the media you need a better death toll than four Trump supporters and a bizzie. And every time-served rioter knows if you want to make a splash you’re supposed to vandalise black communities, not seats of power. Luckily, this error gifted liberal commentators an opportunity to loudly re-affirm their erotically-charged love for the state. Because disrespecting democracy by invading a government building is unforgivable. Unless you’re a cigar-chewing South American dictator, in which case it rocks like a bastard.
Fortunately for them, they’d already devised an ingenious excuse: they’d been infiltrated by the other side. Perfect. Again, you have to doff your balaclava at such a tactic, mainly because it’s the same one we use every time someone gets kicked in the head at a BLM rally. Indeed, between our mutual bloodlust it’s often hard to tell who the white hats are. (We are.)
Thankfully, barely anyone in the media gave Trump’s voter fraud claims the time of day, and it seems the only people defending those MAGA clowns dressed as buffaloes are other MAGA clowns dressed as buffaloes. Meanwhile, incoming LOTUS Joe Bidet has already surpassed expectations by living long enough to be inaugurated. Indeed, reports suggest he’s so far only got lost in the Ovaltine office once, and is currently working hard to locate the missing glasses case he was last seen trying to ring This Morning with. Let’s hope Trump did the decent thing for once and left Joe a note telling him where his secret speed stash is hidden. Christ knows he’ll need it.
But not as much as we need Trump. So if you’re reading Don, I look forward to seeing you, your silly little hands, and your mouth like a clenched ring-piece back doing what you do best: terrorising the planet and talking deranged nonsense on Twitter. Until then, I plan to do continue reading up on the Democrats, as I was thoroughly shocked to recently learn they have an alarming habit of invading Muslim countries and locking up African-Americans. Yikes! And here’s me assuming they traditionally spend their years in government feeding the hungry, housing the homeless, and making rich liberals even richer. ‘Leftists’ my arse.
Luckily, further research has revealed that this is all misinformation: those Muslim countries deserved to get invaded for letting women drive cars and the only African-Americans the Joe and Lady K locked up are Republicans. Phew! Which means only one thing: Trump is back! Spreading lies, rewriting history, and partying like it’s 2017. What kept you, ginge?
With a bit of luck his vote-rigging claims will soon be vindicated, the Democratic party will be declared a terrorist cult, Trump #2 will pass an executive order allowing him to remain in office until 2045, and he’ll finally unleash that secret arsenal of genetically modified COVID-ULTRA he’s been brewing in Area 54, ensuring both Trump and the pandemic stick around as long as he has an arsehole for a mouth.
Now that’s what I call making America grate again.
Remember when acting was acting? When audiences expected actors to pretend to be other people? When ‘casting’ just meant finding someone who looked and sounded a bit like the character on the page and had the ability to do a silly voice if the part was disabled or foreignish?
No? Good for you. Because it was hell. Which is why Dr Who? creator Russell T. Hobbs’ recent explosive interview was so timely, with the entertainment industry in dire need of a progressive facelift after four years of churning out pro-Brexit, Trumpian propaganda, such as every single Marvel film apart from that one about the African prince who thinks he’s a cat.
Sadly, despite Russell’s brave, controversial, and entirely predictable assertion that only gay actors should play gay characters, it was another case of ‘right message, wrong man’. Because Russell was 100% incorrect. Yes, gay characters shouldn’t be played by straight actors. But they shouldn’t be played by gay ones either. They should be played by transwomen.
Why? Jesus, you might as well ask ‘Why is the sky blue?’ or ‘What makes Jeremy Corbyn so fricking awesome?’. The fact is, no-one understands the gay mindset better than a man in a dress. Despite the fact that most gay men don’t wear dresses. But that’s because most gay men aren’t true gay men: a genuine gayer doesn’t simply have sex with strangers in parks after spending all day watching Julie Garland films. No, such milk-toast behaviour is for those self-hating homos who wouldn’t know a real ‘queer’ if she flashed her hairy knackers at him.
Proper queers abhor these half-measures, because they know that sticking two fingers up at straight society requires a little more than just wearing tight shorts or becoming an interior decorator. The committed gay knows you can only fully submit to the LGBTQED lifestyle by caking your face in make-up, squeezing your pimply arse into fishnets, and booking an appointment to have your dick removed.
Because no-one gets men who love the cock like men who’ve had theirs cut off. And they should be at the front of the queue for lesbian roles too. After all, transwomen are basically dykes with better clothes, hotter bodies, and an extra layer of victimhood. And for every cis actress who’s daft for twat there are millions of transwomen who are also fully-fledged lezzas waaay more attuned to the oppression faced by gay women than actual gay women. How could they not be? Self-hating feminists whine about living in a man’s world but what about living in a man’s body? Try being subjugated by your own nut-sack before telling me how marginalised you are, sister.
As for transmen, they forfeited the right to special treatment the second they swapped their fannies for phalluses. See, transwomen have zero difficulty portraying men because they remember how evil they were when they were blokes. In fact, beneath their stockings and gym-slips, most of them still are blokes (minus all the toxic masculinity, obvs).
Transmen, meanwhile, have selfishly traded their victimhood for cold hard privilege. Fine, if it decreases the likelihood of getting raped, murdered, or goosed in the mailroom then good for you. But remember: you’ve made your bed. If you ever get bored of earning more than your female colleagues or taking up two seats on the Metro with your synthetic scrotum then by all means become a transwoman – you’re a man, you can do what you like. But quit moaning about the patriarchy after willingly mutilating your minge to become part of it. You don’t get to do that. And you don’t get to whinge about the abuse men receive on Twitter either. Try taking your hand off your man-dick and reading the rules some time, sweetcheeks.
But it’s hardly surprising normal people don’t know the rules when the entertainment industry doesn’t either – and they’re supposed to be the Good Guys! Indeed, Hollywood has treated minorities with disrespect for years. Just look at its tin-eared depictions of the disabled, from Rainmen’s problematic casting of Justin Hoffman as an autistic gambler to able-bodied Brian Cranston’s turn as a wheelchair-bound lawyer in The Downside, both of which were hugely offensive to flids and spackas. It’s no shock that they got bored of mocking people who can’t walk or talk properly and moved onto bashing women with penises.
Which brings us back to Russell T. Hobbs and his latest drama It’s a Sin! a series so determined to promote anti-trans propaganda it might as well feature a gang of four-eyed wizards and a fascist detective with a hair lip. Indeed, considering how the show stubbornly pretends trans lives don’t exist it’s grimly apt that it’s named after a shite Erasure song. In fact, Russ only acknowledges the trans world by putting two characters in skirts for a laugh. Because as we know, transwomen are just a punchline for the amusement of white actors. (Or in this case, a black white one). I’ve seem more trans-friendliness in a Two Roonies sketch.
Having endured all five episodes I’m sad to report the transphobia never lets up. Which is particularly disgraceful in a show about AIDS, which everyone knows disproportionately affects transwomen, along with Covid, cancer, cooties, and car-crashes. Yet Russell ignores this inconvenient fact, opting instead to pen a tone-deaf tale about how the virus affected him and his friends, as if a writer is perfectly entitled to tell their story without tokenistically inserting everyone else’s experiences in order to pacify social media psychopaths.
And as if the terfy messaging wasn’t sinister enough, Russell breaks his own rules within minutes of episode one by introducing Hollywood c-lister Neil Patrick Howser as an upper-crust queer caricature. Dunno if you got the memo, Russ, but Howser made his name playing a straight misogynist in How I Murdered Your Mother. Which obviously means he is a straight misogynist. And last I heard Howser’s Canadian too, though as he only stole the job from a white Brit we’ll let you off. This time.
But you can get bent if you think we’re gonna forgive you for casting Keeley Horse as a middle-aged mother in the early ’80s when she was only about seven at the time. No doubt Keeley never considered how offensive this is to women who were middle-aged mothers in 1982, just like it never dawned on her how inappropriate it was for her to play the lead in Tripping the Velvet. Keely as a carpet muncher? As if. She’s licked even less pussy than me.
But it gets worse. In a jaw-dropping act of self-loathing, Russell insults his own community by suggesting that some homosexuals may not be the most fragrant. Yes, he went there. Not content with promoting crude stereotypes and pretending that trans rights weren’t the most important thing on the minds of horny gay boys in ’80s London, he then inserts an eye-poppingly offensive scene in which protagonist Ollie has his first experience of rimming cut short after his brutish lover objects to our hero’s unwashed ringpiece. Awful No, not the claggy back passage: the vile suggestion that gay men are normal human beings as capable of poor hygiene as the rest of us and aren’t all fresh-faced cherubs whose bottoms smell of angel-cake. Unforgiveable.
But this is just one of several scandalous sex scenes that lay bare Russell’s rabid right-wing bigotry. An early montage showing Olly’s journey from shy fumbler to time-served sex-god sees Ollie sleeping with pretty much every character in the show apart the black one, Boscoe. Who also happens to be the only man who wears a dress. Well played, Russ. Racism and transphobia. Slow handclap.
No doubt Russ’s cheerleaders would defend this by noting that Ollie pops his cherry with an Indian – the same Indian who refuses to sleep with him until he deep cleans his dirtbox. But much like Ollie, this doesn’t wash. In fact, it’s clear that Russ chose to make Ollie’s first fuck an ethnic to spread not diversity but imperialism. Is there a more obvious way to celebrate the Empire than rubbing a brown man’s nose into a shitty British arsehole?
One only need look at Russell’s recent quotes about the sex montage to see where his grubby priorities lie: “It starts with wanking, which goes to blow-jobs, which goes to fucking actively, which goes to fucking passively, which goes to threesomes, which goes to…joy” It doesn’t take a genius to spot the omissions here: no nappy-changing, no tampon-sharing, and not one mention of transwomen giving each other tit-wanks. Is this that ‘inclusivity’ you were banging on about Russ?
Needless to say, the remaining four episodes pile on the hatred, the only attempt to curry favour with the trans community the non-binary dress sense of the aforementioned Boscoe, a fully-fledged Bounty bar so consumed by self-loathing he thinks nothing of bumming a Tory MP played by free speech fascist Steven Fry. You thought Russ’s only alt-right opinion was his belief that trans people should be exterminated? Think again.
Because as well as Fry, we also get the horrific sight of evil Zionist Tracy Ann Doberman, a kick in the teeth to Corbynites and a blatant attempt to spread anti-Palestine propaganda. Then during episode two Russ lets out his inner lockdown sceptic, as Ollie mouths off about how AIDS doesn’t exist and it’s all a scam to frighten people. Sound familiar? Russ should be arrested for sneaking such dangerous rhetoric into a family show. Because as any idiot knows, when a fictional character says something it’s always what the writer really thinks. You reckon it’s mere coincidence that Chris Tarantino is a violent racist who loves lady-feet and cheeseburgers in real life too? You’ll be telling me Steven Spielberg isn’t a Nazi alien next.
But it’s when people start dying that Russ shows his true colours by – shock, horror! – killing the jock first. There’s no way Russ is going to write five hours of telly without shoving in a ‘fuck you’ you to the SNP, is there? Why not go the whole hog and kill the Welshman too? Oh wait, you just have. Yep, three episodes was far too long to give a platform to a non-English accent so Taffy had to go too, despite only ever getting bummed once. Which is clearly Russ’s unsubtle way of telling us the poor Valley boy caught AIDS off a sheep. Nice.
But things get even grubbier in the penultimate episode when it’s revealed that the character Russ has spent the whole series portraying as a chirpy fun-boy is not only a Covidiot but a filthy Tory. And he still expects us to feel sad when the obnoxious little Thatcherite catches AIDS. Still, at least he has the decency to give us a tiny respite from the orgy of bigotry by killing off the right-wing shirt-lifter. Though not before an unrepentant Ollie confesses to sleeping with dozens of men after testing positive. Way to go Russ, as well as being a tinfoil hat-wearing Maggie-lover your hero is also a mass murderer.
I guess we should be grateful Ollie snuffed it when he did though: the last thing 2021 needs is another gay actor with questionable politics terrorising Twitter by politely expressing perfectly normal opinions and crying when he gets the odd death threat.
Mercifully, come the end the three surviving characters are all POCs, though knowing racist Russ he’s already excitedly writing a sequel in which they pay the price for outliving boss-man whitey by contracting Ultra-Covid and choking on their own vomit in an understaffed ICU. Seems Russ does believe in Coronovirus after all, but only when he can use it to punish fictional characters in a hypothetical scenario invented by me. I’m sure Boris is fast-tracking his nighthood as we speak.
But what makes Russ’s behaviour so disappointing is that he’s supposed to be an ally. Indeed, we all remember the good work he did with woker-than-woke mini-series Years and Years and Years, which respectfully represented the non-binary community by crowbarring a trans character into the narrative then neglecting to give her a solitary line of dialogue or anything whatsoever to do other than float around in the background looking all transy, divine, and mute.
Sadly, the warning signs were there all along. Russell’s breakthrough series Queer as Puffs not only cast heterosexual men as crass gay cliches but also gave a part to Charley Hunman, denying representation to someone who can actually act. Reactionary weepie Fred and Rose saw straight Dawson’s Creek heartthrob Alan Davies play a self-hating gay man sucking up to the establishment by pretending to fall in love with a woman. And as for A Very English Scandal, let’s jut say if you’re going to strive for authenticity in a story about a closeted gay man-turned-murderous criminal it takes a little more than casting a bloke whose sole qualification for the job is that he once got caught sucking off a trans hooker.
Stark reminders that Russell may be gay but he’s still white and male. And a Tory. Which makes him practically cis. Still, at least he’s trying to stop future generations of filmmakers making the same mistakes he did. Whether it’s chrome-domed comic Matt Dawes, or The Assassination of Johnny Versace star Darren Chris, there’s nothing more admirable than rich celebrities pulling up the drawbridge after achieving huge success doing the very thing they’re now telling other people not to do. At least his heart’s in the right pace even if his genitals aren’t.
But it’ll take a lot to forgive this latest monstrosity, with its never-ending parade of gay stereotypes straight out of a Bernie Hill sketch. The defining image is the climactic scene in which cross-dressing Boscoe sells out and reunites with his homophobic father, fragrantly denying his true self by stubbornly refusing to grow some balls then cut them off to become a woman. Like Russ, he wants to have his cock and eat it.
But this is what we’d expect from a man so up himself he thinks gays had it tough in the ’80s, as if living your life in fear and watching your friends die is somehow worse than not being able to use a girl’s changing room. Because it’s not enough to simply make a brilliantly executed drama about a deeply personal issue. No, you have to damn well make sure it represents and panders to every other group in the Big Book of Oppressed Minorites, even if they have bugger all to do with the story. And not for the first time, Russ failed miserably.
Still, at least we finally know what the T stands for*.
It’s safe to say a hell of a lot has changed over the last twelve months. We’ve seen Lord Jezza go from godlike PM-in-waiting with a bright future to godlike jam-maker without a party to piss in. We’ve watched a crank separatist movement intent on destroying capitalism evolve into a crank separatist movement indulged by the most rabidly capitalist industries on earth. And we’ve looked on in awe as brave US voters replaced an ageing white male who spends his days talking rubbish on the internet with an ageing white male who spends his days trying to remember what he went into the kitchen for. But despite all the monumental upheavals we’ve endured it’s comforting to know that one thing remains resolutely the same: Rob Liddle’s unstoppable ability to make fully grown adults cry like broken eggs.
Indeed, from urging brave Islamic extremists to blow themselves up to suggesting elections should be held on days when Muslims can’t vote, vile Liddle has spent his entire career inducing fear, outrage, and salt-free tears in that niche group of leftists who are incapable of spotting when someone is taking the piss. Otherwise known as ‘pretty much every progressive on Twitter’. Ah, Twitter, that glorious fun-free arena where every single utterance from problematic pundits is taken literally before being copied, pasted, and pored over in an orgy of outrage by people who invariably haven’t read the offensive column they’re oh so wounded by.
Needless to say, Liddle’s latest assault on decency was his most objectionable yet. And when I say ‘latest’ I don’t mean ‘newest’, or ‘most recent’, or any other fascist term we’re forced to use to denote something that happened a few days ago. No, his latest indiscretion was committed in 2012, causing such shockwaves it took a whole 8 years for some courageous bottom inspector to accidentally dig it up while tearfully Googling Liddle’s other latest assault on decency, a nasty column he wrote in The Scum last week which savagely mocked teachers for thinking they’re the most important people on earth.
So once this fortuitous spot of offence archaeology had weaved its magic it was all hands on deck, the campaign to inform everyone that Liddle once made a joke left-wing commentators didn’t like in full swing. As you might guess, the charge was led by Corbynite crusader OJ Jones, the Millennial Marie Whitehouse who not only wakes up offended but is permanently outraged in his sleep – just ask the fascist milkman OJ reported last week for calling him a ‘woofter’ during a particularly fraught fever dream.
The contents of Liddle’s disgusting column have been well-documented by OJ and co, so I won’t dignify his diatribe by quoting it, which is relatively easy as I still haven’t read it. Suffice to say, creepy Liddle began by stating he gave up on his dream of becoming a teacher because he couldn’t guarantee he wouldn’t ‘shag the kids’. Yes, really. This would be sickening enough comment if he’d actually meant it, but what made it even more objectionable was the fact that he was joking. See, Liddle is one of those deplorable alt-right beasts who think it’s perfectly acceptable to make jokes about anything, regardless of what Guardian columnists think. Typical. Just look at his name – if he had any class he’d be called Rod Waitrose.
Fortunately OJ played a blinder, becoming particularly enraged when Liddle’s reprehensible Punch editor Freddy Gay took to Twitter to make another ‘joke’ which creepily suggested Liddle has form for kiddy-fiddling and the right-wing rag’s staff are always trying to stop the Nazi nonce fulfilling his depraved desires. (Hilarious stuff, Freddy. I bet Nish Kular’s shitting himself. NOT!) Thankfully OJ kept his nerve, doggedly persevering in his usual joyless manner, clearly enraged that Liddle isn’t on Twitter and was no doubt sitting at home laughing his stubby paedo cock off at all the self-righteous fury caused by a silly column he shat out when David Cameroon was still a thing.
And on it went, OJ spending his day opportunistically raging about all the other vile stuff Punch has published, most of which he condensed into fun-sized, out-of-context soundbites designed to traumatise his loyal followers, safe in the knowledge that none of them will bother to actually read the offending articles. All of which positively buzzed with OJ’s trademark hypocrisy as he cheekily lambasted the magazine for sometimes printing dodgy content despite the fact that the publication he writes for has published numerous columns in support of jihadism, most of them written by OJ’s good friend Seamus Milne.
Which highlights a fundamental difference between OJ and brutes like Liddle. While that bigoted buffoon is too busy lounging around in his underpants wanking off to old episodes of Grange Hall to try and shut down the Guardian for printing objectionable opinions, OJ goes the whole hog, refusing to simply ignore things he finds unpalatable in favour of demanding his arch enemies ‘face the consequences’ for making jokes he doesn’t like. Which is where Liddle’s ugly sister Julie Birdshit entered the fray, steamrolling into the divine Ash Starkers’ mentions to ask her how old Mohammud’s first wife was when he murdered her.
Of course, she didn’t actually say ‘murdered’, she typed ‘married’. But we all know what she meant, her intention crystal clear: to spread the foul lie that just because the dashing Muslim fisherman occasionally took a well-earned break from spreading love and happiness to enslave and massacre people that somehow means he went around killing spouses. We see you.
None of which was remotely surprising as Julie has been justifiably loathed by all decent people for some time, mainly due to her racism, transphobia, and penchant for calling liberals naughty names. Her hatred of Remain voters is well-documented, and few of us will ever forget her brutal response to the report of a damaged six-year-old boy called Rufus tearfully telling his mother the day after the referendum that he was ‘scared of the future’: “That’s probably because you’re called Rufus”. Sickening.
But ‘Mohammad murdered Mrs. Muhammud’ wasn’t the only libelous claim Julie was propagating. For as well as smearing the peace-loving warlord as a lady-killer, she was also deliberately spreading the demonstrably true myth that Muhammad (PBHU) had a child bride. Luckily Julie got the wrong wife – it was actually missus number four who was a kiddy, you thick racist – which meant Ash, OJ, and everyone else spitting feathers over Ms. Birdshit’s vile query could ignore her point and instead focus on accusing her of racism for asking why a joke about having sex with schoolkids is beyond the pale but worshipping an affable imperialist who got hitched to a 9-year-old is perfectly acceptable.
Which it obviously is, especially when that affable imperialist is a Muslim. Because as we all know, pointing out that a Muslim has committed a crime is a crime in itself. Which is why the whole delicious spat saw liberal Twitter once again transform into a pop-up blasphemy court, as hordes of principled leftists gleefully went to bat for a far-right religious ideology whose prophet would wipe them and their sinful lifestyles off the face of the earth if he were around today.
Hilariously things got even worse for Julie as she was swiftly dropped by her publishers, who pulled the plug on her forthcoming book about woke lynch mobs by caving into a woke lynch mob. Bravo! This was followed by Ash politely telling everyone that the publisher’s decision had nothing to do with her and she, like, totes wasn’t bovvered by what Julie said, so totes not bovvered that she was considering legal action to prove how totes not bovvered she was. It’s refreshing to see that despite being one of the only ubiquitous left-wing commentators with a sense of humour, Ash is as capable of joyless, censorious grandstanding as her white male pals. Go girl!
But the best thing about her subtle threat was its cheeky timing, as the whole episode saw her and OJ’s timeline’s stuffed with adoring fans repeating the evidence-free claim that Liddle once punched his pregnant girlfriend in the stomach. This claim, of course, is one of those glorious things that didn’t happen but are regularly quoted as fact by people on social media who haven’t bothered to read up on them. The very lifeblood of progressive Twitter, the Liddle claim resurfaces every time he writes something ghastly, earning its place alongside such classics of the genre as ‘Woody Alan married his daughter’, ‘Child porn was found in Michael Jackson’s house’, and ‘Prita Patel once ate a paperboy’s face off for slamming her garden gate’.
(FAO newbies: Please beware that the internet is also ram-packed with bad lies, ie the ones circulated by right-wingers. These include ‘Gavin Esther called Leave voters village idiots’, ‘Sadiq Caan said terrorism was part and parcel of living in a big city’, and ‘Jeremy Corbyn was a secret KBG agent with knives for fingers who once set off a stink bomb at the Cenotaph’. It goes without saying that these things that didn’t happen need to be denied and reported as vigorously as those other things that didn’t happen are swallowed up and disseminated. Unless you’re one of those losers who think all misrepresentations are bad and should be challenged regardless of what pointless tribe you belong to. In which case kindly stop reading this blog immediately and throw your self off the nearest skyscraper. Thank you x.)
The Liddle claim – a favourite of Ash’s Novaru teammate Aaron Pastrami – is regularly repeated online with confidence, despite the fact that there is no evidence for it having happened. Indeed, neither Liddle’s floozy nor the investigating officers have ever claimed it did. In fact, what actually happened was explained by Liddle’s victim years ago:
Thankfully very few people know the full story, and those who do have zero interest in telling it to anyone. Needless to say, I urge everyone who clicked on the above link to erase its contents from their memories forthwith. Because Liddles’s self-hating mistress – now his self-hating wife – can bleat on about how her evil husband never assaulted her all she likes. It won’t wash. Dunno if you’ve heard, luv, but times have changed. As anyone who’s read the #MeTo rulebook knows full well, ‘Believe Women’ doesn’t mean ‘Believe ALL Women’.
The great thing is, when you think about it, the idea that Liddle punched his pregnant wife in the stomach and was let off with a caution is so illogical it could only be believed by someone who either hasn’t researched the incident or is incredibly stupid. Luckily, the brave freedom fighters who repeat it haven’t thought about it, haven’t researched the incident, and invariably have shit for brains. Phew!
Fortunately for them, Liddle has no interest in either Twitter or suing people, which leaves us free to libel him with impunity. Because there’s nothing more satisfying than knowing something someone once said has been blindly accepted as fact by people who spend their lives lambasting tabloid readers and Leave voters as fake news-guzzling dupes.
A great week all round then: a TERF scalped, a paedo exposed, and a few days of blissful outrage to take our minds off the never-ending fear of being killed by a deadly flu that 98% of people recover from. Lovely. Now if you’ll excuse me I’m off to rummage around in Toby Jones’s New Spectator columns from 2011 to see if I can find evidence of him bragging about beating up prostitutes while dressed up as a disabled. Happy hunting!
There are many beautiful things about Avengers star ‘Elaine’ Page coming out as trans, not least the way it beautifully highlighted the Hollywood community’s dedication to tolerance, diversity, and indulging the narcissistic whims of rich, deluded attention seekers. Indeed, the loud, enthusiastic, completely sincere applause Page received from fellow celebs brilliantly illustrated the lengths they’ll go to to ensure they’re considered one of the Good People, freeing them up to continue abusing carpark attendants and snorting coke off hookers’ tits.
Similarly, the gushing media tributes speedily churned out by clickbait columnists were a joy to behold, especially as most of them were clearly written months ago. Which makes sense as Page has long been at the forefront of Tinseltown’s exciting woke resistance, from accusing evil StarWars actor Chris Prat of supporting homophobia for going to church, to that jaw-dropping TV appearance in which Page tearfully blamed Mike Penis for the brutal assault on Jessie Smollet: a bravura display of full-strength emoting almost as genuine as Smollet’s claim that he was beaten up by two invisible Trump supporters dressed as Nigerians. Frankly, it was a knocking bet Page would hop on the trans-express sooner or later so it’s no surprise that ambulance-chasing hacks already had their heartfelt ‘Elliot Page is a MAN. Get over it!’ columns penned and ready-to-go, alongside obituaries for the Queen, Paul Gazza, and that EU Superwoman songstress who sounds like a melting witch.
Yes, that’s right: Elliot. ELLIOT. Not ‘Elaine’, or ‘Ellen’, or ‘Helen’, or any other icky girls’ name you want to pull out of your arse to dehumanise this brave young man of two weeks and counting. Needless to say, the subtlety of choosing this particular handle was completely lost on the alt-right, who opted instead to sneer at him for demanding the world pretend that the feminine young lady thing who touched our hearts as a single mom in Jumanji was actually a manly man who just happened to have tits and a fanny. Meanwhile, the rest of us marveled at Elliott naming himself after the child star of George Lucas’s ET, himself no stranger to non-binary sexuality having enjoyed a passionate love affair with a cute talking turd with torches for fingers.
Even more impressive was Eliot’s startling transition from cute hipster-chick to hairy-arsed bloke, which he achieved by ditching the lip-gloss and figure-hugging dresses for a baseball cap and baggy t-shirt. Of course, as Eliott has always been a man he was perfectly entitled to continue dressing the same as ‘Elaine’ and embrace his new identity by calling the police every time that bigoted old goat behind the counter in Gregg’s calls him ‘sweetheart’ instead of ‘donkey dick’. But few would deny the herculean commitment required to pull off such a jaw-dropping makeover. Indeed, it takes serious dedication to go from looking like an attractive young actress to looking like an attractive young actress playing a trainee FBI agent disguised as a jogger.
But the best thing about Page announcing that he is and always has been a man is the contribution it makes to society. Because not only does it help disseminate the, like, totes scientific idea that anyone can become a member of the opposite sex by simply saying they are, it also does a huge favour to black men, dog-walkers, and everyone who works in the service industry. Why? Because the demise of ‘Elaine’ Page means the world contains one less privileged white woman in her 30s. Who, as we know, eventually become privileged white women in their 40s. In other words, Elliot has made the world a better place by ensuring it has one less Karren in it.
Yep, thanks to the wonders of modern trans ideology Elliott can now relax, safe in the knowledge that he got out in plenty of time before the overwhelming urge to demand to see the manager every time he sets foot in an insufficiently air-conditioned waffle house took hold. And we can relax too, knowing we were spared the spectacle of a once-principled Hollywood ‘actress’ celebrating impending middle age by reporting young black men for snoring on planes, accusing young black men of stealing their own cars, and calling the police because a young black man stroked her racist labrador in an overly-aggressive ‘ghetto’ manner.
Luckily, there was nothing remotely Karren-esque about Eliot’s behaviour when he was ‘Elaine’. Indeed, ‘she’ was a time-served progressive and you never see them wagging their fingers and sticking their noses into other people’s business. No, that other person who isn’t Eliott simply kept ‘her’ head down and went about ‘her’ business, which mainly involved banging on about ‘her’ mysteriously undefined activist work, making increasingly hysterical chat show appearances, and turning ‘her’ seminal coming-out party of 2014 into never-ending six-year tour: a victimhood roadshow which successfully proved that ‘Elaine’ might not have been thefirst woman in history to find other women attractive but ‘she’ was undoubtedly the most oppressed.
But as JK Roland’s transformation from principled Remain zealot to genocidal TERF proves, you can’t trust anyone these days, hence Elliot’s decision to nip ‘Elaine’ in the bud before things got out of hand. I dread to think what could have happened had ‘Elaine’ approached being a Karren in the same passionate manner in which ‘she’ milked coming out of the closet. Thankfully, that’s all in the past: ‘Elaine’ is no more – if ‘she’ ever really existed anyway – and there’s zero chance of Elliott ever doing anything evil, despite the fact that he’s now officially a member of the 50% of the population responsible for most of the evil in the world.
Fortunately, ‘Elaine’s fundamentally middle-class woke values seem to have been bequeathed to Eliot. Indeed, it’s an interesting coincidence that people who experience dysphoria are often creatives who just so happen to come from affluent liberal backgrounds. Almost as interesting and coincidental as the fact that boys who end up on hormone therapy because they prefer Cindy dolls to Tonka trucks very often have parents who were already massive SJWs. Indeed, take any actor or musician who comes out as non-binary, from Sam Smithee to Tiler out of Billions, and you can bet your bottom dollar they were a die-hard progressive to begin with. Apart from ‘Bruce’ Janner of course, who was a toxic, violent Republican before changing ‘his’ name and having ‘his’ cock sliced off, at which point she was reborn as a sexy, ultra-feminine angel with no connection whatsoever to anything awful ‘Bruce’ ever did. (Apart from all the medals ‘he’ won, money ‘he’ made, and gay marriages ‘he’ objected to.)
But that’s by-the-by. For now it’s time for Eliott to look to his exciting future as a fully-fledged man. And in much the same way transwomen adapt to being female by baking, going to the Bingo, and tying their hair in bunches, so Elliot will waste no time in adopting male traits: fighting, drinking cans, scratching his arse, smoking tabs out of the side of his mouth, and taking the Racing Post with him when he goes for a shite. And once he’s traded in his wendy house for a power drill he can start really having fun by refusing to let his wife tend to the barbecue and mansplaining the Skynet planner to her every time she forgets to record Top Gears.
It’s all so exciting! I almost wish it was me getting my tits cut off! Not that Elliott appears to be interested in any of that nonsense. You don’t need to mutilate yourself to become a member of the opposite sex: just saying you are does the trick. (Unless you’re a five-year-old in which case it’s vital that we mutilate you sharpish before you change you mind.) Luckily, Eliot is a fully grown adult who lives and works among the dumbest people on earth, so simply declaring himself male is enough for his Hollywood peers to consider him as masculine as the next man, despite the fact that he neither looks nor sounds like one.
Thankfully the film industry is at the forefront of woke agenda-pushing, as demonstrated by the recent trend for allowing million-dollar casting decisions to be dictated by half-a-dozen deranged bottom inspectors on Twitter. Not that this excuses the shockingly high volume of alt-right propaganda they produce but at least it confirms that the brave few intent on promoting woke values and caving in to online outrage mobs are genuine, and not just part of one big financially-motivated ruse designed to ensure their product doesn’t bomb at the box office because a blue-haired lunatic with pronouns in zeir bio found out that the star of the new A-Team reboot is 1/8 of a shade lighter than Mr.Tea.
But that’s a battle for another day. For now let’s just rejoice that a one-time X-Man is now a full-time ex-woman, and savour what is clearly the most life-affirming event of 2020.
Or is it?
Because as beautiful as it is to see liberals everywhere propagate the scientifically sound idea that someone can change sex just by writing an Instabook post – and as reassuring as it is to know that the cis family unit is one step closer to extinction – no truly decent person would deny that the last thing the world needs is another privileged white male.
Indeed, some may even argue that Elliot has undone all of the achievements made by other celebrity trans fxlk such as the Matrix sisters, who selflessly did the world a favour by becoming privileged white females. Does Hollywood need another privileged white male? And not just any privileged white male, but one with knockers? This could set the social justice movement back decades, especially as Elliott has decided to put a female out of work by continuing to play a young lady in hit sitcom The Umbrella People. That’s right: in the name of social justice a white male has taken a job from an oppressed woman. No doubt he’ll get an instant pay rise too. Sickening.
And as for his timing…Jesus H.Corbyn. Presumably he thinks he can do what the hell he wants now he’s in possession of an imaginary cock and balls. There can be no other explanation for Elliott waiting until US progressives are applauding their first truly black president to announce he’s betraying his allies in such a problematic manner. Did you ignore the memo, Ellen? We’re supposed to be wiping straight white men out not creating more of the buggers. Why not just go the whole hog and give that bigot Trump a farewell gobble in the Ovaltine office? He’d probably let you too, the ginger queer.
See, this is the problem with transmen. Because let’s be honest, very few of them have actually earnt their victimhood. You rarely see them demanding to use male toilets, competing in men’s crotchet competitions, or taking beauticians to court because they wouldn’t wax their non-existent bellends. In fact, unlike transwomen they seldom get amongst it, preferring to keep themselves to themselves and leave all the heavy lifting to their hairier, sexier sisters. They may as well be white men. Oh hang on, they usually are.
But sadly, this is all too true of trans folk – male or female – who exist in the real world. Most of them just want to get on with their lives and be treated equally, and have no interest in policing pronouns, sending death threats to journalists, or encouraging children to disfigure themselves. In short: they want to suck up to cis society. And Elaine Page – yes, that’s right, ELAINE – selling out the LGBTQED community by pretending to be a white man is one betrayal too many. I can’t believe I spent over a thousand words talking about how great she is. I hope her invisible cock falls off.