No Pussy-Grabber Blues

Trump took his election defeat almost as badly as the left did.

By Ben Pensant.

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…

‘Trump acquitted’.

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.

Heartbroken leftists react to their favourite fascist being booted off Twitter.

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.

A terrified AOC watches on as the Capital Coupers ransack her stationery cupboard.

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.

Tube Tales: It’s a, It’s a, It’s aaaa, It’s a Sin

Ollie’s gang of gay stereotypes hit the town for some unprotected sex.

By Ben Pensant.

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.

Russell T. Hobbs, yesterday.

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.

Howser hams it up.

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?

Boscoe and Fry plot to eradicate the working class.

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.

Vince and Stu unconvincingly camp it up in Queer as Fuck.

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 ‘TERF’.

*Or ‘Tory’.

*But mainly ‘TERF’.

*And ‘twat’.

Every Liddle Thing He Does Is Tragic

Liddle and Julie’s wardrobe was as grubby as their politics.

By Ben Pensant

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.

Beastly Liddle weeps after finding out @CorbynSooperFan called him a ‘rotter’.

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!

Julie twatsplains Mohhamudd’s colourful love life to Ash.

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:

https://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/this-britain/oh-dear-telephone-puts-poor-rod-hook-again-489914.html

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!

Page Against the Machine

Elliott Page steps out with his wife.

By Ben Pensant

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 Star Wars 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 the first woman in history to find other women attractive but ‘she’ was undoubtedly the most oppressed.

‘Elaine’ Page, last month.

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.

Eliott Page, yesterday.

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.

Peter the Great

Peter and Sonya share a joke outside the Old Bailey, 1982.

By Ben Pensant

Nothing upsets the modern left like murderers dying. And the last decade saw so many left-centric killers cark it that barely a month went by when St Jezza wasn’t summoned to impartially observe someone else laying a wreath for a misunderstood Jew-slayer he’d never heard of. Indeed, ever since affable fascists Kernel Gaddafi and Osama Ben Laden were unlawfully executed in 2010, it seems every other week has seen a psychotic freedom fighter brutally eliminated for spreading left-wing values via the tried-and-tested tactic of slaughtering innocent people.

Since then it’s been one tragedy (upon a tragedy, upon a tragedy) after another, reaching a bloody crescendo in the post-Trump/Brexit years, with homicidal heroes like Fidel Castrol, Winny Mandela, and Matthew McGuinness departing for the great torture chamber in the sky, leaving everyone from OJ Jones to Alasdair Campbell crying into their goat-spunk lattes.

But while far-left terrorists and anti-western dictators thoroughly deserve all the veneration they receive, it’s important to remember that not all heroes wear berets or balaclavas. And just because a killer’s actions don’t appear to be politically driven doesn’t mean there aren’t serious ideological reasons behind their desire to end the lives of men, women, and children. Indeed, look beyond the lurid headlines and the motives of your average wackjob are often every bit as progressive as those of radical racists like Che Given.

Similarly, it’s dangerous to judge a killer without putting his crimes in context and considering the very real possibility that his victims may have incited their own murders. And as progressives we owe it to ourselves to explore each individual case through liberal, tolerant, intersectional eyes. Which is why it’s high time we gave Peter Sutcliff the credit he deserves for murdering all those filthy prostitutes.

Because while his ’60s killing spree may not have appeared remotely political at the time, in the cold light of 2020 it’s clear he was making a bold statement. Indeed, Sutcliff was clearly ahead of his time in addressing issues which wouldn’t become hot button topics for another 40 years. Needless to say, the right-wing media were oblivious to this, reacting to his recent death by smearing him as a ‘depraved monster’ and refusing to question why Sutcliff decided he had a greater purpose in life than stealing tires and beating up paperboys.

Because bearded truckers from Bingley don’t just decide to murder young women out of the blue, no matter how far north they live. And it speaks volumes about our ignorant media that not one public figure – not even infamously killer-friendly Gorgeous ‘George’ Galloway – acknowledged the rather large rhino in the room: Sutcliff’s murders were actually a form of protest, striking a blow against the internalised misogyny of self-hating sex-workers betraying the sisterhood to feather their nests on the ostentatious streets of balmy Bradford.

As is obvious to anyone who’s spent five minutes researching the killings – or three-and-a-half in my case – the real villain wasn’t Sutcliff but the vacuous money-hungry streetwalkers who allowed themselves to be exploited by the patriarchy so they could satisfy their immoral desire to suck off taxi drivers. Were the no-nonsense techniques he deployed to make his point a tad over the top? Perhaps. But you can’t make an omelette without breaking a hooker’s skull with a hammer. And if dozy right-wingers really think what Sutcliff did was so horrific then perhaps it’s time they re-evaluated their racist rhetoric around Muslim Asian grooming gangs. Considering the clinical manner in which Sutcliffe dealt with promiscuous young women, it’s hard not to surmise those vulnerable men imprisoned for ‘exploiting’ northern teenagers actually showed remarkable restraint by merely plying their child oppressors with Purple WKD and raping them in manky kebab shops.

But even if you’re one of those vanilla cretins who refuses to believe that plunging a screwdriver into the thighs of various uneducated women was simply Sutcliff’s novel way of dismantling the patriarchy and highlighting the dangers of the sex-trade, only an idiot would deny that he never would’ve plunged a screwdriver into anyone if it wasn’t for the Tories.

Indeed, having come of age on the rain-lashed streets of Sheffield under Howard Wilson’s vile Conservative government, it’s no surprise that Sutcliff grew so alienated by his environment he felt the only way out was to cultivate satanic facial hair and chase terrified strumpets around industrial estates.

And you can bet your life that he was mercilessly teased at school by female bullies too: brainy, shy-boys always are. Tragically, it speaks volumes about our unequal society that, having reluctantly bludgeoned 15 women to death to deal with the trauma of having his dinner money stolen by Marmalade Atkins, it was Sutcliff who ended up in jail while his tormentors remain at large. That’s right: a gang of gum-chewing girl-bitches were given license to carry on harassing bearded psychopaths while their victim was doomed to spend the rest of his days fending off razor blade attacks and having his pineapple chunks stolen. Sickening.

The sad thing is that the youngster who would become The Yorkshire Killer had briefly escaped the nightmare of his youth a decade earlier, finding temporary solace in pursuing his creative ambitions. Unfortunately that came crashing down when Lenin and McCartney kicked Sutcliff out of The Beatles. Clearly the thought of someone better looking with more talent stealing their limelight was too much for the selfish mop-tops to take. Their loss.

But after such cruel setbacks is it any wonder he was forced to plough his artistic talents into promoting liberal values by stoving ladies’ heads in? And let’s not forget it was a certain all-seeing deity that looks a bt like Santa who told Sutcliff to start bumping off women of ill-repute to begin with. That this so-called ‘god’ thought it a good idea to instruct a damaged young man him to commit murder tells you everything you need to know about Christianity. You can bet your bottom dollar Allah would never dream of urging his followers to kill women.

Another card stacked against Sutcliff was the era he was born into. Unlike the spoilt simpletons who voted Tory last December, Pete never had the privilege of being brought up in the noughties, where those of us who fantasise about battering young ladies to death have the internet to stop us going full-Al Bundy. Because despite being a hive of right-wing propaganda, few would disagree that the online world is ultimately an outlet for positive change. And there is no better example of this than those fondly remembered ‘shock sites’ that were all the rage long before Twitter was crowned Most Disturbing Webthing Ever.

You may ask what the hell is ‘positive’ about teenagers gawping at rape-porn, bestiality, train-wreck victims, and grainy executions. But be honest with yourself, if rotten.com had existed in 1972 would Sutcliff have even bothered opening his toolbox? No chance. He’d have been chained to that Vic 64 day and night, the lovely Sonya feeding him a steady stream of Bovril and fresh bellbottoms and popping her head around the door every half-hour to reassure him that the voice in his head was just the computer talking back.

Because a modern-day madman has no need for the real thing when he can safely satisfy his bloodlust by staring at a monitor with his jeans around his ankles and his mam’s knickers on his head. For every sulky Incell who snaps and massacres a bus full of cheerleaders, there are millions of potential murderlisers who manage to stay on the right side of the law by spending their afternoons manhandling devices instead of strangling barmaids.

Even the most extreme pornography carries out an important public service by discouraging real-life perversion, as the average sicko will eventually lose interest in acting out his gruesome fantasies once he’s watched one too many clips of a man dressed as Bambi having a stiletto heel rammed up his urethra by a leather-clad dominatrix on stilts. After being repeatedly subjected to such depravity he’ll be lucky if he can buy a bag of crisps off a woman never mind rape and murder one. In fact, I’m fairly certain if it wasn’t for sites such as genderreallignmentdisaters.com I’d have buggered 20 women and a dozen postmen to death years ago.

Sadly, nearly a fortnight has passed since Sutcliff’s death and not one left-wing pundit has penned him a tribute, or at the very least suggested his reign of terror was all Boris Johnston’s fault. In fact, as well as being responsible for a series of murders that started when he was ten, it’s arguable that Boris The Butcher actually killed Sutcliff too, as the oppressed maniac was officially the MILLIONTH person to die of Covid-18. We’ve known for a while that this evil Tory government don’t care who they wipe out in their pursuit of power, but it’s still terrifying watching them treat political prisoners like the YR with such callous disregard.

Meanwhile, a genuine monster like Prittstick Patel is free to gleefully pursue her favourite hobby: making grown men cry by raising her voice and threatening to flush their heads down the toilet if they tell on her. If Patel is so tough perhaps she should borrow Boris’s time machine, transport herself back 50 years, and take a twilight trip to Yorkshire. There’s a plucky young activist doing a spot of after hours campaigning around Leeds way who’d just love to see a smirking Tory sex-pot try to steal his dinner money…

Lockdown 2: Dark of the Toon

What the streets of Newcastle could look like on Dec 2 if Boris lifts his half-arsed lockdown

By Ben Pensant

He’s done it this time. Not content with making Twitter addicts and clickbait journalists terrified to use the bathroom in case Coronovirus jumps out of the toilet and bites off their tiddlers, Boris Johnston has sunk even lower with his sociopathic decision to inflict a month-long lockdown on our dying country. And four days in, this reckless move has already been more disastrous than anything Chris Shitty could imagine, with reports suggesting two-thirds of the media establishment have succumbed to severe soggy mattress syndrome.

But it gets worse. Because as all decent pandemipantpissers know, a four-week lockdown won’t merely impact terror-stricken columnists who believe if they open their front door their whole family will die. No, the dire effects will be felt by everyone, from selfless civil servants working from home surrounded by teacakes and fluffy cushions to greedy working-class saps endangering the public by squeezing their fat arses into disease-ridden Presto checkouts. Because as any idiot knows, the problem is not that Lockdown 2 goes too far: it’s that it doesn’t go far enough.

Yep, sticking to their tried-and-tested rule of ‘too little, too late’, Bo(o)ris(h)’s lily-livered new restrictions aren’t just an affront to those of us who’ve spent 8 months bravely grassing up our neighbours, they will also do absolutely nothing to stop selfish pensioners visiting their grandkids or contagious teens spitting at Muslims. And this time it’s personal, as my home town of Newcastle laid the groundwork for the tough new measures, only to see Geordie hearts broken with a dangerously half-arsed lockdown that will be lucky to put half-a-dozen pubs out of business.

I mean, it’s not as if we’re spoilt for North East idols. In fact, most Tyneside heroes are anything but: Local soccer ‘legend’ Allan Shearer is still feted despite giving a Nazi salute every time he scored a touchdown. Ant and Duncan are revered even though their only talent is the ability to shit out of the same arsehole. And let’s not forget popular Emmerdale star Denise Walsh, whose dangerous anti-lockdown views have caused the deaths of thousands and severely damaged the North East’s feminist community. The yo-yo knickered slut.

Thankfully a new breed of Tyneside warriors have emerged, ones who don’t wear silly shorts, dye their hair coke-whore blonde, or force ’80s pop stars to jump out of helicopters eating hippo’s fanny batter. Yes, I’m talking about the fearless leaders of Newcastle City Council, who’ve been at the forefront of implementing draconian restrictions and flushing everything good about the region down the ideological shitter. Champion!

Because while the UK has finally got its act together after that suicidal summer when people were allowed to go about their business as if the vast majority of them had nothing to fear, courageous NE councillors like Nick ‘Nick’ Forbes have been going all-out for months, ensuring the dumb Geordie public have as little fun as possible until we are free of the deadly virus so deadly it’s killed as many as 0.06% of the population.

Indeed, Newcastle was one of the first councils to demand the government make life harder for the folk who do the normal jobs that clever people don’t have to. Luckily, no-one will have to do them soon as there won’t be any normal jobs left. Good. As long as the uneducated drones who empty our bins, scan our shopping, and deliver our parcels keep pulling their weight we should survive. Though it would help if they did the decent thing and died more often: those statistics won’t exaggerate themselves!*

(*They will.)

Fortunately, those most petrified of Covid don’t read statistics, and those that do have convinced themselves that tiny numbers are actually enormous ones. Which is great news for the average post-op transman self-conscious about his small penis, as he can now simply present his freshly sculpted little soldier to the nearest mask-wearing scaredy cat and be instantly reassured that he’s hung like a Derby winner.

Because for every alt-righter who sees a table showing 250 infections per 100,000 in a city of half a million and thinks “Phew, that’s refreshingly low” there are scores of concerned ideologues who’ll look at the same figures and think “If we don’t stop people visiting their nanas or ordering pints after ten EVERYONE WILL DIE!”

And this latter group includes Nick ‘Nick-Nick’ Forbes, who recently endeared himself to Newcastle’s small but well-groomed progressive community by lobbying the government to impose tighter restrictions on the North East then complaining when the government imposed tighter restrictions on the North East. Naturally, right-wing doughnuts pounced, querying why Nick was so hasty to close pubs early and ban people from visiting relatives when cases were relatively low. They also stupidly asked if he’d considered that the tiny rise in infections may have been inflated by increased testing, false positives, and people who were neither symptomatic nor infectious. Luckily, Nick’s a pro and handled these aggressive questions by coolly ignoring them.

Which was easy as ‘false positives’ have been comprehensively ignored for months, dismissed by a petrified pundit-class determined to lock the public up indefinitely lest they pass on a bug so universally dangerous most people barely notice they’ve got it. And who can blame them? If you start reporting that estimates suggest over 40% of positive tests might not actually be positive then before you know it the public might twig that cancelling a country, knackering its economy, and ruining people’s lives probably wasn’t entirely justified.

Inevitably, the BB(rexit)C have disgraced themselves by repeatedly covering false positives. Fortunately, these dangerous reports rarely appear on TV, and are usually tucked away online where only dozy libertarians like Christopher Hitchens and Brendan O’Bullshit can find them. Thank god somebody at the Beeb understands the proud left-wing tradition of burying good news.

Much like our Nick, who couldn’t be more proudly left-wing if he had blue hair and a shit beard. Indeed, one look at Nick’s Twitter profile reveals his SJW credentials: “Musician, vegetarian, husband, climate change activist” it states, Twitter’s cruel algorithm denying Nick the space to add “Authoritarian, fearmonger, destroyer of an entire region”. In fact, the only thing missing are his pronouns, which is unfortunate as it’s becoming increasingly hard to tell if Nick has balls or a fanny.

Unlike Boris the Butcher, whose toxic masculinity lies at the heart of his ridiculous restrictions. “Ridiculous?” the righties cry. “How can you say they’re ridiculous when you’ve spent months supporting them and grassing up people who break them?”. Dear me. Once again for those at the back: Boris’s restrictions aren’t ridiculous because they’ve gone too far – they’re ridiculous because they haven’t gone far enough. Kapeesh?

Because any idiot can see that every single death happened because of the Tories’ half-measures, especially in working-class areas, with their after hours drug dens and death-trap playgrounds. If Lord Jezza were PM the lockdown would’ve been ten times more severe and NO-ONE would’ve died, apart from a handful of decrepid Leave voters and some racist children with terminal cancer: the whitest disease on the face of the planet.

See, despite what the clowns calling us the government’s propaghandhi wing think, leftists only appear to be going along with the Tories’ piss-weak rules: what we’re really doing is fooling them into thinking we support them. Yet all over social media right-wing thickies accuse us of defending Tory policies despite hating the Tories. Erm, that’s how it’s supposed to look, numb-nuts. We’re blessed with a cowardly government obsessed with satisfying people who despise them. Who wouldn’t take advantage of that?

Hence this clever ploy, beautifully executed by legions of left-wingers determined to express their hatred of Boris Johnston by doing exactly what he says. And the media have contributed too, helpfully exaggerating the threat in a variety of ways: reporting deaths with Covid as deaths from Covid, releasing speculative news items on the as-yet-unproven spectre of Long John Covid, and paying roly-poly Irish journalists to harass people outside petrol stations because they didn’t put their masks on quick enough.

This stunt – by well-fed crusader Steven Nolan – caused much controversy among Northern Ireland Twitter users, with mobs of Loyalist bullies ganging up on Steven after he harmlessly pestered strangers outside Tescoe for forgetting to wear face coverings. Shameless. These Bob Paisley-loving pricks should count themselves lucky Steven only had a camera with him. Far worse things have been pointed at people on garage forecourts by mad Irishman in masks.

Naturally, this brilliant left-wing ploy to make the Tories think we like them has been driven by social media, where sceptics who express even the slightest reservation about masks or lockdowns are dismissed as tinfoil hat-wearing loons by people who think Boris Johnston didn’t have Covid and his baby doesn’t exist.

The ruse was brilliantly enabled by commie sexpot Ash Starkers, who took to Twitter to mock that pensioner from Burnley who suggested that the government should focus on protecting the old and vulnerable and allow the rest of society with little to fear from Covid to go about their lives. That the old goat also used war metaphors made her even more deserving of abuse. Which she duly received, gifting us the wonderful spectacle of a thread full of Labour supporters attacking someone for attacking a Tory government. 2020 rocks!

But the most ingenious thing is that right-wingers are on board too! Some are staunch Tories who support their party no matter what. Some detest the working-class for wearing denim, eating kebabs, and not doing as they’re bloody well told. And some are simply sad bastards with a hard-on for authoritarianism and snitching on people. In other words: they’re just like us!

In fact, when it comes to Coronasteria you can barely fit a Rizla between leftist fear-junkies and their right-wing counterparts. No-one exemplifies this better than ex-fascist Pierce Morgan, who’s been at the coalface from the off, combining his desire to shut down the country with constant complaints about the consequences of shutting down the country.

Only last week Pierce stated that Britain “needs to lockdown nationally, immediately” before going on to say “they also need to ensure non-Covid patients get treated and businesses don’t go bust”. Quite right, Pierce – the government needs to make sure people don’t lose their jobs or miss medical treatments but first they need to do the one thing guaranteed to make sure people lose their jobs and miss medical treatments. Perfect.

And no, this is NOT siding with a wide-faced Tory windbag, no more than following The Rules is ‘supporting’ Boris. We’re simply manipulating the right, biding our time before hitting them with something unspecified but amazing that will humiliate the government and pave the way for Grandmaster Corbyn to reclaim the number ten throne. (As soon as he finds a party that’ll have him.)

Because only a true leftist has the nous to capitalise, unlike alt-lite Ken Starmer, whose vanilla suggestion of a two-week ‘short circuit’ lockdown was widely rubbished. Two weeks? You’re about 100 weeks short, pal. We need to lockdown for at least two years to get these filthy spreaders in line, with everyone isolating for the duration so the STAYATHOME# rangers get to experience life without shops, water, electricity, phones, TV or radio. Sure, there’ll also be no broadband, making it harder for the #STAYATHOME rangers to tell everyone how ‘liberating’ it all is but we’ll think of something. Perhaps working-class folk could power the internet by running on giant treadmills so the rest of us can continue posting pics of our artisan craft projects on Instabook? It’s the least they could do after they voted for Brex(sh)it.

Whatever happens, you can be certain we’ll carry on holding the Tories to account by promoting their poxy restrictions. And no-one has promoted those poxy restrictions better than the brave Newcastle City councillors who’ve been instrumental in fooling the Tories into doing our bidding.

Or have they? Because despite everything I’ve just written it seems they may have bottled it. Indeed, before Lockdown 2 was announced they were claiming infections in the North East had dropped, with reckless talk of restrictions being relaxed rather than increased. And now they’re appearing on telly bragging about the North East being one of the few places where infection rates are flattening. Is this part of the plan? Or have Nick and co been blackmailed into taking the anti-lockdown dollar by Julia Hartley-Brewdog and The Daily Fail? Whatever the explanation, something is clearly off about the sneaky turncoats I’ve just spent a whole blog lauding.

They should take a look at how the pandemic was handled by other provincial shitholes. Take Nottingham Forest, wisely put in the top tier weeks ago, meaning most of its inhabitants will die but at least the survivors get to see out the rest of their short lives foraging for weeds on abandoned building sites. Which is a fairly generous outcome for a city that looks like Sunderland if it were gangraped and left for dead. Sadly, anyone who’s spent five minutes in this Gamora will know instantly why infections are so high: notorious burger-and-tits brothel Hoofters, where self-hating waitresses wander around in tiny orange shorts with their fanny lips hanging out. Is it any wonder they’ve all caught the non-Chinese flu?

Ditto Manchester, which, thanks to Lord Mayor Larry Burnham’s masterstroke – feigning anger over tougher restrictions in his city despite the fact that he wants tougher restrictions everywhere – was safely under lock and key a fortnight before the rest of us. And you only have to look at the deranged anti-lockdown talk from brick-think rockers Iain Brown and Liam Gallagher to know that the Mancs thoroughly deserves it. Happily, the shaggy-haired twosome got their comeuppance when they were roundly mocked and accused of being Tories, despite the fact that they’ve never voted Tory, have repeatedly slagged off the Tories, and were objecting to the actions of a Tory government. The two-faced bastards.

So there it is. From Geordie heroes to spineless zeros in 2000 words. Slow handclap, Newcastle. Still, lockdown-lite is better than no lockdown at all so do your best, Tories! We’re right behind you! Honest! Granted, we’ve stuck a knife in your back and a girl-dick up your arse but we’re behind you all the same!

In the meantime, spare a thought for our progressive brothers and zizters across the pond, who no longer have a right-wing fruitcake with shit hair to hold to account and cry about on Twitter. In fact they won’t have anything to cry about as they tend not to be arsed about the awful shit the president does when he’s a Democrat. You thought four years of Trump was bad? Imagine four years without him. Shudder.

Still, at least with Joe Bidet and Queen Kamala in the driving seat the yanks get to spend those four years in glorious lockdown: masked-up, unemployed, without a pot to piss in or a Trump to throw it over.

See how it’s done, Nick?

The Sanderson Tapes #1 (AUDIO)

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Newcastle City Hall, 1993: Bob Sanderson delivers his seminal six-hour speech on the construction of the Cradlewell Bypass. 

By Ben Pensant

Some men are born great. Some have greatness thrust upon them. And some are neither but achieve both by standing in the gravy-stained backroom of a provincial pub giving never-ending lectures on the Poplar Rates Rebellion to three students, two disgraced geography teachers, a comatose baker and his dead whippet.

Readers of a certain age will instantly recognise that this is what hard left activism looked like in the ’80s and ’90s, and weep for that halcyon era of stale beer and youthful anarchy. Because as thrilling as it was watching St. Jezza transform Labour from a mediocre party with half a chance of beating the Tories to a deeply unpopular one with more chance of winning Britain’s Got Talents, the militant left haven’t always had the luxury of a major political movement with which to spread socialism, create a fairer society, and steal people’s houses.

Back then, the closest those of us on the frontline got to power and influence was flogging Friend of ALF’ and ‘Murdoch’s a puff’ badges at Grey’s Monument on rain-lashed Tuesday afternoons. Sure, the contemporary intersectional left may be just as principled as their forefathers, they may share their love of push-bikes and moth-eaten cardies, and may have a similar penchant for loudly denouncing fascism while defending the most fascistic regimes on earth. But few modern radicals have experienced the white-knuckle thrill of educating braindead shoppers and cider-drenched tramps on the importance of the Salvadorian Pheasant Uprising while dodging a relentless barrage of fast-food and hockle hurled by all manner of thugs, pensioners, and police officers.

I was still a teenager when the agit-prop bug bit, earning my stripes after several afternoons spent waving placards, harassing motorists, and dodging toecaps from Krappa-clad soccer ‘casuals’. But it wasn’t long before I was warmly welcomed into the higher echelons of Newcastle’s hard-left activist scene, becoming a full-time member of the Co-operative Union of North Tyneside Socialists. Within weeks I’d completed a series of complex initiation rituals which included pissing on Anthony Lambton’s grave, drawing a cock on the Duke of Northumbria’s Range Rover, and vowing to strangle my Uncle Keith for once laughing at gap-toothed scouse Tory Jimmy Tarbrush.

Fortunately, the very real prospect of jail was a risk worth taking as I’d heard beguiling whispers that the lucky few who successfully completed these gruelling tasks often received exotic rewards, such as all-expenses-paid trips to Havana or sightseeing tours of Barcelona and Seville. Needless to say, I was on cloud nine when I learnt that my prize was free entry to a four-hour lecture on the Carnation Revolution at the Dunston Excelsior.

To be honest I remember little of the speech, though I’m certain that whatever form of direct action those brave evaporated milk workers took against their greedy bosses was entirely justifed. But the reason the details have slipped from my memory is because it was on that frosty, grey afternoon that I met the man who would change my life, and by extension British history, forever.

I won’t wax too lyrical about the unimpeachable greatness of Bob Sanderson because it’s old hat to those of us who knew, loved, and were regularly touched up by the man. Needless to say with the Corbyn project temporarily on ice while vile Tory-in-disguise Ken Starmer inadvertently paves the way for the Angel of Islington’s stunning return, there has never been a better time to remember Bob. And make no mistake, it’s the least he deserves, having made his mark scrapping in the ideological trenches long before it became fashionable, putting both Newcastle and the ale-houses he was regularly barred from firmly on the militant map.

Born in South Africa in the ’50s, Robert Abraham Sanderson was educated in Joannasberg, experiencing the horrors of apartheid first hand via his sugar baron father and the Sandersons’ trio of black housekeepers. After cashing in his trust fund and disowning his family he spent his twenties travelling the world seeking out revolutionary groups, paying particular attention to the nascent, less-trumpeted radical movements springing up in Bangkok and Amsterdamn.

When those insurrections fizzled out he settled in London, becoming an apprentice to legendary Workers Revolutionary League firebrand Jerry Healy and spending the next few years successfully expanding both his activism and property portfolio. Sadly, after a disagreement with his mentor Bob was forced to leave the WRL under a cloud, becoming disillusioned with politics and all but abandoning activism for a quiet life in the midlands.

The next few years were spent reading Norm Chomsky, researching the patriarchy, and turning his operational penthouse in Birmingham City Centre into a walk-in workshop to educate eager young leftist women on the importance of feminism in the ongoing battle to overthrow the establishment. These intellectual soirees were enlivened by lashings of Bob’s infamous organic homebrew and remain fondly – and foggily – remembered by all concerned. Indeed, in a lighthearted spin on the old adage about the ’60s, it’s often said that if you remember going to a lecture on the class struggle at Bob Sanderson’s luxury flat then you probably weren’t fingered in the bathroom by him.

Fortunately, after a chance encounter with a 15-year-old homeless girl who relieved Bob of his wallet on some wasteground behind Clifton Steel, Bob decided he’d been out of the game long enough and rolled into Newcastle Upon Tyne just as the horrors of Thatcherism were being unleashed.

Sensing insurrection in the Tyneside air, the newly energised Bob quickly allied himself with the region’s various leftists factions, falling out with all of them before forming his own group, the aforementioned Co-operative Union of North Tyneside Socialists. As well as engaging in all manner of grassroots socialist activism, the C.U.N.T.S vowed to adapt to the zetigeist by focusing on hot button social issues such as lesbian rights, workplace equality, and a long running campaign to relax draconian licensing laws so Bob could fulfill his dream of opening a fully socialised, Marxist lap-dancing club. The group was a runaway success, and by the early ’90s Bob had become one of the most well known and feared militant left-wingers in the north-east.

Week after week he gave rousing speeches to half-packed houses at the Broken Doll or the Cumberbatch Arms, covering such prescient topics as the Criminal Justice Bill and the Dog Tax Wars of 1888. These riotous get-togethers were legendary and few people who witnessed Bob in his pomp will ever forget them. In fact, until a certain bearded jam enthusiast from Islington quietly altered humanity with his warmth, dignity, and weird obsession with manhole covers, Bob was easily the most important influence on my political awakening. Indeed, I know of at least the three fellow Geordies who’d say the same thing, not least the landlords of the various pubs he spread his message from, who consequently saw huge increases in profit, popularity, and fire-bombing campaigns.

Yep, Bob had enemies. And as the north-east’s most high profile subversive it wasn’t long before he became an enemy of the state. Needless to say, despite his many victories Bob endured years of smears and persecution, and few were surprised when he vanished in 1999 after being wrongly accused of fraud, sexual harassment, and being intoxicated while in control of a stolen unicycle.

Naturally, there was zero substance to any of these claims, the police and his accusers pathetically attempting to back up their libel with circumstantial nonsense such as bank statements, fingerprints, and a series of increasingly drunken answer phone messages. The damage was done, however, and Bob was left with no choice but to depart for pastures new, a victim of systemic right-wing scaremongering some 16 years before it became official government policy after Jezmania swept the nation.

Of course, they covered their backs, and within weeks of Bob’s disappearance a vicious rumour started circulating through the craft shops and off licenses of Byker that his uncle, a high ranking CQ, had used his Freemason connections to get the charges dropped on condition that Bob changed his identity and forged a new career as a merchant banker in Zurich. And if you believe that you’ll believe the moon is round.

Because the Bob I knew would sooner flog his prized collection of Leo Trotsky’s toenail clippings than sell his soul to capitalism. And while his whereabouts remain shrouded in mystery, I’m certain he’s having the last laugh, perhaps enjoying a glass of scotch and a game of strip poker with other brave leftists forced out of public life by smear and innuendo, such as Johnny Hoffa or Guy Forks.

But you don’t have to take my word for it. Because now, thanks to months of careful planning and exhaustive research, the British public can finally hear Bob Sanderson’s words of wisdom for themselves…

A few months ago while hiding in my mam’s loft in order to evade alt-right bailiffs determined to squeeze me for a piddling six months unpaid rent, I stumbled across a box of C90s nestled between a 1976 Follyfoot annual and Castle Greenskull. My heart raced. Suddenly, after spending several days gripped with fear, I felt alive. The very real threat of two bearded thugs in bomber jackets tipping me upside down and squeezing my head until two grand popped out of my arsehole vanished in one hot minute.

Because these anonymous, dusty cassettes are little slices of history: hundreds of Bob Sanderson’s early ’90s speeches recorded for posterity and passed down to yours truly by the man himself. Like Bob, these tapes were assumed missing for decades, casualties of my fascist parents bourgeois obsession with moving house every three years. But thankfully as a result of my principled refusal to bow down to conformity by paying bills and funding the coke habits of greedy landlords, this precious treasure trove can be enjoyed anew. And trust me, that battered tuppaware box boasted some of Bob’s most seminal work, from his poignant vigil for the Muslim serial killer who murdered and devoured 15 young men, to his campaign to open the north-east’s first branch of the Paedophile Information Exchange in Cowgate.

So, with the help of some likeminded tech-savvy leftists, I’ve spent lockdown painstakingly curating these recordings, transferring Bob’s finest performances to the digital realm and editing them into bite-sized chunks, which I intend to post on this blog and share with my army of five readers over the coming months. It’s been a long, taxing, arduous process but much like spending a few hours in Bob’s company, it was well worth the sore arse.

In these times of austerity and despair, with the right-wing establishment increasingly rattled by the rejuvenated left, there’s never been a  better time to revisit the work of a man who touched so many modern middle-aged leftists, leaving a long trail of informed radicals and illegal abortions in his wake.

So let’s leave the sodden wasteland of 2020 and transport ourselves back to the balmy summer of ’92. There, in the glamorous drawing room of The Raby on Shields Road, a charismatic socialist is holding court, taking time out from battling sexual harassment claims to educate and enchant his loyal followers. Later that day, Bob would petition Blyth Valley Council to sack spam-faced scab Ronny Campbell for voting Leave 25 years later. But in the meantime, press play below and stick your head around the door: there’s an exciting trip to Durham being planned and I’d hate for you to miss it…

Recorded and edited by John Egdell. Special thanks to Michael Atkinson, Michael Egdell, Traci Armstrong, Kirsty Barton and Kirsty Dowell.

Dry Pussy Blues

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Evil Shapero plays a sombre lament for his wife’s sandpaper minge. 

By Ben Pensant

Still need proof that right-wingers are stuck in the past? That they’re ageing fossils yearning for simpler, more racist times? Out of touch reactionaries who neither respect nor understand the youth of today, whose freedom and intelligence they resent and fear? If your answer is ‘yes’ then please flush your head down the nearest toilet. But first I suggest you close that book, pick up your iPhone, and read up on the recent online furore over Ben Shapero’s wet fanny. Or rather, his wife’s dry fanny but we’ll come on that – sorry, come to that – later.

Because few things show up conservatives for the dinosaurs they are than their inane, archaic thoughts on modern pop music. Which were offered this week when Nazi Jew Shapero used his shitty radio show to lay into WOC rapper Cardy B’s controversial new single Wet Arsed Pussy. Needless to say, dangerous fogey Ben proudly displayed his right-wing credentials by raging against the track’s x-rated lyrics about love, equality, and gallons of fanny batter. Indeed, Ben’s judgemental whining couldn’t have been more out of touch if he’d whipped his dick out and stuck it in a tub of Benny Jerry’s as a dirty protest against the mega-rich ice cream magnate’s principled support for migrants (as long as they’re not Mexicans). Because as any self-respecting millennial progressive knows all too well, the only people allowed to have puritanical strops about pop singers are leftists.

Yes, not for the first time an evil righty has tried to pass himself off as a Good Person by giving their grubby right-wing ideology a shiny, liberal makeover. We’ve already seen GMTV gobshite and Ben’s old adversary Pierce Morgan virtue-signalling about Covid-18 and blindly supporting BLM despite not having a clue what they stand for. Now we have a far-right Mossad agent deciding he gets to police what female singers write about, when everyone and their Twitter alias knows that’s the job of middle-class feminists without a creative bone in their bodies.

The maddening thing is, everything Shapero said about Cardy B and her obscene new track was correct. WAP features more worrying content than a Daily Heil editorial meeting, not least its title which doubles up as an anti-Italian slur hugely insulting to dagos and greaseballs. As for the video, which features semi-nude Cardy and a female friend wandering around an ostentatious mansion, grinding their ample curves and luscious booties together while rapping about squirting in each other’s faces, trust me when I say it doesn’t get any less problematic after twelve-and-a-quarter viewings.

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Cardy B flashes her WAP.

As for Cardy herself, from working as a stripper to speaking out against ‘cancel culture’, she’s been whoring for the establishment ever since she burst into the scene, selling out her Afro-Carribean brothers and sisters by bigging up warmongering former President Franklin D.Eisenhower and collaborating with toxic white sex-pests Maroon 4. And the least sad about her outdated obsession with promoting heterosexual sex the better.

The problem is, as justified as Ben’s outrage was, it’s not his job to say it: it’s ours. We claimed Mary St.Whitehouse as One Of Ours several years ago, and no amount of right-wing whining about Stormsy’s knife collection can steal her back. Still it’s a shame Ben chose the dark side as he would’ve made a great leftist: he’s prudish, he’s moralistic, he’s utterly cluless about popular culture. He even says ‘p-word’ instead of pussy, describes bullshit as ‘BS’, and is more likely to declare “Gosh darn if that bee-hind ain’t the size of Walton Mountain!” than “Fuck me, that lass in the leopard skin bra’s got a massive arse”.

The difference is, unlike modern leftists Ben doesn’t impose his beliefs on anyone else: he might object to homosexuality on religious grounds but has no desire to imprison gays and is happy for adults to sleep with whoever they like. He also regularly meets, debates, and befriends liberals he disagrees with – such as slaphead strongman-cum-alt-right-adjacent thug Joel Rogan – and has long defended free speech for everyone, not just people he likes. The shifty coward.

Which proves conclusively that Ben’s anti-Cardy rant was all for show, a lame attempt to curry favour with the left so that when Joe Bidet becomes President we don’t tie the Nev Flanders-voiced neo-con to a chair and throw him off Trump Tower. Because if Ben really cared he’d have attacked the song’s blatant transphobia, and pointed out that the phrase ‘wet arsed pussy’ is grossly offensive to transwomen, whose pussies tend to be drier than the Gobo desert.

Luckily, Shapero go what was coming to him after he took to Twitter to expand upon his video. “My only real concern is that the women involved – who apparently need a ‘bucket and a mop’ – get the medical care they require. My doctor wife’s differential diagnosis: bacterial vaginosis, yeast infection, or trichomonis.”

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Lady Shapero’s vagina, yesterday.

Sure enough the Twitter literalists pounced, and decreed that this unsubtle, not-particularly funny attempt at a joke was actually an admission that his wife’s privates are about as damp as a sunburnt Ryvita. So Ben’s longwinded observation that anyone whose vagina leaks so much it requires domestic cleaning products should probably see a doctor became a huge self-own, casting doubts upon the state of Mrs Shapero’s under-carriage and confirming that it sees about as much action as Boris Johnston’s comb.

Indeed, the tweet delighted sensitive male feminists so much they demonstrated their disgust at macho culture and toxic masculinity by mocking Ben’s sexual prowess and penis size. (Which is understandable, as the ability to sexually satisfy a women is a cornerstone of being a male feminist, whether the woman in question asked to be sexually satisfied or not.) They were bravely backed up by their blue-haired female counterparts, who temporarily suspended their aversion to shaming and sexualising women in order to scold a wife and mother they don’t know for marrying a Republican and spend all day discussing her sapless, neglected snatch.

Of course, none of this washed for a second. Indeed, the idea that a Republican Jewess with a bone-dry fadge would put up with a sexless marriage is ludicrous: as anyone who’s watched Rachel O’Riley and Tracey-Ann Doberman spend the last few years sucking off the Tories knows, these right-wing Zio bitches love the cock.

But that’s by the bi. Whatever the truth of the matter, it was a great day’s work: a self-hating pop star got cut down to size, an alt-right goon was shown up as a charlatan, and hordes of creepy progressives earned a free pass to spend all day speculating about one man’s failure to make his wife’s front-bottom weep like a broken egg.

Job done, point scored, bigotry defeated. I can’t wait to hear what Ben thinks of that self-hating bitch Lana Del Ray’s vulgar poetry collection. Go get her, needle-dick!

Mask of Sorrow

 

 

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A brave key-worker carefully navigates the contagion buffet at her local Budgens.

By Ben Pensant

Nazis come in all shapes and sizes: Nazi Tories, Nazi Republicans, Nazi Blairites, Nazi Gays, Nazi Blacks, Nazi Muslims. Hell, you even get Nazi Jews these days, though they tend to just call themselves ‘Jews’. Like most Nazis, they’re all united by a hatred of progressivism, a desire to murder leftists, and the fact that none of them are actually Nazis.

But the worst modern Nazis are those ‘FREEDOM!’-screeching whoremasters who pride themselves on doing whatever the hell they like. Yes, I’m talking about Libertarians, who’ve spent the last month losing their shit over the government finally doing the right thing and making face-masks compulsory in shops in order to contain Covid-18, protect the public, and curry favour with journalists who hate them.

For the unininitiated, Libertarians are basically Nazis who don’t like crowds. Their goal is the destruction of the nanny state, which they hope to achieve via democracy, debate, and shaking their fists at Stop signs. As a result they despise rules and regulations and think health and safety legislation should be scrapped, believing hairy-arsed brickies should be made to read the collected works of Ayn Randy instead.

Predictably, being denied a pint for four months left them whining endlessly about their ‘civil rights’ being under threat (yawn), reaching its crescendo with last month’s announcement that if they want to pop to Tesco’s to steal a can of pop and thumb through Fox-Hunting For Dummies they’ll have to debase themselves by covering their faces for a whole two-and-a-half minutes. (Three if the pushy technocrat behind the counter infringes their liberty by demanding they pay for the plastic knives they shoved down their trousers.)

Because nothing gets a Libertarian Nazi’s goat like being told what to do, despite the fact that Libertarian Nazis are exactly the type of people who need to be told what to do. Indeed, it demonstrates the left’s enduring tolerance that even when we’re told what to do by a government we loathe we suck it up, follow their orders, and make sure every fucker in earshot knows about it. And people have the nerve to call us partisan dipshits. Ha.

No such principled kowtowing from Libertarians, whose fierce sense of entitlement is matched only by their burning desire to play on train-tracks and sell fireworks to six-year-olds. Led by the crypto-fascist fake leftists of Spike magazine, they sneakily conceal their Nazism by obsessing over personal freedoms and not being remotely like Nazis. Indeed, if you actually research Libertarianism instead of waiting for OJ Jones to tell you what it is, it’s clear that it’s pretty much the polar opposite of Nazism. Which is why research is inherently problematic and probably makes you a Nazi too. So stop it.

All we need to know is that they think seatbelts are the work of the devil and consider being asked to wear a piece of cloth an act of violence on par with being called ‘pet’ by a northern misogynist or forced to share a bus with a fleet of coffin-dodging Leave voters. These privileged morons should step outside of their alt-right bubble and spend five minutes on Twitter listening to real liberals. Then they’d know what suffering’s all about.

Because believe it or not, there are people who have to cover their faces for a lot longer than the 60 seconds it takes to swagger into a paper-shop, steal a packet of Ringos and spraypaint ‘Pakis out!’ on the counter, like Shaun and Convoy in Made In Britain. So without further ado, here are my Top Five Marginalised Groups Who’ve Been Wearing Masks For Years And Don’t Whinge Half As Much As Bloody Libertarians.

5. Perverts

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Not actual perverts, like Harvey Wankstain, people who sleep with Tories, or transphobic ‘lesbians’ who refuse to have sex with burly plumbers with their knackers cut off. No, I’m talking about the non-binary counter-culture progressives bravely reclaiming the word ‘pervert’ from dead Tories with oranges in their gobs by dressing up as cats and turning themselves into six-foot Barby Dolls.

 

Heroes such as child rentboy sensation Desmond Does Dallas or that NSPCCC bloke who got caught wanking at work in fetish gear have been covering their faces in all manner of pantalones and gimp masks for years, yet do they twist their faces about it? Do they ball(gag)s. That they do it all while fizzed-up to the eyeballs on poppers only adds to their bravery.

4. The Antifas

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My dear, dear Antifas. Day in day out they hit the streets to face off against Nazis in the boiling cauldron of Portland, Oregano: wielding bike locks, harassing old ladies, and swaggering around town dressed as non-binary ninjas. Yet I’m struggling to remember hearing one of these balaclava-clad soldiers whine that they feel ‘silly’ or complain about a nasty case of chin-chafe. Funny that.

They also put the public first when fighting fascism by observing social distancing as while they assault college lecturers who disagrees with them. Which is doubly impressive when you consider that the group’s entire raison d’etroit is to hang out in large groups and get in people’s faces, as anyone who saw the recent video of a brave Antifa throwing paint at an evil octogenarian while his brave colleague screamed “Put a mask on!” at her knows. It speaks volumes about the Antifas’ open mindedness that they’ll happily follow rules set by a fascist government they hate if it gifts them a chance to pick on a pensioner.

Still, while they’re careful not to get too close to the journalists and pretend-feminists they try to educate by kicking in the head, they won’t think twice about ramming 12″ corona-sodden nightsticks up their enemies’ anuses. Because nothing screams ‘modern left’ like a spot of socially distanced assault and battery. Be warned.

3. Muslim Men

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Not all Muslim men, obvs. Those awful ‘moderate’ Muslims who just want a quiet life, have zero interest in the Kaliphate, and wouldn’t be seen dead in a face-covering can get knotted. Never mind masks, these sell-outs don’t even have beards.

No, I’m talking about REAL Muslim men: the crusading masked warriors who do all the work while their spineless Islamic ‘brothers’ sit at home twiddling their turbans. And they don’t just wear masks when popping to Wilko for a new hacksaw: they wear them in the scorching desert heat of theocratic utopias like Ragga, while also grappling with systemic Islamophobia and the knowledge that Julien Clary is still alive.

Yet do they complain? Did John Jihadi ever say “Sorry Mo, I’d love to slice off this infidel marine’s bonce but I’m afraid it’s a bit sticky under this mask”? Did the Saudi’s infamous top executioner Muhammad Saad al-Bishbosh ever tell the crown prince “I hate to be awkward, Bin, but is there any chance I could sit this one out? This cowl has been chafing my nose all day”? Did they heck. These Libertarian pussies should try walking a mile in a jihadist’s sandals. Except they can’t because they probably think footwear is another example of bureaucracy gone mad. Silly me.

2. Muslim Women

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Let’s be clear: these girls rock. Not only do they never leave the house without face coverings, the hardcore sisters never leave the house at all unless they’ve got a man in tow to ensure they don’t flash an ankle bracelet and incite a posse of bus-driver into gang-raping them.

Like all truly observant Muslims they wear masks in baking heat, safe in the knowledge that if they remove them for some fresh air they run the risk of a compassionate beating from their husband or that posse of bus-drivers. Consequently it’s common for women in Muslim countries to contend with uncomfortable facial scars sustained the last time they disrespected Alla (PBHU), yet I don’t recall ever hearing any of them moaning about their ‘agency’ being eroded.

They even keep their faces covered when they’re getting executed. If Christopher Hitchens and Brendan O’Bollocks think wearing a mask for five minutes is such a huge imposition I’d love to hear them whining about ‘paternalism’ while getting pelted with rocks.

Sadly, most Muslim ladies don’t wear masks, defying the Kerrang daily by applying lipstick, flaunting their cheekbones, and promoting the imperialist notion that freedom and equality are more important than flying horses and paedo-warlords. Frankly, it’s high time someone told those Iranian hussies throwing their headscarves off with queer abandon that only middle-class Muslims in Islington are allowed to do that.

1. NHS Workers

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Is there anything they can’t do? Day after day they’re saving lives, keeping the country safe, and performing hilarious dance routines on Tik-Tak. And thanks to that callous penny-pincher Boris the Beast, they do it while wearing the same sweat-drenched PPPE underpaid hospital cleaners use to scrub cancer-shit off the toilet walls. (Thank fuck all the hospitals are empty.)

And do they complain? Do they knackers. They simply get on with it, fighting the virus with all their might, ignoring such trivial concerns as heart transplants and hip replacements to spend every second crushing a virus that most people won’t contract. And still they remain unsung heroes, despite the fact that they’re constantly being told how awesome they are and until recently had the whole country banging saucepans in a weekly nationwide circle-jerk. That they do all this while the PM whose fat arse they’re saving plots to murder them is impressive enough, but to do it while wearing a mask for a lot longer than it takes James Delingpool to smugly wander around Waitrose like a posh, four-eyed Rosie Parks takes balls of steel.

Angels, in a word: truly the best of Britain. Unless they vote Tory, treated Boris when he pretended to have Covid, or appeared on telly claiming their hospitals had plenty of PPPE and the shortage was massively exaggerated. They’re all cunts.

All of which begs the question: How do the rest of us become allies to these latter day saints? Well, for me it was simple. I decided the only way to fully empathise with these modern martyrs was to walk a mile in their shoes. Which I did by taking a week off from calling JK Rowland a ‘slag’ on Twitter and spending that valuable free time adopting the various identities of these wonderfully brave groups.

But I didn’t merely experience the myriad hardships they each endure: I did it while kneeling in solidarity with BLM, permanently, 24/7, just in case any concerned leftist saw me not kneeling and reported me to Pierce Morgan. (Whose transformation from right-wing bigot to fearless SJW has been one of the unexpected joys of this glorious period of mass unemployment and old people dying.)

It was painful, tore the skin from my knees, and earnt me days of suspicious looks from stuffy Tories at bus-stops, but if the marginalised can put up with a bit of discomfort in the name of saving lives than a white man like me can handle a spot of chronic backache and bloodstained jeans. So, like a intersectional Craig Davids, I set off:

On Monday I put on stockings, suspenders and my favourite speccy-kid-from-Gerry-Maguire mask and masturbated furiously over a video of James O’Brian shouting at a Brexity plumber from Swinton.

On Tuesday I donned a ski mask and firebombed the local church hall’s parent and toddler group after a stray Gollywog was spotted lurking in the Wendy House.

On Wednesday I cut eye-holes in my mam’s best tablecloth, placed it over my head, threw a camp-looking Ken Doll off a garage roof then beheaded a chicken.

On Thursday I went to Asda, walked two paces behind a man, then removed my veil and slapped myself gently on the cheek after accidentally flashing my bare arms.

On Friday I wore a sweat-and-toil-drenched mask, filmed myself doing the YMCA dance on my lunch break, before driving through various red lights while harassing a trauma surgeon on Twitter for not hating the Tories as much as I do. Then stitched that chicken’s head back on.

And on Saturday I told everyone about it on Facebook, cried about the second wave of Covid-18 about to decimate the north, cried again thinking about all the new infections caused by selfish idiots drinking in pubs, then dried my eyes and cheered up immediately after reminding myself that they probably all deserved to get it anyway for voting Leave and eating kebabs.

I then took my mask off, had a coughing fit, called an ambulance, and threw up all over the paramedic. It’s the least they deserve.

PUT. IT. ON.

 

 

 

 

 

Picture Imperfect

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Joe Wiley entertains troops at last year’s annual Al Quds Day rally.

By Ben Pensant

They just can’t help themselves, can they? First they crash us out of the EU, then they get rid of St. Jezza, now they’ve decided to flush the concept of subjectivity down the same ideological crapper as peaceful protest, the Liberal Democrats, and a middle-aged man’s right to get his kit off in Topshop.

And this latest assault on progressivism is the modern right’s nastiest yet. Not content with destroying the logical, inclusive notion that a child’s gender has nothing to do with ‘biology’ and is actually determined by whether they prefer Tonka Dolls to Barbie Trucks, they’ve now declared that if you post a photo of someone online the name in the caption absolutely MUST correspond with the person in the picture. Jesus H. Corbyn.

Yes, I’m talking about The Guardian, and the recent fury directed at star columnist Owen ‘OJ’ Jones by an army of fascist trolls and self-hating Peoples of Colour because a piece he wrote about misunderstood rapper Joe Wiley was accompanied by – the horror! – a picture of fellow misunderstood rapper Kanu. Cue an avalanche of invective from right-wing bullies accusing OJ and the G of racism for mixing up a black pop star with another black pop star. And not just any black pop star, but a black pop star fond of making sharp observations about the inherent evil of Jews.

Personally I don’t know what Kanu’s issue is – I’d be honoured if a newspaper got me mixed up with a brave truth teller like Wiley. The only problem is, they hadn’t. Because as anyone who’s been paying attention knows, in 2020 nothing is quite as it seems. And despite what the frothing loons calling for OJ’s head might say, the photograph used was Wiley. Don’t believe me? Read on.

Okay, technically the photo was of Kanu, by virtue of the fact that Kanu was literally the person in the photo. But where did the photo come from? I’ll tell you where: Google. Which begs the question: who died and made them the authority on who’s Kanu and who isn’t? Why should moneybags capitalists who employ virulent sex pets like James Damora get to assign a name to a person in a photo based on nothing more than the fact that that’s what the person in the photo is called? We already have bigoted doctors deciding non-binary babies are male or female simply by checking between their legs and look where that got us.

No, who or what a photo depicts is in the eye of the beholder, like beauty, gender and whether or not someone is a Nazi. Don’t believe me? Check out this picture of a well-known Hollywood star:samuel-l-jackson-shows-off-nick-furys-shield-business-card-which-has-a-fun-call-back-to-pulp-fiction-social

Now, as far as photo-fascists are concerned, this is Samual L. Jackson as Mick Fury in Avengers 5. They’ll swear blind this is the case because society has brainwashed them into such dangerous binary thinking, and also because it demonstrably is Samual L. Jackson as Mick Fury in Avengers 5. But when were the alt-right appointed arbiters of who is and who isn’t Samual L. Jackson? Since bloody never.

Because, actually, that picture is Larry Fishbone as Neon in John Matrix. Why? Because I say it is and unless you want to deligitimise my right to believe Samual L. Jackson is Larry Fishbone you can damn well go along with it. If I say that’s Larry Fishbone in John Matrix then it is Larry Fishbone in John Matrix, regardless of the fact that it isn’t. And there’s sod all JK Rowland or Julia Hartley-Brexit can do about it.

As you may have noticed, this is a touchy subject for me, as I’m often wrongly accused of getting people mixed up. Indeed, since launching this blog four years ago I’ve been repeatedly harassed by pedantic right-wing halfwits who seem to think my opinions on political and cultural issues are somehow worthless because their tiny brains need to be spoonfed a photo of Gary Neville in an article about Gary Neville when any idiot knows a picture of his brother Phil is just as valid.

Plus, their tiresome claim that I ‘always’ get people mixed up couldn’t be more wrong. Indeed, most of the times I’ve been accused of using the wrong photo I’ve actually used the right one, such as this delightful picture of Diane Abbott looking radiant on a yacht which accompanied my 2016 piece on Lady Di’s brave humanitarian work:

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More importantly, even on the odd occasion when I have used a photo that technically wasn’t the person I said it was, it is entirely irrelevant because on the day I used that picture they were that person. See? The fact that in 2020 I still need to explain this to right-wing dunces is utterly tragic.

Thankfully, OJ did the decent thing and apologised for the ‘mix-up’, despite the fact that it wasn’t a mix-up and had bugger all to do with him. For his troubles he got ambushed by cancel-happy trolls convinced the photo was used deliberately, who refused to accept his apology and were utterly incapable of grasping that the photo was picked by a picture editor, not Owen. Still, given his passionate defence of cancel culture and Twitter mobs on the grounds that punishing people for stuff they haven’t done is simply a way of holding them to account, he can hardly complain when a Twitter mob holds him to account for something he didn’t do, can he?

Instead, Owen made an emotional video pleading his innocence, mumbled a few banal platitudes about systemic racism-or-something, then said ‘sorry’ and vowed to Do Better. Good lad. See how it’s done, Toby? The world may be about to end but it’s comforting to know we can always rely on a spineless modern leftist to cravenly prostrate himself on social media when he’s done nothing wrong.

Or had he?

Let’s back up for a second. Sure, this piece was published in The Guardian, Fleat Street’s last bastion for progressive ideas, left-wing rabble-rousing, and searing think-pieces on the latent fascism of Tommy the Tank Engine. But as all decent Corbynites know, in recent years the paper has soiled its reputation by printing the odd column critical of the Dear Leader, which they pathetically tried to compensate for by printing significantly more about how bloody awesome he is.

Indeed, these sporadic anti-Corbyn pieces were instrumental in Labour losing the last election (and the one before), denying St. Jezza the celebratory election night three-way he’d been promised by flame-haired minx Amanda Rayner and communist fuck-champion Ash Starkers.

The more I think about it the fishier it becomes. (The OJ photo mix-up that is, not Jezza getting double-teamed by Ash and Mandy.) And it becomes even murkier when you remember that The Guardian did the same thing a few days earlier when they reported the death of Britpop singer Denise Johnston (below) with an accompanying photo of mass-murdering Prime Molester BORIS Johnston.

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Either The Guardian is deliberately disseminating racism and misogyny or the recent cuts have hit so hard that they’ve given the job of picture editor to the bloke who washes Polly Toynbee’s incontinence pads. White supremacist messaging or unpaid intern fuckwittery? I’ll let you decide. (It’s clearly white supremacist messaging.) But whoever’s responsible, the fact remains that to get two People of Coloured mixed up once is unforgiveable, to do it twice in the same week is criminal.

Sadly for OJ there’s no coming back from this. After defying Lod Corbyn four years ago he was given one last chance to prove himself and this is how he thanks us. We even rewarded his efforts to make up for that betrayal by promising him that when Labour swept to power we’d only hang him once. He can forget all that now.

So if you’re reading, Owen, I’m afraid that tear-stained apology is fooling no-one. As much as we’d love to remember you for your sterling work spreading Corbynism and helping Jezza become the first leader in history to win two elections in a row by coming second, from hereon you will be forever known as the former leftist who thinks black people all look the same. You made your bed, comrade. DEAL WITH IT.

In the meantime, let’s send our warm wishes to the real victim here, rap superstar Kanu, who I’m proud to call a friend and an ally despite having never heard of him until last Friday. And to show that we true leftists don’t have a systemically racist bone in our fascism-scarred bodies, here’s a photo I took last night of Kanu ripping it up at a socially distanced invite-only VIP show at the Cumberland Arms, Byker, the proceeds of which will fund Joe Wiley’s forthcoming legal action against Twitter, Rachel O’Riley, and the Zionist Federation of Britain. (We’re coming for you.)

Rock on, K!

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