Bad Toon Rising

The Tyne Bridge is once again put back together after drunken thugs tried to steal it last weekend.


By Ben Pensant

I’m often asked if I have any advice for people planning to visit Newcastle. My answer is always the same: Don’t. Unless you’re a masochistic freak who actually enjoys the smell of blood, freezing your knackers off in July and running the gauntlet of Leave-voting hooligans every time you trek to the city-centre’s only Waitrose for a Guardian and a week’s supply of kale.

If that sounds unappealing then trust me – the reality’s even worse. Because if you don’t own a pit-bull or a microwave there’s nothing for you here. In fact, if it weren’t for Chi Onwurah there’d be nothing for me either. Chi, you may recall, is the brave Labour MP whose response to the recent child-grooming scandal was to say ‘nothing to do with Islam’ repeatedly while passionately denying there was any racial element whatsoever to Pakistani men calling teenage girls ‘white cunts’ before raping them.

Indeed, as a woman of colour Chi knows more than most about the racism and misogyny that infects the pasty-strewn streets of this bigoted hell-hole. (Unless of course that racism and misogyny comes from someone called Muhammad. Which it doesn’t so stop mentioning it you bloody fascist.) Even Newcastle Athletic were forced to put white stripes on their shirts just in case the knuckle-dragging natives were driven to bloodlust by an all-black strip.

You need only recall the chilly reception given to Reverend Malcolm Luther X when he visited Newcastle in the late ’70s to understand this ingrained hatred. Following a successful speech at Northumberland Trinity College in front of a crowd of rich hippies – at the time the only people in the north-east who’d seen a living breathing black man – Luther and his entourage were forced to barricade themselves inside a squalid café behind Haymarket bus-station. They then spent the rest of the afternoon being force-fed soggy stotty with no butter by the retarded owner while outside Geordie skinheads threw bananas at the window until they got bored and kicked fuck out of that tramp who looks like Mick Fleetwood and eats pigeons.

The police arrived hours later, sending the skinheads on their way with a clip around the ear before dragging Mick Fleetwood into the back of a van by his beard where he stayed in solitary confinement until his early ’90s comeback. Luther was adamant the ugly incident wouldn’t ruin his trip and even took pity on his aggressors, famously telling his chauffeur: ‘Aa don’t know who dose folks are but dey gotta devil in dem!’ before hightailing it back to Alabama, stopping off in Hexham to draw a cock on the Angel Of The North.

Luckily, before departing Luther allowed his Nation Of Islam heavies to put a curse on the city of Newcastle. It’s no coincidence that several decades later the peace-loving sect would get their deserved revenge by subjecting the daughters of those foul skinheads to a prolonged campaign of slavery and sexual assault. Payback’s a bitch, amirite?

Still, despite my obvious and not-at-all patronising affinity for black culture, its customs and patois – I’ve watched The Crosby Show and everything – it’s my sense of duty to the Labour heartlands that have kept me here. Though I sometimes wonder why I bother as it’s plain to see that the soul – and more importantly, the suffering – has been systematically ripped out of these once-proud communities.

Instead of poverty-stricken victims waiting for a millionaire socialist to wave his magic benefit wand, northern towns are now chock-full of ungrateful class traitors with the temerity to earn decent money, own houses and cars, go on holiday every year and generally behave like autonomous adults rather than passive stooges serving no purpose other than to hand votes to gentle Marxists dishing out free money and Turkey Twizzlers.

And thanks to them there’s little left here worth fighting for. Because no matter how often Owen Jones or David Lammy tell them, the working-class will NEVER listen to people who know better. It’s like a mental illness. And you only have to look at what happened in June 2016 to see where this stupidity leads.

Because the proles rejecting socialism was bad enough, but to reject the diversity, tolerance and undemocratic bureaucracy of the European Union is taking the piss. Luckily by some miracle Newcastle voted to Remain – just – thanks largely to a small but passionate minority of principled, educated progressives; the same walking artichokes in tight cardigans and designer specs who regularly give Lord Jezza a rousing reception every time he makes a trip to the north-east despite the fact he’s spent his entire career opposed to the EU.

Still, Jezza’s long history of Euroscepticism never stopped millions of brain surgeons in blue face paint voting for him. And it certainly hasn’t stopped them giving the Dear Leader a rousing reception every time he jumps on a ram-packed train to Toon to be greeted like a pop star by devout anti-capitalists with £500 iPhones tucked into the pockets of their Che Guevara hoodies.

Put simply, if it wasn’t for students, lecturers and the entitled offspring of rich civil servants from Gosforth and Tynemouth this place would have burnt to the ground decades ago. Which brings us to reformed Geordie and Hollywood starlet Andrea Riseborough, who last week made the front page of The Evening Chronicle after appearing on a US chat-show and waxing lyrical about how ghastly Newcastle is. Her diatribe was so joyous I almost petitioned Momentum to remove her name from The List for starring in vile anti-communist propaganda piece The Death Of Lenin. Almost.

I have no idea if Andrea is entitled or her parents rich, though she did once say that her mam and dad were ‘working-class Thatcherites’ – the worst kind of Thatcherites and the most evil members of the working-class. And while this shouldn’t be used as a black mark against Andrea, it does make me wonder why at no point during her childhood did she think to make the world a better place by suffocating them while they slept.

But she more than made up for such a glaring oversight with that appearance on The Late Show With Jimmy Kimble, in which she followed in the esteemed footsteps of Newcastle legends such as Stink and Jimmy Spender by turning her nose up at the grim, insignificant shit-hole from whence she came. Calling Tyneside ‘the armpit’ of Britain, she went on to describe in graphic detail the horror of Newcastle Brown Ale, that vile concoction drunk by denim-clad hate criminals with corned-beef necks and feet for hands:

‘I took an ex-boyfriend to Newcastle and he was like “the whole time I’m here I’m going to drink Brown Ale!”. We were in a theatre watching a play and halfway through he was like (stands up suddenly) and he had to jump over three rows. It just kind of sits there and ferments and then you’ve got to pee, you’ve got no choice’

You’d be forgiven for thinking Andrea was talking about Buckfast rather than syrupy bottled bitter weaker than a pint of Carling, but the effect it had on her beau just shows what happens when the theatre class try to mix it with the scum of the earth. I dread to think what fate befell him later that night but judging by some of the zombified states I’ve seen falling out of The Black Garter, needing a slash before the third act is the least of his worries.

Luckily, Andrea’s fella was clearly of good stock, a bottle of Dog more likely to give him a migraine than make him rip his shirt off and start a fight with a Metro. But he’s not the problem. Because despite being only 4.7%, the grim alchemy that occurs when Brown Ale is swallowed by poor people and lands on the undigested remains of cremated kebab meat is akin to throwing petrol on a bubbling chip-pan. And like cannibals used to guzzling raw flesh and dry bone, the constitution of the working-class man is so robustly animalistic that this ungodly smorgasboard barely gives him a stomach ache, even as it melts his already-mushy brain. I hope and pray Andrea’s ex hadn’t eaten any takeaways that night and made it out alive.

But even if he didn’t, thank god Andrea did. And with a home in LA it’s no wonder she’s so at ease chewing the fat with Kimble about how great California is and reliving terrifying memories of her bleak childhood at the hard-as-nails Church High girls’ school in dog-rough Jesmond.

Which couldn’t be further from the luxury in which she and Kimble now reside. As the genial host smugly put it while grilling Andrea for more information about the northern slum she was forced to grow up in: ‘It’s funny because you hear Newcastle and you think it’s some shining city on a hill’. Far from it, Jimmy. There are plenty of hills in Gateshead but the only thing you’ll find at the top of them is another hill. And if you do see something shining it won’t be a sparkly palace but the bald dome of the man who sticks a knife in your cheek and steals your jacket.

No, the only city that shines is Tinseltown, which not only has the warmest weather and whitest cocaine but the most principled people on earth. People like Jimmy, who was so horrified by the revelations that a seemingly decent Democrat like Harvey Weinstein was something of a sex-pest he avoided making jokes about it for a whole week.

And this is now Ms Riseborough’s world too – a word where no-one would dream of drinking something that rots their bladder, where no-one ever eats pigeons or pisses themself watching Hamilton, where the only thing as debauched as a night out on the Bigg Market is a night in with Bryan Singer.

Combined with the comfort of being surrounded by a coterie of secret junkies and liberal misogynists, it’s not hard to see why Brit actors are queuing up to embrace the most virtuous place on earth. And with barely enough out-and-proud right-wingers to fill a Klan meeting it sounds like the perfect safe space for a modern progressive. Indeed, I’m half tempted to take Andrea’s lead myself and forge a new life among people richer, happier and better than me. It’s just a shame I haven’t the slightest clue how to act, sell drugs or wait tables.

Still, under Corbyn’s government perhaps there’ll be hope for provincial dumps like Newcastle, a town so in tune with the zeitgeist its flagship newspaper ran a front page story about an actress appearing on a chat show in 2016. Failing that, he may take a rare leaf out of the Tories’ book and write off the area altogether like Thatcher did with Merseyside. At least that would get working-class Geordies back on the dole where they belong and give Jezza and co. some fresh victims to exploit and patronise. Hmm.

I’m staying put. Sorry Andrea, it appears home really is where the heart is. And when that home is five minute’s walk from the dole office it’s a no-brainer. The prospect of PM Corbyn sweeping to power and allowing me to carry on making that sacred journey every fortnight is just too good to pass up. In the words of President Jimmy Connors when he landed at Newcastle Airport in 1967 to retrieve Malcolm Luther X’s lost luggage:




Fund The Pain Away

Stop Funding Hate bottom inspectors search for hidden hate-sheets


By Ben Pensant

Unless you’ve been asleep for the last month you can’t fail to have noticed Stop Funding Hate breaking the internet after self-righteously hounding Paperchase and Pizza Hut for doing promotions with newspapers they don’t like. As a result they’ve  been recruiting new supporters daily, some of whom have even read up on the campaign and its stated aim of political censorship-via-corporate blackmail.

Luckily, these brainiacs are in the minority and most of the liberals pledging solidarity with SFH know precisely fuck all about them. Which, judging by the warm words from progressive misogynist Owen Jones, Orange ad funnyman Steve Furst and Nick Heyward out of Heaven 17, is still twice as much as their celebrity backers. That a writer, a comedian and a singer are happy to laud a movement fundamentally opposed to free speech shows how thoroughly this moral crusade has enchanted the great and the gullible.

So I can’t have been the only giddily excited leftist who went to bed on Tuesday night like a marginalised Muslim on Ramadan Eve. Luckily, I woke the next day with a huge smile on my face, unlike the marginalised Muslim who no doubt woke with a bloody nose after a pack of rabid Leave voters broke into his house and had a shit on his Kerrang.

But what was I excited about? Well, Stop Funding Hate had tweeted that at 7am the next morning they’d be making an important announcement. As I clasped my chalky pink Momentum duvet, one possibility whirled around my head: Had SFH followed golf-loving author John Niven’s lead and arranged a mass newspaper burning? As beautiful as this sounded the truth was even better. For SFH had done what all liberal activists eventually do and started asking people for money. It was all I could do to stop myself rifling through my grandma’s purse in excitement.

Because there’s no irony more delicious than a group called Stop Funding Hate asking people to start funding their hate. And no better way to flatter censorious do-gooders than asking them to donate to a worthy cause. Luckily, few causes are more worthy than SFH, who announced that the money raised would cover the wages of a new ‘Community Organiser’. So not only are SFH expanding their campaign and creating a full-time job they’re also asking you to pay for it. I’d scream ‘take my bank details now!’ if I hadn’t been banned from opening an account.

By Thursday the total had passed £20,000, with all manner of bearded craft beer enthusiasts and non-binary performance artists telling the world how much they’d donated. I don’t think I’ve ever felt as proud of my fellow progressives. Because it takes brass balls to publicly chip in to a stranger’s 30-grand-a-year salary when you’ve spent the last 18 months telling Leave voters and tabloid readers how gullible they are.

And those who dug deep despite being skint deserve special credit, like my gallery owner friend who selflessly contributed even though she’d just given a nice Romany chap £800 in cash to tarmac her drive with a revolutionary new substance that smelled faintly of petrol and horse-shit. Fingers crossed the money raised goes further than those magic beans she bought on the way back from market.

So all in all a successful few weeks for SFH, who rose to prominence after Paperchase responded to being named and shamed by gifting modern leftists the thing they love most: a grovelling apology. And there are few better examples of ‘grovelling’ than promising ‘we won’t do it again’ to a handful of entitled cup-cakes on Twitter.

But this one was particularly gratifying. Because the Mail had invaded our turf: this wasn’t Clinton friggin’ Cards, it was Paperchase, where the aisles are stuffed with over-priced organic pencils, ethnically diverse colouring books and gender neutral wrapping paper fashioned from recycled elephant snot. This was personal.

A few weeks later Pizza Hut followed suit, withdrawing a two-for-one promotion in conjunction with The Sun after SFH and a handful of pitchfork-wielders objected to offering people free food. Their retreat wasn’t as adolescent as Paperchase’s but every bit as craven, apologising for any ‘offence caused’ by associating with a problematic tabloid read by problematic people.

Thankfully, this time the target of SFH’s polite harassment was an establishment their middle-class devotees would never be seen dead in. Indeed, it’s a credit to Pizza Hut’s PR nous that they chose to disregard millions of people who buy their product in order to please a small shower of cunts who don’t.

And who could forget the gentle, heartfelt and baldly opportunistic video SFH released in response to the John Lewis Christmas advert? The short clip featured a dog pleading with the megabucks chain store to think twice about advertising in hate sheets, presumably because its owners were too terrified to take it for a walk in case they were assaulted by a copy of The Daily Express. Needless to say, the video was a huge hit, because censorship and blackmail are so much more palatable when you add a cute boxer.

So on it went, as liberals who know nothing about SFH’s censorious intentions began loudly endorsing a group they’d never heard of a month ago. Meanwhile the campaign pushed on, publishing daily lists of companies advertising in the right-wing press and exposing the NSPCC for having the temerity to think asking Mail readers to help vulnerable children is more important than the fact that they once ran a cartoon comparing jihadists to rats. And it doesn’t matter that the majority of migrants in the drawing weren’t rats, a point the very people traumatised by the sketch repeat endlessly. What was equally heinous was the crude suggestion that men from the Middle-East often have beards and wear sandals. That a so-called children’s charity could endorse such dehumanisation is beyond the pale.

But before anyone suggests SFH may be undermining their own campaign by repeatedly pointing out that the Mail et al carry adverts from pretty much every fucker, SFH are one step ahead. Because they know fine well they’ll never achieve the widespread censorship they crave: like all the best virtue-signals, the joy of this campaign is its utter futility.

So while their commendably deluded supporters live in an upside-down world where Vodafone and Sony actually give a shit what people on the internet think, Richard Wilson and the rest of Team SFH are far more interested in broadcasting their integrity by badgering people for not being as tolerant, progressive and downright authoritarian as them. Hence The Lists, which conjure not only romantic images of brave Stalinists but also the Bottom Inspectors from Viz, a beacon of decency in an otherwise offensive northern hate-rag. You can see their influence all over Wilson and co, whose favoured method of shaming and spying is pretty much the SJW equivalent of bursting into proles’ homes and shining torches up their arseholes to check if they’ve wiped properly.

A job which SFH’s high-profile cheerleaders would carry out with gusto. Not least Owen Jones, a man who combines earning a living expressing opinions with praising a group whose entire raison d’être is to stop people expressing opinions. And he’s not the only pro-censorship Guardian scribe, with Dawn Foster appearing on Sky News last week to bang the drum for restricting press freedom despite her livelihood depending on unrestricted press freedom.

Because every good liberal knows that when we talk about press freedom we don’t mean the frightful Tory press with its habit of making social workers nervous in Waitrose. As a recent Guardian editorial put it while defending internet regulation: ‘…we are wedded to the idea of free speech’, despite the evidence suggesting The Guardian are about as wedded to free speech as ISIS are to free love. But what they actually mean is ‘the idea of free speech for people they agree with’. Which makes perfect sense. Thank god we have voices like Owen and Dawn to ram this simple point home while being paid to appear on news channels owned by Rupert Murdoch. Because this message needs platforms and Owen and Dawn have got more of those than Gene Simmons. Which explains why they’re happy to take them away from people they disagree with.

Luckily, thanks to SFH’s rise right-wing hate-sheets have been the main topic of conversation among Twitter progressives for weeks, which you just know absolutely burns them. Because there’s nothing tabloids hate more than being talked about. (Apart from immigrants, obvs.) Indeed, I’m sure they’re spitting feathers about all the free publicity and extra clicks they’ve been getting as outraged leftists access their sites to see what bile they going to spew next. And I’d wager they’re downright rattled to know that people who don’t usually read their newspaper have been buying copies on principle because they believe in free speech. Stick that in your pipe and smoke it, Dacre!

But even more important than Stop Funding Hate’s celebrity backers are the Twitter devotees, the boots on the ground doing the dirty work and pestering companies for having the nerve to want to sell stuff to as many people as possible. And you’ve gotta hand it to SFH – they’ve done a sterling job convincing gullible liberals that all they’re trying to do is politely suggest companies have a think about where they advertise. Fortunately most of these well-meaning dupes know nothing of SFH’s stated aims, define ‘hate’ as a Leo McKinstry column about crime figures and think Richard Wilson is that funny old ‘I don’t believe you!’ man off the telly. Not since the glorious days of Communist Russia have Western leftists wore the title of ‘useful idiots’ with such deranged pride.

And I salute every one of them. Indeed, the cheeky way SFH’s online patsies regularly deny that the campaign’s goal is censorship – sometimes even accusing Tory trolls who criticise SFH of being the censorious ones – is a joy to behold. And the mischievous cry of ‘it’s not about politics, it’s about hate!’ is particularly satisfying, especially when SFH are yet to pressure companies that advertise in The New European, a publication whose first front page featured a cartoon dog calling 17 million people ‘idiots’ and recently ran some hilarious artwork depicting Brexiteers being punched in the face. But the fact that no-one has ever accused The New European of hatred is both a testament to the way progressives are happy to ignore it when it comes from their own side and an indictment of the fact that most people couldn’t give two fucks about a rubbish drawing in a paper they’ve never heard of.

But give two fucks they should, because good papers influence the dumb and impressionable just as much as bad ones. One only has to look at The Guardian’s history of publishing pro-Islamist articles by the likes of Tariq Ramadan and Comrade Seumas to see how easy it is to fool people into believing religious fascists are actually marginalised good guys. But sadly, brainwashing doesn’t always yield results as joyous as victimhood being bestowed upon genocidal maniacs who want to destroy Western civilisation.

The insidious influence of the Mail is plain to see in every Brexit-voting shit-hole in northern Britain. And recently they’ve been getting sneaky. Only yesterday I had to stop myself glancing at the Mail in the paper-shop in case I was overcome with the urge to set fire to a mosque. And the paper-shop. Mercifully, 24 hours have passed and I still haven’t filled in any Polish builders but I fear it’s only a matter of time.

Still, as a liberal I’m always trying to Do Better, which is why in future I intend to avoid looking directly at The Sun just in case it incites me into committing an angry sex-crime because there are no longer tits in it. Also, in an effort to stop my brain turning into a racist I’ve decided to end my ten-year boycott of all things work-related and apply to become Stop Funding Hate’s Community Officer. I’ve heard the money’s great and the job involves nowt more than sending the odd outraged tweet to Marksies or Stannah, pretty much a busman’s holiday for me.

In the meantime, if Wilson is serious about going to the next level I’ve heard there’s an orange man in Washington with a mouth like a balloon knot who shares their love of silencing the media. He may not be everyone’s cup of tea but if SFH can get past the Muslim-bashing and bond with him over their shared love of talking rubbish on Twitter, President Pussy-Grab and his millions could be a perfect fit for the British left’s newest guardian angels.

Just don’t ask him to boycott KFC. It won’t end well.

#MeMe (Part Two): Land Of Valenti

Jessica, Emily and friends enjoy an afternoon SlutWalk


By Ben Pensant

Every heard a vision of the future so perfect you can taste it? It could be the socialist paradise depicted in George Cornell’s life-affirming 1974. It might be a world where Stop Funding Hate have banned every newspaper except The New European. Or maybe it’s the society imagined by Abi Williamson, where inheriting a house from a relative is outlawed because all property is theft you fucking fascist. All admirable pipe dreams but sadly, due to MSM brainwashing there is little public support for progressive ideas like silencing the press, forcing traitors to eat rats, and seizing dead pensioners’ homes.

Fortunately, there are encouraging signs that this may not always be the case. Take feminist fun-sponge Jessica Valenti, who has spent years taking the kind of rank misandry once confined to dingy bedsit book clubs and re-branding it for a mainstream audience desperate to view all men as collectively responsible for everything from rape, harassment and sexual assault to war, famine and the annoying way those new tenners stick together in your purse.

She achieved this by burning the pages of The Guardian with increasingly self-righteous musings on her three favourite pastimes: hating men, fearing men, and punishing men. In fact, the only people Jess has less respect for than men are women, especially dumb, uneducated ones: a constant source of disappointment due to their irritating habit of not doing what middle-class Rutgers graduates tell them to.

This is the feminist, remember, who believes women have so little agency they can’t even decide for themselves whether or not they enjoy being wolf-whistled at. And if they do – like Jess, who famously confessed to missing the fact that men didn’t do it to her anymore – then it’s all society’s fault for making them feel that way.

Yes, Jess has such a high opinion of women she thinks that due to patriarchal brainwashing they’re incapable of forming their own opinions about lairy builders admiring their tits and shouting ‘wahey!’. And with the recent revelations that middle-class women working in middle-class environments have not only experienced harassment and assault but in some case had their knees touched, Jessica has been on a roll, unleashing one call-to-arms after another.

And so it was earlier this month when Jess took to Twitter to comment on the prospect of innocent men being caught up in the sex panic frenzy: ‘I keep hearing that men are afraid about the sexual harassment reckoning, scared that innocent people (them) will get implicated’. I can’t have been the only liberal momentarily petrified she was about to throw her principles under the bus a’la Lena Dunham and make a sensible comment about the dangers of false allegations. Luckily, her follow-up dispelled that fear immediately:

‘Women are afraid, for good reason, every day. So I don’t care even a little if men are feeling uncomfortable or scared right now’. See, ever the equal-opportunities bigot, Jess doesn’t just want harassers and rapists shitting bricks but men who’ve done nothing wrong too. ‘Part of the problem is for too long men haven’t been afraid enough’. Indeed. Because there’s nothing more entitled than believing just because you’ve never raped anyone you’re safe from having your career ruined or going to jail.

‘Better men are afraid than women are hurt. Deal with it’ she instructed, wisely neglecting to specify exactly how afraid she wants men to be. But whether we’re talking Michael Le Vell/William Roache fear-levels or full-blown Mahad Cassim/Wilbert Jones, the point was clear. Quite how men living in fear will stop actual harassers and rapists from harassing and raping was slightly less clear but frankly who cares? Stopping sexual assault is the last thing Jess wants: without it there would be less opportunity for her to revel in the unadulterated joy of watching innocent people suffer. And who wants to live in a world like that?

Indeed, one future implication of the global sex-crime panic will be the inevitable day when bosses start hiring less women to avoid facing lawsuits every time a sexist pig micro-aggressively asks a female colleague if she wants a cup of tea. In turn this will contribute to the increasingly mythical gender pay-gap, gifting Jess plenty to whine for at least another decade. Perfect.

For now, Jess signed off on a note of empowerment, crafting a motto which every self-respecting feminist should have tattooed on their inner thigh: ‘In short: Make Men Afraid Again’. Wow. I bet right-wingers are gutted Jess was born in the ’70s – she’d have made a shit-hot McCarthyite.

And judging by that simple but devastating slogan her marketing skills aren’t too shabby either. Frankly I’m surprised she hasn’t been hired to work on PM Corbyn’s next election campaign. Can you imagine the magic could be conjured up by pairing her with the geniuses behind ‘Jez We Can’ and ‘For The Many Not The Few’? Sign her up, Seumas.

Luckily Ms Valenti’s a pro, which means she’s careful not to fall into the trap of saying ALL men are sexual predators. Indeed, on Tuesday she published a Guardian piece warning against such a characterisation, stating that ‘while the vast majority of rapists and abusers are men, they are an extremely small percentage of the male population’. This, of course, is completely at odds with the bolshy tweet she sent a fortnight earlier: ‘Yes we know #NotAllMen. But wow, does it feel like most of them’. I can only assume that a boatload of rapists died over the last few weeks to bring down the total. It couldn’t possibly be another example of Jess’s charming cognitive dissonance, the very lifeblood of the modern feminist movement.

Thankfully contemporary progressives are happy to ignore such glaring inconsistencies  because well, ignoring stuff is ‘woke’. And some, such as writer Emily Lindin, have taken Jess’s baton and gone one step further. Because Em doesn’t just want innocent men to be scared – she’s happy for them to be put out of work too:

‘Here’s an unpopular opinion: I’m actually not at all concerned about innocent men losing their jobs over false sexual assault/harassment allegations’. Slam-dunk! Predictably, she was besieged by misogynist trolls, blissfully unaware that the only part of her tweet worth attacking was the fact that this opinion is unpopular.

Like Jess, Em isn’t some fringe radical who spends her days knitting Trump voodoo dolls and sending death threats to Ella Whelan but an actual grown up: a blue-tick verified filmmaker and journalist with over 20,000 followers. Which makes it even more impressive watching her sneak her defiantly militant brand of entitlement into the mainstream. Indeed, to bang on about privilege while simultaneously being so privileged you couldn’t care less if someone loses their job for something they didn’t do takes extraordinary guts, as Em proved when she refused to back down:

‘If an innocent man’s reputation has to take a hit in the process of undoing the patriarchy, that is a price I am absolutely willing to pay’ she selflessly opined, cleverly ignoring the fact that it wouldn’t actually be her paying the price but the poor bastard who ends up unemployed because of something he didn’t do. Still, like Jess, her bigotry is consistently even-handed, hence her lack of concern for the effect firing innocent men might have on their wives, daughters, mothers and sisters.

Needless to say, Em was forced to close her account due to the torrent of abuse she received from sexist men and self-hating women too deplorable to absorb the subtleties of her argument. When she eventually reactivated her Twitter she took the wise step of slamming the idiots who misinterpreted ‘I’m not at all concerned about innocent men losing their jobs over false sexual assault/harassment allegations’ as meaning she wasn’t concerned about innocent men losing their jobs over sexual assault/harassment allegations. Alas, she was wasting her time attempting to educate these fools in the art of ‘nuance’ but the whole episode did give her victimhood a healthy boost which is infinitely more satisfying.

Thankfully, sandwiched between Jess and Em’s brave comments was the heart-warming story of Carl Sergeant, the Labour MP who committed suicide after being accused of an unspecified crime relating to the ‘pestminster’ investigations. Having been suspended from his position and the Labour Party because of accusations that the police deemed unworthy of investigation, Sargeant did the decent thing and killed himself, sparing his victim the pain of re-living the nightmare he put her through and more importantly, giving the likes of Jess and Em the comfort of knowing a man was both frightened and had lost his job. Bingo! That he went one better and took his own life made it a triple-whammy jackpot in the war on patriarchy.

We may never know exactly why Sargeant hung himself, or what he was accused of. In fact Sargeant never knew either as nobody bothered to tell him. What we DO know is that the second the police decided the accusations weren’t worth investigating it became the job of social media pitchfork-wielders to ensure the whole sorry affair was brought to its natural conclusion. And with the help of the Welsh Labour Party it most certainly was, though it’s unfortunate that this natural conclusion involved a father of two ending his life: I’d have preferred him to stay alive so we could shame him for the rest of his days. Still, as Em put it ‘…the impact on victims FAR outweighs the loss of any one man’s reputation’. And when the patriarchy is finally dismantled I’m sure Sargeant’s widow and children will be proud of the small but vital role he played.

Not that Jess and Em are okay with innocent men suffering, mind, despite repeatedly saying they’re okay with innocent men suffering. In fact this is literally impossible as there’s no such thing as innocent men. Because even those who’ve never harassed, assaulted or raped anyone are complicit. As Susie Boniface of The Daily  Mirror – AKA Fleet Street Fuckwit – wrote in October: ‘Most of them do not behave like pigs but admire, just a little bit, the men who do’. Like most privileged white males I thought I’d always despised men like Weinstein. It was illuminating to find out I secretly looked up to them (just a little bit).

Thankfully Susie is merely the tip of the iceberg. Because as we speak, misandrists everywhere are bravely exploiting sexual assault victims in order to demonise the 50% of the population incapable of working alongside women without flashing their cocks. Only last week saw the emergence of Kate Morgan, another blue-ticked activist-cum-role model for millennial man-haters, who electrified Twitter with a series of perfectly pitched one-shots culminating in her magnum opus ‘If you have a penis then you probably deserve murdering’. A bold sentiment and one re-tweeted with glee by the same people who would gladly report a man for hate speech if he so much asked them the time.

But despite all this admirable vitriol, the current trend for misandry goes way beyond simply hating blokes and wanting to kill them. There’s a very good reason Jessica, Emily et al are so horrified by the revelation that the film, media and politics worlds are full of rapists and harassers: because these are their worlds, largely occupied by educated, middle-class liberals who sound just like them. Which begs the question, if sexual assault is rife among the elites, what sort of depravity is going on in working-class circles? If educated rich leftists can moonlight as powerful bullies who enjoy wanking off into plant-pots god knows how many of these savages exist in the grim wastelands of Brexit Britain

Because if good people like Charlie Rose and Rupert Myers are getting up to no good it stands to reason the genetically inferior proles are ten times worse. And trust me, the worst excesses of the average provincial misogynist would make even President Pussy-Grab look like a choir boy. Thankfully, since voting to leave the EU the working-class are dead to progressives. We’ve got more important stuff to deal with, like boycotting Paperchase and policing pronouns. The hoi polloi made their nativist bed, they can bloody well sleep in it.

And anyway, who ever heard of a working-class community being blighted by widespread sexual assault? If that was going on Jess and Em would have written something about it by now, silly.

#MeMe (Part One): Lenny And The Gets

Meryl Streep dressed as a traitor, yesterday.


By Ben Pensant

Unless you’ve spent the last two months living under a rock, trapped in a basement or unfairly incarcerated for repeatedly breaching the conditions of an evil BBC journalist’s restraining order, you’ll have noticed that since the Harvey Weinstein scandal broke misandry has never been more in vogue. And for that matter, in Vogue. So in celebration of this exciting new development I’ve spent my enforced down time monitoring the principled feminist reaction to the barrage of sexual assault claims against all manner of rich, powerful Zionists. It made for inspirational reading but as ever, there’s always one so-called female who lets the side down. And no-one was more shocked than me that it was neither a TERF nor Katie Hopkins but someone who really should know better. So before I laud the ladies who got their reactions absolutely right, in the first installment of a two-part analysis I focus on a Girl who got hers horribly wrong

There are few things more depressing than good people going bad. I cried for days when Owen Jones betrayed the Dear Leader, still have nightmares about Laci Green’s transformation from deluded child into sensible young woman, and don’t even want to think about how many pain-wanks I’ve had since finding out Morrissey supports Brexit.

But as disturbing as the above all were – and I still suffer from flashbacks, panic attacks and awkward semi-ons every time I hear Hand In Glove – nothing prepared me for the horror of finding out last week that a woman who has done more than most to promote left-wing authoritarianism had contrived to offend liberals worldwide. And in much the same way Morrissey’s music is now forever tarnished by his racist respect for democracy, I fear that thanks to Lena Dunham’s latest indiscretion I may never again be able to watch her get her fadge out on the telly without throwing up.

Because despite being a leading voice in the exciting new era of post-Weinstein hysteria, it appears something sinister has happened to Dunham, with rumours suggesting her disgraceful volte-face was caused by everything from CIA infiltration to Mossad mind-tricks. So after months of comments re-affirming her belief that ALL women who make sexual assault accusations should be believed, Lena took the jaw-dropping step of defending Girls writer Murray Mint after he was accused of rape by some actress, in the process throwing her principles under the bus in the name of protecting the hateful concept of ‘innocent until proven guilty’.

I can only assume Lena temporarily forgot about the earth-shattering revelation that a fat Hollywood billionaire with a long history of bullying and intimidation is also something of a sex-pest. Perhaps she’s suddenly oblivious to the fact that we live in a world where men lurk in stationery cupboards rubbing their willies on the knees of female journalists. Maybe she has erased all knowledge of her own abuse at the hands of her older brother who famously amused himself as a toddler by shoving pebbles up her arse. We may never know but dear god, there must be some reason why now of all times the previously unimpeachable Ms Dunham has decided to eschew social justice in favour of the white supremacist tool known as due process.

For the uninitiated, this outdated ‘principle’ has been allowing innocent men to have fair trials for centuries and is widely viewed as an ugly anachronism best consigned to the dustbin of history with slavery, capitalism and freedom of speech. Why would any self-respecting progressive let the law determine a man’s guilt or innocence when social media does a far superior job?

That someone previously regarded as an ally could arrogantly assume she knows a colleague better than the Twitter pitchfork-wielders who had never heard of him ’til last week is sickening. And to not only believe her white male friend is innocent until proven guilty but to publicly announce it is jaw-dropping. I tell you what, Lena, if you really want to piss off your fans why not just put a Trump mask on and livestream yourself masturbating over a photo of Milo Papadopoulos? It couldn’t be any less violent than disseminating the offensive idea that a man might not be a rapist.

Luckily social media wasn’t about to let her get away with such hateful rhetoric and responded immediately, pointing to the following tweet Dunham posted in August: ‘Things women don’t lie about: rape’. This common-sense position was of course contradicted wholesale by her insinuation that the actress accusing Mellor of rape is lying. The outrage that greeted her betrayal illustrates beautifully how the values of the modern left are so robust that to believe a friend is innocent is regarded as far worse than assuming he’s guilty because he has a cock and balls.

So Lena has no-one to blame but herself for the vitriol she incited, which culminated in writer Zinzi Clemmons resigning from Dunham’s Lenny Letter, horrified that a fellow woman could entertain the laughable notion that a man accused of rape might not be guilty. Understandably, Clemmons’ resignation came via a sincere, heartfelt and boldly opportunistic press release which also threw in accusations of ‘ironic racism’ – the very worst kind.

Clemmons’ statement spoke movingly about her time at Oberon college, a dark period in which Lena lead a clique of funny, creative, mildly retarded socialites fond of making racist jokes. It made for grim reading and it’s a measure of how traumatic those days must have been for Clemmons that she bravely soldiered on and didn’t let the painful experience stop her taking a job with Dunham and working with her for two years.

Needless to say, Clemmons’ missive garnered social media adulation worldwide. Indeed, it was exactly the kind of social justice pile-on Lena would have supported with gusto it were someone other than her being witch-hunted. Sadly, the old Lena is long gone. Sure, she showed her face a day later when a piss-weak apology was put out but it was all too late, her  reputation already down the toilet. And with it all the good work the old Lena has been doing for years: branding women who voted for Trump as ‘traitors’, calling for gendered language to be banned, speaking out against the scourge of campus canteens serving sushi, and trying to get two air stewardesses fired for having a private conversation about transgender children within earshot of Lady Shite.

Which is frankly tragic. Luckily the vast majority of modern liberals are as principled as Lena is treacherous, as proven by the blanket condemnation she received. That progressive females worldwide can look at the following statements – ‘women never lie about rape’ and ‘okay, sometimes they do’ – and all agree that the second one is the most ridiculous tells you all you need to know about the ethics of contemporary feminism.

Of course, there’s every chance she may be shown mercy. As illustrated by the ecstatic response to Paperchase’s arse falling out after a handful of middle-class cry-babies objected to them doing a promotion with the Daily Mail, grovelling, saying ‘sorry’ and swallowing your self-respect is a sure-fire way to earn the left’s unconditional love.

But Lena’s crime may be harder to forgive than most, especially as this whole sorry saga could have been avoided if she’d remembered that a man’s guilt or innocence depends not just on his political persuasion but that of his accuser too. A rule brilliantly adhered to by the American progressives who rushed to social media to defend comedian-turned-Democrat senator Al Frankenstein after he was accused of sexual assault by several women (including former model LeeAnn Tweeden) the most principled of which was this nail-on-head comment from feminist writer Vivien Copeland:

‘The jury’s still out on Tweeden and Franken’ she began, cleverly mirroring standard misogynist tropes by suggesting Al’s accuser is as much on trial as him, before confirming that, actually, the jury is anything but out. ‘Here are some picture from her FB and IG pages’ Copeland purred, letting the vile images speak for themselves: Tweeden at a shooting range, Tweeden on the cover of Playboy, Tweeden posing with two Donald Trump badges covering her nipples

‘Hardly the bespectacled frump she portrayed on TV. She’s a Playboy Playmate, a gun fanatic, and a Trump supporter. You decide’. As if we hadn’t already, Viv. The mssage was crystal clear: Believe women. ALL women. Unless they voted for Trump, own a rifle or take their clothes off for a living. Such a simple rule of thumb yet one that sadly evaded Lena when she needed it most.

All of which means the Queen of Brooklyn will have to work extra hard to regain her seat at the SJW top table. Right-wing trolls say leftists live in an echo chamber and only listen to people who look and sound like us but the ease with which we’ll victimise and cast out our own proves that is utter hogwash. If Lena is serious about getting back in the regressive good books the only option is to double-down and become even more of a spoilt censorious authoritarian than she was before. No mean feat but eminently possible if her spineless apology is anything to go by.

However, we shouldn’t lose heart. Lena may have gone off the reservation but thankfully there are still plenty of metropolitan feminists willing to risk their lives in the name of telling women what to think and who to believe. And a pleasant surprise has been the reaction of male comrades who despite being inherently evil (especially the white ones) have spent the last two months loudly apologising for the crimes of other people: a process of self-abasement which involves saying three Hail Hillarys, promising to Do Better and vowing to show solidarity with the oppressed by sitting down every time you go for a piss.

That these tend to be the same men who would report someone for hate crime if they so much as hinted that more moderate Muslims should denounce terrorism shows the kind of moral fibre we’re dealing with. Because Muslims – like blacks, gays, transwomen and anyone else who isn’t a cis-gendered piece of white, privileged shit – can’t be expected to take responsibility for stuff they didn’t do. You can’t hold them to the same ridiculous standards as the Evil West: they’re too marginalised, too full of anger, too liable to flip and join a terrorist organisation who rape children and throw homosexuals off tower blocks.

And despite making up 50% of the population, in the eyes of radicals women have now acquired minority status, earning a permanent place at the business end of the Victimhood League Table. Hence the emergence of the Male Ally, prostrating himself on Twitter, screaming ‘I’m guilty!’ to anyone who’ll listen and praying that some day one of the blue-haired goddesses he’s desperate to impress will let him sleep with her if promises to read Pam Greer’s back catalogue and report himself to the police for assault the second he’s finished wiping his bell-end on the duvet.

But let’s not forget who this is really about: women. And not just the ones who’ve been assaulted. Because let’s be honest, victims of sex-crime are far less important than the media starlets fighting their corner, many of whom are so traumatised by maleness they think a man shaking their hand is an act of sexual violence on par with getting slapped on the fanny.

And while Lena may have committed the heinous crime of briefly behaving like an adult who understands the difference between facts and allegations, in part two of my celebration of everything great about modern feminism I will focus on the brave ladies for whom hearing an innocent man apologise is simply not enough.

Be afraid, fellas. Be very afraid.




When A Man Loathes A Woman

President Pussy-Grab stalks his latest victim


By Ben Pensant

Donald Trump has done some truly despicable things. From deporting transgender soldiers to mocking a disabled beauty queen, from building a wall around Charlottesville to grabbing his daughter’s pussy, there are few depths this dangerous pillock hasn’t plumbed in the name of white supremacy.

Yet just when we think he can’t stoop any lower he horrifies us again with his alarming capacity for perversion. And so it was last week when his latest outrage sent shock waves through college campuses and dinner parties throughout the land.

Because while US pundits were fretting about jobs, hurricanes and the imminent Nazi apocalypse, Trump was pulling off his most disgusting trick yet. No, not pardoning a racist sheriff with a penchant for chain-gangs. Not engaging in a pissing contest with a pint-sized Bond villain fond of launching missiles over neighbouring countries for a laugh. And not telling football clubs to sack players for kneeling during the national anthem as part of a widespread protest no-one outside of the White House and the Huffington Post give two shits about.

Amazingly, Trump sunk to this most recent nadir via EVEN MORE illiberal means. For when no-one was looking he offended women and right-thinking liberals everywhere by – brace yourselves – tweeting a dumb gif showing Hillary Clinton being hit on the head with a golf ball.

(Apparently he also gave a speech at the UN or somewhere which I’m certain was racist and offensive despite not having heard it or even knowing what it was about. But like my educated, liberal friends who I regularly send these columns to, I don’t need to actually read something to know it’s racist and offensive and make smug comments about it.)

That the leader of the free world deems it acceptable to make fun of a woman being assaulted with a golf ball when everyday women worldwide are assaulted with with golf balls is sickening. Luckily, the media aired their disgust, with principled voices from CNN to The Guardian lambasting Trump’s toxic masculinity and accusing him of glorifying violence against women. The fact that many of the same outraged voices reporting him to Twitter were eerily silent when weird-voiced fraggle Kathy Griffin posed for a photo holding Trump’s dismembered head is unimportant.

Because there is satire and there is sickness and a silly video showing a famous politician falling over is quite clearly the latter. But this malaise is no surprise to those of us who sussed long ago that what people REALLY have against Hillary has nothing to do with corruption or war-mongering. In fact, it’s got nothing to do with politics at all. It’s because she’s a woman. Period. And the reaction to her recent book proves it tenfold.

As feminist fun-sponge Sarah Ditum put it in The New Statesman last week: ‘The vitriol aimed at Hillary shows the fragility of women’s half-won freedom’. It couldn’t possibly show that Clinton is a deeply divisive individual with enough skeletons in her closet to stage a Broadway revival of Jason And The Astronauts. Luckily, Sarah had no interest in debating Clinton’s ‘flaws’, instead filling her piece with straw-man after straw-man without once mentioning the multitude of reasons people dislike Hillary Clinton that have nowt to do with her lack of a Y-chromosome.

‘Look at the reaction to Hillary’s book. Too soon. Can’t she go quietly? Why can’t she own her mistakes?’ wrote Sarah, expertly mocking the overriding consensus about Clinton’s memoir despite providing no evidence whatsoever that anyone other than Sarah actually thought that.

‘Bernie Sanders put a book out a week after the election and no-one said “too soon” about that’. Indeed they didn’t though no-one appears to have said it about Hillary’s book either. It’s safe to assume, however, that Bernie’s tome was treated like the second coming by the same people now hatefully laying into Clinton simply because she has curvier hips than him.

Because as anyone familiar with Sarah’s joyless work knows, her entire ice-cold output is built on ‘safely assuming’ stuff, whether it’s the inherent sexism of the masses, the inherent sexism of men who criticise her columns, or the inherent sexism of women who disagree with her because they’ve been brainwashed into it by the evil patriarchy or something. Like many modern feminists, her inability to accept criticism without reducing it to misogyny is matched only by her ability to read the minds of millions of people she’s never met.

And when it comes to female politicians she point-blank refuses to entertain the chauvinistic notion that they are just as deserving of scrutiny as their male counterparts. So the fact that Hillary has dropped more bombs than Darth Vader is irrelevant. That she’s spent so much time in Wall Street’s pockets she might as well be a jar of Rohypnol is immaterial. The millions that have vanished from her and her charming husband’s Saudi-funded foundation is nobody’s business but theirs.

Because as Sarah and anyone else with half a brain knows, the only reason people attack Clinton is because she has a vagina. And that includes the women: ‘I’m angry with the men who engage in Clinton-bashing. With the women, it’s something else. Sadness. Pity, maybe’. As with most issues Sarah tackles, anyone who disagrees with her is to be disdained and patronised, their crime of viewing a female politician unfavourably a sledgehammer to her concrete heart. Unless the person disagreeing with her is a man in which case it’s simply because he hates women.

I mean, who but a card-carrying misogynist could possibly have issues with the establishment hawk who wrote of the dissident-torturing baddies in George Orville’s seminal 1994: ‘The goal is to make you question your logic and reason, to sow mistrust toward exactly the people we need to rely on: our leaders, the press, experts who seek to guide public policy based on evidence, ourselves’?

Stirring stuff and no doubt a shock to those dumb idiots who had no idea the message of the novel was ‘we must trust our leaders’. I look forward to volume two in which Hillary reviews Orville’s other masterpiece Animal House. I hear she loved the happy ending.

Elsewhere, The Guardian’s Hadley Freeman took to Twitter to praise Sarah’s column, which unsurprisingly resulted in both women being abused and mansplained to by rabid misogynists, self-hating women and people who are neither but H&S have decided are equally deplorable. Wise move. Because to engage with the criticism might have meant admitting that maybe, just maybe, men and women are capable of making up their own minds about a flawed, problematic politician without having their tiny brains swayed by the bastardly patriarchy.

So when they came under fire from the snarling mob they did what they do best and dismissed every arrow fired at them on the grounds that the shooter had a cock and balls. In response to someone pointing out they never hear anyone say people only hated Margaret Thatcher because she was a woman, Sarah shot back: ‘That’s because you don’t listen to women who talk about sexism’, utilising the brilliant social media trick of deducing someone’s aural habits on the basis of one tweet.

Of course, the fact that Sarah said this while simultaneously not listening to someone talking about sexism was too delicious not to exploit. Which Sarah subsequently did by abandoning the chat as soon as people – or rather, men – started derailing her narrative by making legitimate criticisms of Clinton that had bugger all to do with her gender.

Elsewhere Hadley had Sarah’s back, deploying variations on the standard middle-class feminist argument of ‘what would you know, you’ve got a penis’ that has won them countless Twitter spats and shut down more debates than the Corbynite classic ‘What about Saudi Arabia?’.

‘I do love it when men lecture multiple women – one of whom is American – about Hillary Clinton and what American voters really feel’ blasted Hadley, conveniently forgetting that she’d just praised a column lecturing people who dislike Hillary Clinton on how they really feel. The difference is that when Hadley and Sarah give an opinion they’re educating people less enlightened than them on right and wrong. When men do it they’re ‘lecturing’. Which makes it easier to abandon thread when someone makes a point they can’t counter, a necessity in the social media age where women are violently assaulted on a daily basis by sexist men they’ve never met disagreeing with them.

So on it went, the Salt-N-Pepa of progressive misandry effortlessly despatching misogynists with zinger after zinger, such as Hadley’s response to the suggestion she thinks Hillary was a flawless candidate: ‘To point out Hillary has faced an enormous amount of sexism is not to argue she is without flaws’. Indeed it isn’t, though if any man points out these flaws Sarah will write a column calling them all sexist and Hadley will nod approvingly.

‘Oh no!’ mocked Sarah in an unexpected stab at humour, ‘some men have shown up to insult me over the Clinton column. I guess they definitely aren’t sexist after all, my bad’. Ouch. That’s what you get when you insult Sarah, fellas. And yes, I’m not just talking about the abusive trolls but also the ones who merely criticised her column. In many ways they are worse than the abusers as they cloak their violent misogyny in a pseudo-tolerant veneer, pretending to judge Sarah exactly as they would a man they disagreed with. Snakes in the grass, every last one.

As Hadley pointed out to the umpteenth alpha male who accused her and Sarah of ring-fencing a demonstrably dishonest politician from criticism just because she’s female: ‘I’m criticising people for holding her to a different standard than they do with male politicians’. Which, funnily enough, is exactly what Hadley did when dismissing legitimate criticism of Hillary and her book as sexism. Some days beating the trolls is like swatting flies.

And with that they were off, no doubt bored shitless with relentlessly assigning viewpoints to their opponents that they don’t hold before attacking them for holding that viewpoint. In other words, a textbook example of the enduring ability of identity politics to shut down every argument it doesn’t like by citing the gender or ethnicity of the person putting it forward. Like racists and misogynists do.

Which is meat and drink for Hadley and Sarah. Especially the latter, as she proved in January when passionately defending a sneering Suzanne Moore column about how ghastly hen parties are and how women only get married because society forces them to.

When someone made the entirely unremarkable point that SOME women have hen dos and weddings because, well, they want to, she responded in a heartbeat, accusing them of ‘preserving the institution of marriage from critique’ despite the fact they never once mentioned the institution of marriage. It says everything about modern feminism that pointing out that most women are clever enough to make their own minds up is now regarded as clear evidence of not only sexism but a deep attachment to the patriarchal terrorism of forced marriage.

Because the only people who need to be preserved from critique are inspirational women like Hillary, Hadley and Sarah. And now more than ever we need to protect them and their opinions at all costs, especially when we have a lunatic president running around tweeting terrifying ten-second videos depicting him trying to murder one of them with a golf ball.

But as ever, if you want a shining example of the correct way to treat women look no further than the triumphant Labour conference, where female delegates were treated with such respect one of them had to employ a bodyguard just in case the Momentum top boys were left with no choice but to counter her Corbynphobic smears by head-butting her.

So by the end of the riotous three-day bash Angela Raynor had been referred to by her party’s Twitter account as an ‘absolute babe’, Emily Thornberry had brought the house down by summoning the spirit of Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins, and Diane Abbot had delivered a powerful, platitude-packed speech which left the adoring throng moved, inspired and terrified to criticise it in case they got accused of misogynoir.

All of which left no-one in any doubt that the blatant sexism and misogynist abuse that still threatens Hillary Clinton’s life has no place in Jezza’s Labour, a warm, inclusive space that welcomes women of all shapes, sizes, backgrounds and viewpoints.

Even that slag Laura Cuntsberg.


(Photo from




A peaceful trans activist defends herself against a bigoted TERF


By Ben Pensant

There are some truly terrifying hate-groups knocking around these days. From the KKK and the EDL to the New Atheists and the Council Of Ex-Muslims, in this dangerous era no-one is safe from the threat of white supremacists, xenophobic street thugs and self-hating Islamophobes prejudiced against a religious doctrine just because it states they should be murdered.

But as evil as the above all are at least you know where you stand with them: The KKK hate blacks. The EDL hate blacks and Muslims. New Atheists hate blacks, Muslims and anyone with the bottle to talk about punching Nazis on Twitter. And The Council Of Ex-Muslims hate blacks, Muslims, anyone with the bottle to talk about punching Nazis on Twitter and brave middle-class feminists with a penchant for praising Sharia Law, lamenting the deportation of murderers and wearing knitted pink hats that look like fannies.

All are united by a fascist ideology born in Tennessee in 1865, honed in ’30s Berlin and popularised last year by Brexit and Trump. It’s clear, it’s consistent and its adherents are easier to spot than a working-class northerner on polling day. (Hint: he’s the one shuffling around the village hall moaning about the lack of free biscuits and heroin, wondering why there are no instructions on his pencil and asking which box he’s supposed to tick to ‘kick the darkies out’.)

But at least they have nothing to hide. They’re open and honest about their bigotry, which is handy as it makes it easier for us Good People to send them guilt-free death threats or report them to their employers for being Nazis. That the bar has been set ridiculously low for who qualifies as a cross-burning, immigrant-bashing, Muslim-offending Uncle Tariq only makes our job all the more fun.

But these reprehensible wretches are the least of our worries. Terrifyingly, there are far more sinister movements at work, led by snake oil salesmen arriving with smiles and cloaked in good intentions, confidence tricksters who gain our trust before revealing themselves as racist wolves in progressive sheep’s clothing. No, I’m not talking about Jews though you’re not far off. We’ve all seen them, waving their banners in faux solidarity and describing themselves as ‘allies’ despite being about as on-message as a Katie Hopkins column about bearded Syrian toddlers.

Which is why I was ecstatic last week when I learnt of the battle that took place in Speaker’s Corner on Hyde Park, in which a small but deadly gang of fascists disguised as feminists were soundly defeated in combat, their hate-mongering curtailed by a feisty gang of peaceful liberals. Or to be more accurate: when a handful of men in skirts battered a 60-year-old woman for saying something they disagreed with.

But that’s what really happened. And as all progressives know, what really happened in any situation is about as much use as tits on a bull. (Unless the tits in question were fashioned from silicone gel and the bull is a bearded, pot-bellied Humanities professor from Goldsmith’s College with hands like shovels. In which case they are very useful, not least in metaphorically sticking two fingers up at the transphobic public and proving that yes, a man CAN embrace a bovine identity and become a member of the non-binary cattle family while living a healthy, happy life. Just as long as he remembers to un-tuck his imaginary udders from between his arse cheeks when he goes for a shite.)

As celebrated LGBTQEDFACDC activist and ThinkProgress scriber Zack Ford put it when describing the Hyde Park contretemps: ‘A bigoted TERF provoked some trans protesters, initiated violence, then claimed to be a victim’. Quite how Zack, ensconced in his Washington DC office, managed to get a better view of the incident than the various witnesses who had front row seats as Maria McClachlan was assaulted by several blokes in eyeliner wasn’t clear. But anyone with half a brain knows that trans protesters are fast becoming the Kray twins of social justice activism, never ‘urting no-one ‘oo didn’t deserve it, guv’nor, and always looking after their ol’ mum, even when she tells them off for going down to Asda in her tights.

And there are few groups in society more deserving of a good shoeing than the violent harridans who got a taste of their own medicine at The Battle Of Speaker’s Corner. For the uninitiated, TERFS – Trans Exclusionary Rancid Fuck-Muffins – are a bizarre breed of feminists who cancel out all of the good work done by the sisterhood – banning stuff, treating women like infants, telling working-class people how thick they are – by spreading hateful rhetoric about the trans community disguised as demonstrable biological fact.

From the fairy godmother of transphobia Germaine Greer to Sarah Ditum of The New Statesman, these bigoted hags have been getting away with stating empirical truths about the differences between men and women for years, every syllable an act of violence upon the most vilified and oppressed group in society. So vilified and oppressed, in fact, that as well as enjoying the freedom to dress and identify as whatever the hell they like they also have the entire Western liberal media bending over backwards to punish anyone who speaks even mildly out of turn about a minority who make up roughly 0.1% of the population.

All things considered it’s a miracle their disgusting views don’t get them attacked by the cast of The Rocky Horror Picture Show more often. Because as Zack rightly pointed out, violence is often the only response to such heavy-duty provocation. Provocation so heavy duty it literally forced members of Action For Trans Health London to drum up social media interest in violently disrupting the TERF-fest days before it happened. It’s sickening that in 2017 a gang of transphobic thugs expect to spout their hate on a public park and not end up with black eyes and broken cameras.

Predictably, the anti-violence mob weighed in, pointing out that assaulting women is never okay, as if a small group of blue-haired feminists saying words on a park is any less aggressive than punching someone in the face. Luckily, as well as the support offered from the likes of Zack and his expert assessment of an incident he never saw, solidarity also came via liberal commentators such as Owen Jones, who quietly pledged support by simply pretending it never happened, a trick he pulled off earlier this year when he completely ignored the far-right anti-Semitic rally that marched through London in June despite regularly talking loudly about fighting the far-right and anti-Semitism.

Given how often Owen writes about toxic masculinity, some may find it odd he had nothing to say about a couple of men assaulting a woman on camera. Indeed, only recently he was spitting feathers about the disgraceful misogyny of a memo from a Google employee which as far as I’m aware is yet to result in anyone sustaining bruises to their head. But as his similar refusal to mention Venezuela and Kill The Jews Day brilliantly illustrated, the fact that Owen knows exactly when to STFU is what marks him as a true great. And if anyone seriously thinks a 60-year-old being beaten up for expressing an opinion is even remotely as problematic as a memo from a sexist pig then they’re beyond help.

Inevitably, as reports of the incident spread throughout the media the most disturbing outcome was the torrent of mis-gendering and dead-naming. You know we’ve disappeared down the rabbit hole when a group of men can’t even repeatedly punch a woman without being referred to as ‘a group of men’.

But this is to be expected. Only last month right-wing trolls were in uproar after a trans rapist was sent to a women’s prison, masking their bigotry as concern for female inmates when it was clear as day they considered her more likely to commit sexual assault because she is trans. The fact that she’s actually more likely to commit sexual assault because she’s a convicted rapist in possession of a penis is neither here nor there, as are the subsequent accusations that this poor marginalised criminal did just that upon entering the prison.

Because much like terrorists are driven to commit terrorism by people smearing them as terrorists, so trans rapists are provoked into committing rape by a society that constantly accuses them of being rapists. That something so self-evident needs to be spelt out is depressing in the extreme but that’s modern political discourse for you. If you want to blame someone look no further than the uneducated ingrates who voted to leave an unelected bureaucracy or made a ginger reality TV star the most powerful man on earth. They’ve got a hell of a lot to answer for.

Luckily, when it comes to the trans movement, the narrative is getting stronger by the day. Be warned, though – there are snakes in the grass. And few are more snakey than Blaire White, the self-hating video blogger-cum-alt-right-courting Uncle Tranny shunned by liberals for having the temerity to disagree with the kind of brave non-binary warriors whose idea of debate is punching people on Hyde Park.

Unsurprisingly, White is despised by the trans activist community because she speaks her mind, refuses to be a victim and actually looks like a woman. She also rejects the policing of pronouns, warns against encouraging children to mutilate themselves and has repeatedly stated that the disproportionately high suicide rate among transwomen might just have more to do with long-term mental health issues than systemic transphobia.

In a nutshell, she might as well be wearing jack-boots and a white hood. And as if her hateful comments about trans issues weren’t problematic enough, she’s also been known to stick the boot into such sacred cows as Antifa, Black Lives Matter and the regressive left in general. Needless to say, she’s been abused, doxxed and threatened numerous times; a tiny fraction of what she deserves for having the temerity to step out of her lane and think for herself.

So as life-affirming as Speakers’ Corner Scuffle was we should never forget the existence of people like Blaire – the living embodiment of the Wrong Kind Of Transwoman – and the rest of the TERFS determined to destroy a marginalised minority with hate, violence and scientific logic. Only by ignoring their scientific logic and countering their hate and violence with actual hate and violence will the trans-activist community earn the respect they deserve.

Until that day: watch your step, TERFS. This is a man’s game, bitches.


Leave-voting Laura couldn’t face another day knowing she’d upset some wife off the telly.

By Ben Pensant

As cruel as it is to laugh at the misfortune of others, it’s bloody hard not to when the ‘others’ are Leave-voters, currently locked in a three-way tie with Zionists and Blairites for the title of Most Loathsome Creatures On Earth. Luckily, the racist proles who stole the future of every middle-class child from Islington to Isleworth make it so bloody easy, to the point where attacking them for their stupidity, xenophobia and penchant for child murder is like kicking a cripple. But if that cripple was a stupid xenophobic child murderer would you seriously think twice about administering a good shoeing? Me neither.

So I’m sure I wasn’t the only die-hard Remainer whooping with joy last week when Brexiters were left bruised, shaken and terrified to their bigoted cores by an incendiary tweet from a woman off the telly they’d never heard of. That woman was Oxford-educated TV star Emma Kennedy; the tweet a brutal, perfectly formed zinger so brutal and perfectly formed I went straight to Google to find out who she was. I’m still none the wiser though the internet assures me she was the 18th most memorable talking head on Channel 5’s recent hit The Top Fifty Cheapest Clips From ’80s Blockbusters and quietly stole the show in their gritty drama Suburban Shootout 2: Clackers At Dawn.

But those career-highs are nothing compared to the accolades she received for a tweet which spoke for everyone who values liberal principles like tolerance, empathy and looking down their noses at people who disagree with them. Here then, is the full tweet, though I must warn any passing Brexiters that you may well be reaching for a razor blade before you get to the end. (Not that it’s likely as Brexiters never read anything other than the Daily Mail or Stormfront threads about killing Muslims.) Brace yourselves:

‘It’s getting to the point where I’m not sure I’m ever going to be able to forgive anyone who voted for Brexit’.

Ouch. Dunno about you but once I’d finished laughing my head off I poured a mung-bean smoothie and retired to the bath for the most violently joyous wank since Lord Jezza nervously shook my hand in his back garden at 3am. (I still haven’t washed it, sir. I never will xxx.)

But despite my natural hatred for shellsuit-clad racists who vote differently to me, I couldn’t help feeling a pang of pity. Not enough to sympathise with them, mind. And certainly not enough to forget the pain their ill-informed vote caused sandal-wearing BBC executives with precocious gender-neutral children. But just enough to understand the torture they must be going through having discovered they will never ever be forgiven by a woman they don’t know from…

Oh, who am I kidding? Sympathy? Understanding? No chance. Just look at what they’ve done to Emma. You think she wants to go through life resenting millions of people she doesn’t know? She’s a liberal, for god’s sake. But as she says, it’s ‘getting to that point’ where Brexiters are forcing people like Emma to hate them with their Little Englander antics.

Because as we know, in the entitled world of the staunch Remainer, nothing is ever their fault. None of their illiberal traits are their own doing. Things happen to them, not because of them. And much like jihadists are driven to plant bombs on trains as a direct result of Western foreign policy, so principled progressives have been provoked by the inherent nastiness of Brexit into being massively intolerant towards people they disagree with.

And judging by the shockwaves her comments sent though social media, they don’t take rejection well. Unsurprisingly, not one of the selfish oafs even had the decency to start a support group for Brexiters traumatised by Emma’s remarks. Typical. For all their talk of ‘taking back control’ and ‘Britain’s best interests’ they can’t even look after each other. And you just know when one of them snaps and shoots an MP or nail-bombs a mosque it’ll all be Emma’s fault for ‘inciting’ it, as if they need a reason to go around killing people.

Because as anyone who’s lived among these simpletons knows all too well, violence is second nature to them. Lashing out at things that annoy them is what they do. And as the recent Laura Pidcock controversy proved, there’s nothing annoys Tories and Brexiters more than finding out their betters don’t like them.

Laura is the Durham Labour MP who broke Conservative hearts by vowing to never befriend a Tory colleague under any circumstances, no matter how many bubblies or shots on their BMX they offered her. Like Emma, social media lauded and praised for her intolerance, with principled socialists like The Guardian’s Abi Wilkinson proudly agreeing that Good People should not be friends with Tories as their policies deliberately murder poor folk or something.

Because nothing riles the right more than knowing they don’t call the shots. Tories, Brexiters, Nazis, football fans…the days when these animals controlled the narrative and decided who they could be friends with are long gone. Indeed, one of the greatest tricks regressives pulled post-Pidcock was to convince their fellow liberals that they are the ones who do the friend-picking. That the vast majority of Tories probably don’t want to be friends with them either is one of those inconvenient facts that are ideological kryptonite to the likes of Laura and Abi.

Because in their world it’s the Good People who call the shots. Apart from when they’re being oppressed by white men, in which case they still call the shots but only when their oppressors put down the whips and cattle-prods for five minutes; a rare taste of freedom so fleeting they can barely find the time to tweet more than 200 times a day without being lashed and electrocuted.

Thankfully social media is awash with brave, privileged women who refuse to let themselves be subjugated. And few come braver than Emma, whose ground-breaking tweet not only drove a stake into the fragile egos of thick-as-shit Leavers but also provided clear evidence that the entire Brexit movement is running scared, petrified that their diabolical plan to implement the result of a democratic vote is in the balance.

As wild-haired EU groupie AC Grayling has repeatedly pointed out: ‘The mood of the country is Remain’. Though one can’t help wishing the country had mentioned that on June 23rd last year. It would have saved a shit-load of bother.

Still, as anyone who follows AC knows, he has little interest in what the public think, especially those ghastly folk who aren’t in love with the EU. What he does have is a hotline to the word on the street, which he demonstrated recently when discussing people he’d encountered on social media whose parents regretted voting Leave, ‘horrified upon realising the lies and consequences’. Because nothing gives a clearer insight into the post-Brexit mood more than asking a few teenagers on Twitter.

But AC has had the BrexSHITters running scared for months, recently dealing their dastardly plan another crushing blow by urging his followers: ‘Tell your MP No Brexit is better than a bad Brexit’. Yes, having tried every method under the sun to undermine the result he played his trump card: A PETITION! Because as everyone knows, lists of names are a sure-fire way to get politicians to change their minds. But even though this latest one stuck to the script by sinking without trace and achieving absolutely nothing, the pleasure of knowing it put the willies up right-wingers AND made 200 New European readers feel even more smugly superior than usual is worth its weight in virtue-gold.

Because in these dark times such determination is all we have. And it gives me great comfort knowing heroes like AC are tirelessly fighting to stop Brexit while we mere mortals lie in bed fretting about who will serve our coffee in Costa once Boris Johnson’s executed all the immigrants. We really couldn’t ask for a more noble figurehead. Especially one so dedicated to ensuring a cock-up of this magnitude never happens again, even if it means removing the right to vote from everyone without a degree, an au pair or a second home in Florence.

And there’s never been a better time for AC, Emma et al to put the fools who destroyed our country in their place, with Jean Claude Van Juncker this week unveiling exciting new plans for the future of the EU. Plans Britain will not be part of unless we bend the knee, ignore the referendum result and re-join Juncker’s nascent superstate immediately.

Because despite Leave campaigners being routinely characterised as fear-mongerers for warning of the Commision’s plans to expand their power and take even more autonomy from member states, in his Wednesday address Juncker confirmed virtually everything the liars said. From gently persuading all EU countries into joining the Eurozone and signing up to Schengen, to creating a EU Army and installing a European Finance Minister, he repeated almost verbatim what evil racists like Nigel Farage have been predicting would happen for years. All of which was dismissed as xenophobic conspiracy nonsense by people who know as much about the EU as I do about animal husbandry but voted Remain because they read somewhere that to be against it is, like, totally racist.

And not before time too. Because being in the EU means being part of the most exclusive elite in the Western hemisphere. Who would want to be locked outside as it pushes forward with revolutionary plans to snatch even more independence from sovereign countries and hand it to a shady cabal of oligarchal commissioners?

I think we all know who. Those stonewashed inbreds who screwed themselves by mistakenly believing the right to vote entitled them to have a say in their country’s destiny. Thank god we have people like Emma, AC and Claude to give them a cold dose of reality. With a bit of luck their passionate words could see the suicide rate among regretful Leavers rocket, paving the way for a second referendum uncontaminated by the influence of people who don’t even know how to spell ‘democracy’ let alone overturn it.

In the meantime let’s leave the brainwashed sheeple to their misery and count down the days until this godforsaken country comes to its senses and re-joins the institution that for four decades kept us safe, united and in thrall to the whims of unelected bureaucrats.

My fervent hope is that one day soon I can look into the eyes of my children and know they will grow up safely ensconced in the loving bosom of the European Union. And when that day comes I’m sure I won’t be the only educated Remainer to paraphrase Will Smith’s closing speech from 1985, George Orville’s optimistic fable about a utopian society whose emboldened citizens reject bourgeois affectations such as saying and thinking what they like:

It’s alright, everything is alright, the struggle is finished. We have won the victory over ourselves. We love the EU.