Platinum Blues: My Jubilee Hell

By Ben Pensant

A week ago today, while Boris Johnston dozed under cum-stained Union Jack covers dreaming of cupcakes, village greens, and genocidal imperialism, I was awoken at the ungodly hour of 10.30 by my bedroom door being violently kicked in. Before I had a chance to send Kev Starmer his daily death threat I was dragged from my bed by a trio of masked intruders, bound, gagged, blindfolded and bundled into the boot of what I assume was a Volkswagon Beatle, AKA ‘Hitler’s fanny magnet’. The vehicle raced around town at breakneck speed, honking its horns and mowing down brown pedestrians as my kidnappers snarled ‘I wouldn’t even rape you!’ at terrified transwomen.

Suddenly the car screeched to a halt and one of the men jumped out and spat at a gay couple enjoying a cream horn, returning seconds later in fits of joy having presumably planted a bomb in a Polish restaurant. This pattern repeated several times before we finally stopped. After ten minutes of nail-biting silence, the boot popped open and my shaking, slightly scratched body was dropped onto a hard, damp floor where I stayed for what seemed like an eternity, breathlessly pondering my grim fate. But none of these bleak fantasies came close to the fresh hell I observed when they finally removed my blindfold. Indeed, the sight of my three assailants in long black overcoats and Trump masks wasn’t even the most terrifying thing before me. No, that would be the pile of right-wing newspapers inches from my face: twitching, snarling, and splattered with what I prayed to Allah was chocolate milkshake.

That’s right. My kidnappers had been visiting newsagents and buying up Brexit-loving hate sheets. They were all there: The Scum, The Daily Heil, The Terrorgraph, sprawled on the floor like coiled rectangular snakes, venomous, inky, and ready to pounce. And plastered across the front page of each was the smirking, rotting face of the most evil woman in Britain. No, not JK Rowland, though both harridans share a love of large houses, bad make-up, and persecuting vulnerable men who creep into places they shouldn’t. I’m talking about the Queen, the wrinkled warmonger whose well-fed face has been dominating Tory press for weeks. And my masked captors planned to make read every last arse-licking word.

So there I sat in that cold, grey, warehouse – a perfect metaphor for Brexit Britain – as they poked me with bayonets every time I fell asleep. Unable to simply ‘ignore’ the Jubilee juggernaut and read about something more interesting like animal husbandry, I had no choice but to take it all in as the bastards had prised my eyes open with matchsticks like Roddy McDowell in A Clockwise Orange.

Page after page of corny reminiscences, pro-monarchy diatribes, problematic recipes for racist cupcakes. It was relentless, my only escape the brief seconds of bliss when the nationalist vulgarity became too much and I passed out, brutally cut short as my captors repeatedly doused my face with vinegar and force-fed me soggy cucumber sandwiches.

Finally, after what seemed like hours they tied me up again and threw me back in the boot, my face pressed against the piss-stained carpet. As disturbing as that awful trunk was, the pungent claustrophobia was actually a welcome relief from the horror of knowing the Jubilee had arrived and I was utterly incapable of avoiding it. After they dumped me on the sidewalk and drove off singing ‘I’d rather be a paki than a scot!’ I summoned the strength to crawl home then passed out in a heap on the doorstep, oblivious to my concerned mother slapping me and screaming ‘Has this little lazy shit been on the wacky baccy again?’. I think that’s when I went insane…

I know what you’re thinking. None of the above happened. And you’re right, it didn’t. But it bloody well felt like it did and that’s why I reported my fictional ordeal to the police. Because simply knowing that other people are feverishly buying right-wing rags to gobble up reactionary nonsense about crowns and corgis is ten times worse than abduction and home invasion. But the hypothetical horrors of Thursday morning were just the beginning. Because on Friday afternoon, as my battered body somehow found the courage to face the world, there was a knock at the door…

This time they didn’t even gag me. One punch to the face and I was out cold. I awoke tied to a rickety chair while a bald white man aggressively dabbed a paintbrush on my face. The smell of coffee and disinfectant suggested I was in some kind of community centre or – urgh – church hall, before my bloodshot eyes clocked the BNP paraphernalia and the horror sunk in. They’d parachuted me into a Jubilee party and there was literally no escape.

The Brexity brutality of this world was beyond anything I’ve experienced, and I once had a pint in Witherspoons. But it was the blatant parallels with an even uglier chapter in 21st century history that hit hardest. Indeed, replace the bunting, cupcakes, and face painting with swastikas, Bratwurst, and genocide I could easily have been in Nazi Germany. Powerless to protest I was forced to watch as raffles were drawn, skittles were knocked over, and plots to invade neighbouring Longbenton were hatched by goose-stepping librarians wielding cattle-prods and jam jars.

But I was most disturbed by the sheer volume of working-class attendees. Yep, the combined might of the government, the lying MSM, and the Queen Mother’s ghost had somehow convinced the most vulnerable, oppressed homeowners in the country that instead of spending their bank holiday campaigning for Palestine solidarity they should instead use their day off to celebrate a wealthy old goat they’ve never met. And revoltingly, most of these bootlickers weren’t even Royalists. Shamefully, some of them just fancied taking their kids out to have some fun and socialise with their neighbours on a sunny day. Pure evil. Because in 2022, neighbours are the last people you should be having coffee with – they could have Covid18, they could be paedophiles, they might have even voted Leave.

Needless to say, by the time my adversaries allowed me to leave, dragging me across the gravel and stuffing my trembling limbs back into that noxious boot, it was a momentary respite from the sound of flag-shagging toddlers singing Tyneside, Tyneside, Uber Alles. They dumped me outside my house once again but with no mother scrape me off the pavement and call me a ‘little wanker’ this time I simply lay there and wept for the death of democracy.

Okay, so this didn’t happen either. In fact, the closest I got to that disgusting offensive party was walking past it on my way to the police station to report the other offensive jubilee party at the spastics society next door. But I’m 110% certain what went on inside was ten times more totalitarian than the five paragraphs I just made up. And simply knowing they were happening was identical to being kidnapped and forced to pay hook-a-foreigner. Yet progressives like me were expected to simply ‘ignore’ or ‘put up’ with the knowledge that people we don’t know were doing something we don’t like, which is why we’ve been so thoroughly erased from the conversation that barely six million of us spent all weekend whingeing about it on Twitter.

Still, at least my trial was over. Or so I thought, until I awoke the next afternoon and my door burst open once again…

This time they didn’t kidnap me, they simply tied me to a rickety chair – the same pile-inducing rickety chair I’d moaned, wept, and wee-weed on the day before. After splashing my face with petrol and twisting my nipples, they shoved me in front of the TV, turned the volume up to eleven, used the bloodstained matches from the day before to prise my eyelids open, then subjected me to the most disturbing six hours of imagery I’ve ever witnessed. Yes, I’m talking about the Platinum Party Pageant Parade Thing: the cancer-blackened heart of the UK sprawled out on a rusty operating table.

The specifics have been mercifully erased from my memory, but the grotesque collage of horrors I witnessed continue to invade my psyche, an endless onslaught of epilepsy-inducing jump cuts spewed straight from Boris Johnston’s soul: Bryan Mack, Lee May, Rod Stuart, Steven Fry, Ringo McCartney, Elton Ben, Daniel White Bond, Richard Attenborough, David Peckham, Jason Dreamcoat, Ashley and his Banjo, Andrew Rice Webber, Lin Manuel Mirandinha, and countless other self-serving, soulless celebrities desperate to avoid the noose by cosying up to their Tory paymasters.

The only glimmer of hope on a hopeless day was the quiet dignity of Pooh Bear, forced at gunpoint to take tea and biscuits with Her Royal Whoreness before being shot, skinned and barbecued for wiping his paws on her silk table cloth – an unintentional allegory for the brutal reality of the immigrant experience. (What’s that, righty? You didn’t know that cute little creature was a refugee? Surprise, surprise. You’ll shit a brick when you find out St. George didn’t really kill that dragon.)

As well as the inevitable Nazi propaganda there was toxic masculinity aplenty too, as Katie Middleton was slapped on live television by her son, Prince Fuckface. Naturally, the fawning VIP guests pretended they hadn’t seen the assault but you can bet your bottom dollar if it had been Baby Archy the police would have shot him dead then knelt on his neck for nine minutes just to make sure. Still, no-one wants to see a woman physically attacked but if you’re gonna do it it might as well be to a Princess. And with access to the finest health care and tastiest scones I’m sure Katie will survive, unlike the billions of starving Brits forced to supplement their meagre gambling winnings by ramraiding foodbanks. And her ordeal was nothing compared to the hell I’d been subjected to. When my aggressors finally turned the telly off, wiped their cocks on the curtains and disappeared into the night I was utterly defeated, a shell of the confident, level-headed young man who three days earlier had cried in Wilko because they’d ran out of Vimto Bon Bons. (Gee, these Brexit benefits are everywhere, aren’t they?)

To my relief, Sunday came and went with zero visits from my tormentors, much like the three days that preceded it but without all the stuff that didn’t happen. It won’t last though and I fully expect these diabolical imaginary foes to return once word of my horrendous experience spreads all the way from Twitter to Facebook. Who knows what they’ll have in store next time but don’t be surprised if they pump me full of speed and make me sit through that new Ricky Gervaise special that I’ve spent the last few weeks telling everyone is the most transphobic thing evah despite the fact that I haven’t seen it.

This is what they do. And in forcing me to join with last weekend’s sickening display of patriotism they’ve denied me the hard-won right to criticise something I know nothing about. Because I now know everything about the Platinum Jubilee, and you won’t read about any of it in the press. But mark my words, when they dig us all up in 200 years and force our rotting corpses to watch the next one I’ll be the first to say ‘I told you so!’.

As for now? Well after three days of imaginary torture I’m psychologically scarred, in desperate need of painkillers, and have a huge stack of laundry to catch up on. But like Amber Hurd, I’ll survive. I have to. What is unlikely to survive is British society. Because there is something terminally sick about a nation that not only encourages but compels normal, working people to applaud and mythologise an ageing, wealthy establishment patsy who’s never done a day’s work in her comfy, privileged life.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I must dash. This blood-soaked JC4PM duvet cover won’t wash itself!

Six Things You Never Knew About Angela Raynor’s Fadge

Radiant Raynor, yesterday.

By Ben Pensant

After the explosive events of the last week you’d be forgiven for thinking you knew everything there is to know about flame-haired Shadow Chancellor Angela Raynor’s clout. Indeed, actual Chancellor Ritchie Sunak is said to be furious that the media never got this excited about his red box.

Yet amazingly, the acres of coverage given to Angela’s nether regions barely scratched the surface of this amazing orifice, primarily focussing on the effect it has on horny Tories and whether or not it drank brown booze at a swingers party in Durham or somewhere.

Because as well as having the power to hypnotise sex-starved Prime Ministers in the blink of a thigh, Angela’s snatch also possesses an array of startling super skills, all of which will be valuable assets in the fight against fascism. Especially fadge fascism.

Indeed, while puny weakling Keir Stormer is apparently too scared to take on Elon Musky as he destroys Twitter with his evil plot to force progressives to read hateful tweets from Alec Jones and Donald the Trump, Lord Corbyn has already sounded out Angela and her growler with a daring plan to harness its power and put a spell on the billionaire weirdo.

Still, we shouldn’t forget just how traumatic the whole experience has been for Angela, repeatedly asked to comment on such a trivial story while people are eating out of bins, then constantly commenting on the same trivial story while people are eating out of bins. This has been a deeply draining week for Labour’s top girl, as anyone who saw the various TV interviews she gave under duress will testify. (Though not in a court, obvs.)

Indeed, it seemed the only way for Angela to stop people talking about her minge was to keep on talking about her minge. But why wouldn’t you, when you’re in possession of the most powerful political weapon in the eastern hemisphere, a magical mound so magical and moundy it has the potential to swing elections, invade countries, and hypnotise serial shaggers?

But let’s not dismiss the pain this sordid, slanderous, demonstrably true accusation of tuppence-baring has caused liberal pundits and newspaper editors, forced to pore over every detail and exploit the open goal handed to them by dozy Tories, not remotely relishing the chance to score a point and claim some much-needed victimhood for professional white women fed up of right-wing misogyny.

Still, a mott as robust as Angela’s won’t play the victim for long. (Though it should.) And luckily, Angela’s brain is as robust as that mott. So for those of you yet to marvel at the jawdropping tricks itching to burst forth from this extraordinary MP’s knickers, here are six things you never knew about Angela Raynor’s fadge. Lap it up.


You better believe it. Angela’s gash has been gender fluid for as long as she’s been teasing ministers with it, causing panic and fear among reactionary right-wingers petrified of catching trans.

Ms Raynor’s leg-crossing antics may have got Bastard Boris hot under the collar but he should be thankful she didn’t really put the shits up him by flashing her punani at him while identifying as a burly transwoman with a cock like a teddy bear’s leg.


Red roses, of course. Labour red in fact, though not the shade beloved by closet Tory Keith Starmer, who wouldn’t know a proper red if it walked up to him with a megaphone and demanded to see his papers. No, Angela’s downstairs aroma is a feast for the nostrils, combining the mesmeric scent of the beloved left-wing perennial with Angela’s natural northern musk, a delicate, earthy blend of blood, steel, and Monster Munch.

But that’s not all, as Angela’s pie also has the chameleon-like ability to switch things up, dramatically altering its bouquet so that her ladyhole smells of Nestle Roses; a sweet, silky, cocoa-infused confection with a soupcon of fondant and a nutty surprise that only reveals itself when Angela goes commando on special occasions, such as Prime Minister’s Question Time or Fidel Castrol’s birthday.

Altogether now: Thank you very much for your fragrant fanny, thank you very much, thank you very, very, very much.


Capitalising on the peculiar way pervy Tories are instinctively drawn to red lights, like raffish, racist, sci-fi bulls, Angela has been known to deploy her va-va-vagina to confuse and distract callous Conservative MPs right before voting on dangerous legislations like legalising lynch mobs or giving bigoted parents the right to murder trans toddlers.

Once lured in, hypnotised by the bright lights illuminating Angela’s crimson sugar walls, her flange incapacitates the hapless right-wing whoremasters, forcing them to miss the vote and taking one small step towards freeing this sceptic isle from the yolk of Tory fascism.

It also comes in pretty handy in Angela’s native Scunthorpe when she’s walking back from Abrakebabra after chucking-out time.


That’s right. Twenty. While the cooches of female Tories like Pritstick Patel and James Clevercunt can barely string a sentence together in English, Angela’s front-bottom is multilingual. (Not to be confused with ‘cunnilingual’, the transphobic sex act beloved by lesbian TERFs.)

As a result, her pussy is a gaping temple to diversity, welcoming penises of all genders, nations, and cultures, just as long as that nation isn’t Israel or Chequars. Indeed, Angela’s fairy is so inclusive that despite mastering a multitude of mother tongues it refuses to say ‘no’ in any of them.

It can say plenty of other words though, as Boris the Butcher found out at the despatch box last week when Angela sat opposite him and cackled as her charlie snarled ‘fuck off you ponce’ in Turkish.


Named after the pioneer of progressive murder, Winnie Mandelboy, Angela’s hoo-ha shares much in common with the South Afrikan goddess, not least their mutual enthusiasm for brutalising teenage boys.

Needless to say, this telepathic connection with the important fight against apartheid will be hugely beneficial in the equally important fight against slave-trading playboy astronaut Musky and his deadly plans to turn Twitter into a lawless wasteland where people are allowed to be right-wing.

Take that to the fucking moon, brainiac.


Yep, six. And it would have been seven if one hadn’t been lost down the back of a chair during last Monday’s Karaoke sesh’ in Stranglers’ bar. But Angela has plenty more fannies where that came from, all concealed in strategic locations like those horlicks things in the H***y P****r films. However, unlike the problematic world created by the patron saint of transphobia, these fadgical charms are not hidden inside snakes or dwarves, but carefully dotted around Westminster to cause maximum torment to any Tory predator who stumbles across them.

At this point the remarkable hive mind shared by these six busy beavers kicks into gear, as each one works in unison to snare and trap the unlucky sod who tried to get handsy with them: the perp is blinded by a flash of brightest red, screamed and hollered at in French, Arabic, and Esperanti, tarred and feathered with a bucket-load of rose petals and melted chocolate, made to question his sexuality as he’s attacked by a giant, wind-milling girl-cock, then tied to chair and assaulted with pliers while a burning tire smoulders gently around his neck.


Still, as much fun as it’s been to educate my army of five readers about Angela’s exceptional clunge, it’s really not the place of a straight white man (sorry!) to dominate the narrative around this fabulous woman’s privates.

Sure, as a male feminist I’m well within my rights to aid my sisters in the battle to reclaim misogynistic slurs, hence my dedication to filling this blog with as many slang terms for muffs as possible. But the only voice that matters in this whole amazing tale is Angela’s, as well as the husky foreignish one that pipes up every time she lifts her skirt. In the meantime allies like us simply have to take a step back and listen to women when they tell us about the grim realities of sexism and objectification.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I must dash. These ten astonishing facts about Amber Ruddy’s hairy bum-hole won’t write themselves.

Slag Party

JK and friends waiting for the 355, last Sunday.

By Ben Pensant

They say a picture paints a thousand words. But the recent picture of the most evil people on earth gorging on lobster and fine wine in an upmarket eatery while transwomen starved outside painted just one: cunts. And not just any old cunts but TERF cunts, with bad hair, shit mobiles, ugly dresses, and Cotton Oxford football boots.

Yes, I’m talking about last weekend’s instantly infamous lunch date between a trillionaire author and her coven of brutal hench-lesbians, a get together so instantly infamous it electrified social media for two whole days before everyone forgot about it. Well, everyone except me.

Needless to say, to call these vile witches ‘women’ is a stretch on par with referring to misunderstood Tory-slaying freedom fighter Ali Harper Ali as a ‘murderer’. Indeed, in an act of unabashed transphobia extreme even for this lot, a quick glance at the rollcall of drunken wenches reveals there wasn’t a single penis between them. Not even a pretend one. Jesus.

Unsurprisingly there was also a distinct lack of opposing viewpoints present. Yep, it seems these poor little snowflakes are too squeamish to sit down for a meal with principled lunatics who spend their lives calling them evil bigots and threatening to rape their smouldering corpses. So much for ‘balance’.

And not a single male feminist was there either, which speaks volumes. If they were so interested in dialogue they could have invited OJ Jones. But no, apparently a person with a penis has no right to join a discussion about people with penises, even one as accommodating as OJ, who would have happily identified as a woman for the afternoon if they insisted. (It wouldn’t have been too much of stretch, he already sits down when he goes for a piss.) But no, they decided their grubby little get together was strictly a TERFS-only affair. Despicable.

But it wasn’t just the offensive spectacle of females I disagree with eating food together that made this so deeply problematic. Because this wasn’t just any old lunch date: this was a summit to devise the most final of final solutions, like that time Kevin Branagh and Frank Gallagher went to that castle to draw up their diabolical plans to fake the holocaust.

If this sounds hyperbollock, trust me, the evidence is overwhelming. The fact that none of the people present have ever said anything hateful about trans people is irrelevant. That’s what they want you to think, dipshit. Those of us attuned to transphobic tropes are adept at reading between the lines, just like we knew David ‘Plonker’ Jason was being racist when he told that anecdote about the Queen calling a white ambassador a ‘gorilla’. So while true liberals everywhere were busy fighting misogyny and toxic masculinity, these right-wing hawks were toasting bigotry and spreading hatred. The fucking bitches.

But who exactly are these fucking bitches? Well, to put it simply: they’re TERFS. That’s all you need to know. What was discussed is irrelevant, though as I’ve already painstakingly explained, they were discussing the extermination of transwomen. They’re TERFS – discussing the extermination of transwomen is kind of what they do. But if you really must know a bit more about who was present, what they said, and whether or not their choice of outfit or smartphone was deemed acceptable to beardy woke-bros on Twitter, here is a damning who’s who? of the evil fascists in attendance…

JK ROLAND. The ringleader, in case you were wondering. There’s little I can say about this fashtastic beast that I haven’t already spent years crying and spitting venom about but needless to say, it wasn’t just her bigotry on parade last Sunday afternoon. According to eyewitnesses Roland disgraced herself early on, appropriating Italian pain by ordering pasta then talking loudly with her mouthful. (If Jessica Yavin got hold of JK down a dark alley she’d have a mouthful alright. Of cock.) Needless to say, it will surprise no-one to learn that moneybags JK left the stingiest of tips. Well Jo, if you’re reading here’s a tip for you: your books would sell more copies and burn a lot easier if you printed them on toilet paper. OUCH.

JUDY BINDEL. Like many TERFs, there was a time when Bindel made leftists swoon. Indeed, from calling for juries to be scrapped in rape trials to secretly filming people on trains eating crisps, it’s no exaggeration to say that if you took her gender critical views out of the equation she’d practically be one of us. Unfortunately her hatred of transwoman defines her as an evil fascist, as did her behaviour last weekend when she was overheard clicking her fingers at the Indian waiter and calling him ‘Sabu’. Wow, who’d have guessed that a woman hellbent on eradicating the trans species is also a vile racist?

ALISON BLACKLADY. With such a motley assortment of corrosive caucasians it was no surprise that JK invited a token POC to give the illusion of diversity, and who better to fill that role than ambulance chasing lawyer Alison, who took time out from bankrupting gay rights groups to play Auntie Tom for a gaggle of menopausal muff-divers. As you’d imagine, Alison behaved as abominably as her milky paymasters, selling out Black wxmxn everywhere by downing two bottles of white wine and steadfastly refusing to order fried chicken. Contemptible.

SUSANNE MOORE. Clearly on a high from her relentless bullying of OJ Jones, former Guardian hack Susanne let her uncultured working-class roots show upon arrival: pinching the doorman’s bum, ordering vindalooo with rice and chips, and fashioning a crude council estate cream soda by dropping a dollop of sorbet into a glass of lemonade. Needless to say, her post-meal antics were as classy as you’d expect, and on more than one occasion she was heard to break wind violently and blame it on the dog. And yes when she said ‘dog’ she meant ‘that Indian waiter’. Classy.

MAYA FORSTER. Supposed academic and the criminal mastermind who founded this legion of skanks in the first place, Maya has been in a permanent transphobic huff ever since her brave bosses peddled her for for being a Nazi. So naturally she brought her entitlement and snippiness to the dinner table, demanding to see the manager after brown sauce was placed on her fishfingers instead of next to them, and reacting to the poor Indian waiter sweeping up some grated cheddar she’d thoughtlessly dropped under her seat by calling him ‘cheese fuck’ and accusing him of squeezing her arse. Yeah right. The only thing squeezing that backside is the knackered chair she stuffed it into.

Other less notable but equally triggering guests included: loudmouthed Aussie ‘feminist’ Pam Greer, who temporarily put aside her differences with Moore so the mucky pair could bond over their mutual hatred of cross-dressing toddlers; PM’s secretary Pritstick Patel, who couldn’t wait to share some exciting news about blackmailing refugees with free holidays to Rwanda; horse-faced reactionary Katy Hopkins, who had the gruesome gang in stitches with a sterling rendition of Mike Reed’s paean to transphobia Walk on the Wild Side; racist frog Marina le Pen, who cut short her election campaign to gift her UK counterparts handstitched swastika-shaped pussy hats; and last but not least, the ghost of Maggie ‘Margaret’ Thatcher, who popped by to dish out tips on starving children to death, amusing everyone by whispering ‘Enoch was right’ every time the Indian waiter filed up her glass with freshly squeezed refugee blood.

Sadly, despite the widespread condemnation and abuse these harridans received for visiting a restaurant during a deadly pandemic, it appears they’ve already incited hordes of fascists to lace up their jackboots and organise. So while bearded progressives demonstrated their commitment to women’s rights by mocking JK’s tits, selfish menstruaters of all ages and bra-sizes took it as a free pass to gather in cafes and bierkellers across the UK to eat cake, drink wine, and beat up men in eyeliner. Anarchy, in other words, and not the good kind either.

And thanks to Bindel and co they’ll probably all end the night dancing to Dusty Springsteen and licking each other out too, with not a moment’s thought to all the women with penises such debauchery excludes and offends. Ladies that lunch? More like fascists that munch. (Fanny. As in ‘munching fanny’.)

I hope they choke on each other’s jammy-rags.

Hurty Rock

Rock, yesterday, still crying alligator tears about his Oscar night shame.

By Ben Pensant

Has any news story in recent memory inspired as many confused, ignorant, self-righteous takes as social justice crusader Mel Smith slapping some comic I’ve never heard of? Perhaps Finding Neverland’s bombshell revelation that Michael ‘Jacko’ Wacko used time travel to molest children, which saw hordes of due process-obsessed arseholes cruelly label Wade Safechuck a big fat liar just because he claimed he was abused in a train station that hadn’t been built yet.

Perhaps the Covingtown kids incident, when a gang of feral teens in MAGA klan hoods cornered brave Brave Nathan Fucksabout With Drumsticks and smirked at him, prompting fascist goons everywhere to defend the alt-right adolescents on the flimsy grounds that the full video of the incident showed that none of the above actually happened.

Or perhaps the acquittal of cold-blooded white supremacist sniper Karl Rittenhouse, which incited alt-right shitposters to declare that Rittenhouse had acted in self-defence and wasn’t a cold blooded white supremacist sniper simply because they’d watched the trial and listened to the mountain of evidence which proved conclusively he’d acted in self-defence and wasn’t a cold-blooded white supremacist sniper.

But even these knuckleheaded opinions have nothing on the wildly contradictory horseshit right-wingers came out with last week following the Oskar night slap-down. Some jumped to Smith’s defence, framing the Dependence Day star’s antics as a shining example of a millionaire actor doing what a millionaire actor’s gotta do, dishing out alpha male justice like a well-groomed Dirty Barry.

Others sided with supposed ‘victim’ The Rock to push their tiresome freeze peach agenda, condemning Smith on the grounds that foul-mouthed comedians should be allowed to make jokes about other human beings and bald women without fear of retribution.

Meanwhile, the vast gammon majority simply shook their empty heads and used the incident as an excuse to whine about diversity. “It wouldn’t have happened when the Duke was around”, “They’ll be shooting each other next!”, and “This is what happens when you give black savages a seat at the Hollywood table!!” are just three of the awful racist comments I heard last week on the 342 to Dunston.

Fortunately, despite the initial confusion leftists everywhere soon worked out the correct position to adopt, absorb, and spend seven days loudly repeating as if they were offering commentary on a world-shatteringly important event and not merely the most recent example of a rich egotistical celebrity having a hilariously crap meltdown live on telly.

All of which took a huge effort to sort out due to the fact that picking either side meant saying something uncomplimentary about a Black man. Nightmare! Indeed, of all the wise words I’ve heard over the last seven days, one sentence in particular rang true: “It would have been so much easier if one of them was white”. And indeed it would, as deciding who to support in such a case would be a no-brainer . (Clue: the fella with the biggest cock.)

If the slapper was white it would’ve sat comfortably with two of our our oft-repeated mantras: violence is bad – especially the Caukkkasian variety – and all black people are victims. And as no liberal worth their smelling salt would dare defend him there’d be zero need for any ‘well it was wrong but you can see why he did it’ takes. Phew!

Similarly, if the slapee was white it would’ve chimed perfectly with two of our other oft-repeated mantras: violence is good and all black people are victims, especially dishy mega-wealthy ones forced to fight racism by assaulting comedians at awards ceremonies.

Luckily, unlike those idiots on the right, we’re seasoned professionals when it comes to selecting the right opinion and sticking to it. Which is why, seven days on, the level-headed takes show no sign of letting up. Indeed, on Friday Team Smith demonstrated their commitment to anti-racism and respecting women by accusing a Rock-supporting POC actress of being a child groomer because she once made an innocuous comment about a teenage boy. Great work. Meanwhile the right continue to flounder. It’s what they do.

So if anyone is still in the dark about the correct progressive position, here is the ONLY take guaranteed to both impress socially retarded strangers on Twitter and ensure you aren’t accused of racism, misogyny, promoting violence, defending offensive comedy, or making excuses for an uppity little paedo-madam who likes dressing up as a cat and lusting after androgynous 14-year-olds:

The Rock deserved it. Yes, that’s right. In fact he deserved a slap on the other cheek too, plus a kick up the arse and a Chinese burn for luck. How could he not? He’s a comedian for Jezza’s sake, a friend of despicable man-handler Lewis CK and no doubt best buds with chrome-domed wrestler Joe Rogen too. And lest we forget, Smith acted in self defence. What else is an A-lister supposed to do when someone assaults his wife with words? Write a rap about it? That lily-livered approach might work for privileged white celebrities like Emineminem but they handle things differently in Black America, cuz. And if we’re allowed to punch Nazis then we’re damn well allowed to punch comedians too, especially when a woman’s honour is at stake. Because as every good feminist knows, women don’t need men to fight their battles unless someone insults their hair in which case they bloody well do. How anyone but the sickest woman-hating Incell can’t see this can this is beyond me.

But hang on. As much as it’s a husband’s duty to pull up his man-pants, put his privilege to good use, and dish out a bunch of fives once in a while, is this not merely another grim example of toxic masculinity? Is Jada Pinkerton Smith a women or the property of a rich actor? A rich actor considerably lighter skinned than the rich comic he slapped. It’s becoming increasingly clear that this ugly debacle was nothing more than white supremacy in action, a self-hating Black man taking out his misogyny on the nearest Blacker man to curry favour with his bigoted white audience.

Or was it? Because it’s worth remembering that when Rock mocked Jada’s hair he was mocking not just the disabled but every single Black woman on earth, exposing himself as a vicious white wolf in sparkly black clothing. Because a true Black man knows that his sisters are the most vulnerable in society, and anyone caught mocking them demands to be slapped: firmly, repeatedly, and preferably by a well-built movie star considerably bigger than the weedy comic doing the mockery. The only exception would be if the mocker was also a Black woman. Or even better, a Black transwoman, as they’re more oppressed, better dressed, and tend to have have plenty of experience of hitting women. That people find this difficult to grasp is a shocking indictment of the modern world.

Then again, Jada is arguably more white than Black these days: twisted and evil. Indeed, having offended Black women everywhere by getting an imaginary disease which magically cancelled her own afro it’s pretty clear she and her baldy bonce deserved to be mocked. And as for her brutish hubby, would a truly authentic black superstar have been allowed to escape arrest for assaulting a fellow POC? Like hell he would. Right wing ghouls can harp on about how this is has sod all to do with race and is clearly an example of the privilege afforded the rich and famous but they’re wasting their time on me.

But the big question here is not for Smith, or Jada, or The Rock, or anyone else actually involved on his sorry tale. It’s for you dear reader, and it’s one you’ve probably asked yourself several several times already: why the fuck are you still reading this? Because in case you’ve forgot, I’m white. Milky white, in fact, with all the advantages and unearned wealth that fluke of nature entails. What can I possibly add to this discussion? The fact that you, another whitey, ignored all the black voices out there in favour of listening to a fellow pinkskin pontificate on something he has no business pontificating on speaks volumes about your own supremacist leanings. Shame on you. If Black men want to fight each other it’s none of your business. It’s what they do. If you really want to help, how about the next time two of them get into handbags at an awards ceremony you simply zip it shut and let them fight.

But isn’t letting them fight exactly what white society wants? Was this whole incident nothing more than a modern example of Mandingle fighting? POCs whacking each other for the entertainment of white audiences? It’s obvious now that forcing two vulnerable Black millionaires to scrap in public was nothing more than a cynical attempt to boost ratings and deflect from Ukraine which was staged to defect from Covid which was invented in a lab to deflect from Brexit which was bought by the Russians to deflect from Trump who cheated his way into power to deflect from Caitlyn Jenner’s voluminous man-fanny.

Of course, this is all based on the assumption that the slap actually happened, which is frankly about as likely as the moon landing not taking place on a deserted beach on Telly Viv. Because it’s becoming glaringly apparent that this wasn’t two Black men fighting each other to entertain white people; it was two Black men pretending to fight each other to entertain white people. And who’s to say that the men on that stage weren’t a pair of decoys, desperate jobbing actors demeaning themselves for free coffee and a warm blanket? Take a look at the picture of ‘Rock’ supposedly at the aftershow party (below) and tell me you don’t smell a problematic white rat.

And as for this photo of ‘Smith’ backstage, if you seriously think that’s him then I have a rather large tunnel to sell you.

Needless to say, the mindless sheeple spent all week piling on anyone who dared suggest the whole incident was a set-up. “Why would one of the biggest movie stars on the planet be so desperate for publicity he’d soil the pinnacle of his career by slapping someone in front of an audience of millions?” Erm, perhaps because his white paymasters put a bullet to his head, dipshit.

Why else would Smith have issued that grovelling apology and been forced to resign from the Academy? Why else would Rock have conveniently ‘declined’ to press charges despite suffering the trauma of a very sore cheek? And why the hell are you still reading this after I expressly told you to keep your hooky white beak out of Black folks’s business? God, you people make me sick. In fact, I’m so furious with white imbeciles dominating this conversation that I won’t be commenting on it again, which I plan to announce by writing a eight-part tweet explaining why I won’t be commenting on it again. The days of white cultural imperialists offering unwanted commentary on places they’ve never been and people they don’t know are OVER.

Now if you’ll excuse me, this 2,000 word blog on the persecution of the Ukrainian trans tiddlywinks team won’t write itself.

Edukashun Corna: Ten Other Times Neal Young Fought Fascism…and Won!

By Ben Pensant

Amidst the joy provided by the slow, painful cancellation of alt-right loser Joe Rogen, it’s been easy to forget the man who kickstarted the glorious witch-hunt in the first place. So much so that most fresh-faced modern leftists have done just that and would struggle to pick Neal Young out of a police line-up. (Not that the Canadish troubadour would ever do anything worthy of arrest, unless caring too much, being one of the Good People, or playing ear-shredding six-hour guitar solos have suddenly become illegal.)

Which is why it was so refreshing to see Young once again make a valuable contribution to the war effort, rejoining the battle against podcasters saying what the hell they like as only a mega-rich celebrity can: by urging Sportify employees with considerably less financial security than him to quit their jobs in protest at their bosses’ refusal to censor a comedian. Perfect.

Because if millionaire Neal can sacrifice a few quid then why can’t they? Indeed, since losing out on the 0.0000001pence per track he received from Sportify, Young has selflessly taken a considerable hit by making his back catalogue available through a less lucrative but far more socially aware platform, proudly telling fans that his music can now be purchased via obscure, non-profit streaming collective Amizon. He can now hold his head high knowing you’ll no longer find Tonight, Tonight on a site that lets a loud-mouthed cueball talk to people Young disagrees with but are free to buy his output from a plucky little indie that spies on warehouse staff, makes them work 8-hour shifts without breaks, and is run by a man so wealthy he lives in outer space.

So as promised last week, I’ve spent the last few days educating myself on Young’s history of activism for the benefit of both my seven younger readers who’ve never heard of him and the five middle-aged ones who know him only as that bloke who sang the first line on Feed the World. So here, in honour of the man who initiated the anti-Rogen juggernaut, are Ten Other Times Neal Young Fought Fascism…and Won!

Neal’s aboriginee friends on walkabout in Sydney, 1967.

10. Young famously refused to be filmed during CSYN’s seminal Woodstock show in 1968, but few know the reason why. Smeared at the time as a pretentious diva, in actual fact Young had recently returned from lodging with a family of Aboriginals in the Austrian outback, and having studied the tribe’s unique customs had become convinced that if someone pointed a camera at him he would turn to stone.

A mythical beast stalks the Californian desert.

9. The family of superstitious savages that so enchanted Young also played a part in his first bust-up with guitarist Stephen Stilts, after Young refused to join the band for an anti-war gig in Joshua Tree because he was terrified he might get left behind in the desert and eaten up by a bunyip.

Sneaky Nash, 1969

8. Friction arose early on in CYNS when founder Nash Bridges started dating singer/songwriter Joanie Mitchell, fully aware that Young was besotted with the barefoot folk goddess. After locking himself in the Whiskey-a-Goo-Goo toilet and refusing to come out until Mitchell dumped Nash, the amiable scouser eventually persuaded his bandmate to vacate the cubicle by promising to allow lovesick Young to visit his apartment once a week and sniff his fingers. Mitchell split with Nash months later but he and Young remain friends and their deal remains in place to this day, much to the delight of their respective wives and mistresses.

David Crosby, yesterday.

7. Young’s rocky relationship with the rest of the band soured beyond repair in 1970, when he refused to play another note for the supergroup until helium-voiced drummer Dave Crosby publicly disowned his racist yuletide hit White Christmas. Crosby refused, and Young left CNSY for good, unimpressed with Crosby’s subsequent attempts to atone for his bigotry by reinventing himself as Black sitcom star with a penchant for chunky sweaters and raping unconscious women.

Scary mexicans haunting Young’s dreams, 1971

6. Following the success of debut solo album After the Harvest, Young moved to hip Stan Laurel Canyon, immediately falling out with neighbour Don Henly of The Byrds, after the coke-addled frontman insisted on loudly rehearsing his soon-to-be hit single El Mariachi at all hours, bringing back painful memories of the Mexican Dawn of the Dead celebrations that terrified Young as a child. Henly eventually agreed to never perform the track within twenty feet of Young in exchange for the guitar god promising to lend him his BMX twice a month, though to this day Young still hides under his bed every time he hears the song just in case a zombie skeleton with an enormous moustache comes to get him.

A performing monkey in happier times.

5. Much has been made of Young’s support for Ronnie ‘Ronald’ Regan, the right-wing warmonger famous for getting shot and living with a talking monkey. What is less documented is why. In 1985 Young was terrified that Regan’s Star Trek programme would lead to nuclear war with Panama so decided to engineer a chance meeting with the doddery president. Approaching him at a Hollywood party, Young played on Regan’s fondness for all things simian by telling the POTIS his grandfather was Mighty John Young, star of magic gorilla flick Mighty John Young. Having earnt the actor-turned-dictator’s trust, he promised to publicly back Regan’s fascist tax reforms if the Republicans agreed to make a hefty donation towards a luxury sanctuary for retired performing apes, such as Young’s grandad, Clyde from Smokey and the Bandit, and Orville’s best friend Chuckles.

Regan loved the idea and Young duly endorsed him, only to call Regan’s bluff months later by putting both his generous donation and the thousands of tax dollars Young saved into a secret swiss bank account where it remained untouched, a stark example to the world that even geriatric chimps draw the line at receiving blood money. Furious Regan was unable to expose Young’s clever ruse without incriminating himself and never forgave the crafty singer, who had the last laugh when, as a result of the President’s corruption, Clyde and Chuckles were sent to low-grade zoos to see out their final days locked up in filthy cages and eating their own feet.

GMB crops lying in wait.

4. The same right-wingers obsessing over Young’s ‘support’ for Regan have also been whining about ‘homophobic’ remarks he made during the AIDS crisis of 1986, when he appeared to express unease at ‘faggot’ supermarket staff touching his potatoes. Needless to say, what these trolls missed is that in Young’s native Canadia the word ‘faggot’ means ‘marginalised person’, and there were few ’80s Americans more marginalised than grocery packers. As socially conscious as ever, Young wasn’t worried about the faggot infecting his spuds with AIDS, he was concerned that the faggot might catch something from the genetically modified vegetables the faggot was handling.

Because as well as censoring podcasters and stealing money from elderly orangutans, Young’s other passion is campaigning against GMRs, the dangerous hybrid crops widely believed to be safe unless you frequent the kind of forums where they’re widely believed to make babies’ brains melt. As a strong advocate for scientific fact, Young has been passionately opposed to Frankenstein carrots for years, and even made a whole album about them in 2015, which took pointed swipes at Wallmart for selling coffee laced with pesticides that cause autism.

Happily, the mountain of evidence suggesting GMAs pose no health dangers has done nothing to dim Young’s position, and he often spends his days off cruising supermarkets warning checkout faggots to wear masks and gloves, unless they’re Joe Rogen fans in which case they can shove their mutant mushrooms up their faggoty arseholes.

Kurt Vedder wearing stolen sunglasses, Coachella, 1992.

3. In 1993 Young and Crazy House recorded Sleeps With Rust, a poignant tribute to Nirvana frontman Kurt Vedder. Sadly, two years later Kurt took his own life, disrespecting Young by quoting a line from the song in his suicide note without permission. Within weeks the line – “It’s better to burn out than to re-record not fade away/Re-record not fade away” – was plastered across t-shirts, posters and magazine covers, with all the proceeds going to Kurt’s widow Courtney Cox.

Via the pages of Rolling Stones magazine, furious Young pleaded with the dead rock star to either remove the lyric immediately or give him 50% of all profits generated by the blood-splattered missive. Kurt ignored Young and to this day the deceased grunge icon has neither given Young a penny nor apologised for stealing his intellectual property. Luckily, Young got his revenge two years later by recording his next album Wrecking Ball with a new backing band – socially aware sex-rockers Soundgarden, who Kurt famously loathed. In a final ‘fuck you’, they played Sleeps With Rust every night on tour, cheekily changing the infamous line to “It’s better to burn out than to be a money-grabbing dead junkie who smells of shit”. Take that, blondie!

Trump desperately tries to impress Young with a half-arsed punk rock barnet.

2. In 2014 Young’s streaming company Pongo was struggling to stay afloat, forcing Young to do what all rich liberals do in times of financial need: ask a greedy capitalist to bail them out. This led to Young going cap-in-hand to President Pussy-Grab himself, a supposedly embarrassing fact utilised by Rogen fanboys as an example of Young’s hypocrisy. But what these cultists are too idiotic to see is that Young deliberately sought Trump’s help in a clever attempt to bankrupt the orange-bollocked Nazi, depriving him of the funds to launch his election campaign and sparing progressive celebrities the horror of being forced to spend four years crying about the President’s tiny hands and balloon knot mouth.

Naturally, tight-arsed Trump declined the offer and Pongo went under. But Young had the last laugh a few years later when he started shagging that blonde lass out of The Little Mermaid.

Some pharmasooticals, last week.

1. In 2020 Young sold half of his back catalogue to investment giants Hippognosis. Hippognosis are part-owned by even more gigantic investment giants Blackstones. Blackstones’ senior advisor used to be CEO of Tizer. Tizer are the company who make the Covid vaccines Joe Rogen has been spreading misinformation about. Hmm…

Alt-right trolls have been widely derided as tinfoil-hat-wearing loons for suggesting the tenuous thread linking Young to Tizer via someone who hasn’t worked there in 12 years proves that his beef with Joe Rogen is motivated not by concerns about public health but because he’s a Big Pharmy shill. And for once the trolls are right. The only thing they got wrong was their knuckleheaded belief this is a bad thing.

Because Young joining forces with Tizer to shaft Spotify several years before they or Covid even existed must surely go down as the great man’s finest achievement yet. When the history books are finally re-written, it will be this epic stand that is regarded as his moment of glory, even more so than the seminal version of Rockin’ out the Free World from Glastonbury ’95 which went on so long his harmonica fell asleep.

Rugged glory indeed.

Killer Joe: In the Realm of the Censors

Rogen reacts with rage upon hearing of Neal Young principled stand.

By Ben Pensant

People often ask me “What’s the best thing about being a modern liberal?”. My usual response is to think long and hard then tell them how offended I am at such a problematic question. This gives the asker everything they need to know and if it doesn’t their subsequent arrest for hate crimes bloody well will.

But aside from the trauma of being othered by this insulting line of enquiry – the liberal equivalent of Whitey McWhitearse asking a Black person “Which part of Africa are you from?” – the problem is there are just too many good things about being a modern liberal, which is why I always refuse to answer and have a good cry instead.

All of which explains why we’re so ecstatic about the ongoing cancellation of alt-right podcaster Joe Rogen, ignited by ’70s rocker Neal Young’s principled contribution to the war on misinformation. Because as well as embarrassing a greedy tech company, punishing a slaphead comic for talking to people, and giving leftists the warm glow of knowing we’re right about something because a rich celebrity says so, it also brilliantly illustrates perhaps the bestest thing about being a modern liberal: censoring people we disagree with. Heaven.

And not just any old censorship, but political censorship, via corporate blackmail: the very best kind. Indeed, fans of long-forgotten anti-tabloid campaign Stop Finding Hate will never forget the erotically-charged thrill of seeing right-wing hate-sheets quaking in their jackboots as SFH waged all out war on The Scum and The Torygraph. Young’s valiant attempt to force Sportify’s hand brought back warm memories of the online campaign to stop right-wing rags saying stuff we disagree with by pestering advertisers, a campaign so successful that in five years of non-stop harassment and online bottom-inspecting their one and only success was forcing stationary giant Paperweight to cancel a promotion in the Daily Fail. Which more than made up for the fact that all the newspapers SFH targeted still say stuff we disagree with. Take that, Murdoch!

Rogen in his dressing room, yesterday.

So when the ageing rocker coolly requested Sportify either ditch Rogen or remove Young’s back catalogue from their platform he reminded us how thrilling demands for censorship can be. Of course, we would never admit our demands censorship are demands for censorship, because they’re not, even though they are. One sure-fire way to swerve this is to deny we’re trying to censor anyone before admitting that actually, yes, we are trying to censor someone, but cleverly removing the word ‘censor’ from the sentence. “No-one wants to censor the Joe Rogen podcast, dummy, we just want Sportify to take it down”. Simples. How anyone could define an artist trying to extort a streaming company into removing a podcast as ‘censorship’ is beyond me but this is the world the right have created with their constant language mangling. The white heterodox cisgender bellends.

Conveniently, even when you’re forced to admit it is censorship – without saying ‘censorship’ – it’s still justifiable because we’re only attempting to censor misinformation: the evil phenomenon that haunts the online world and must be fought wherever it’s found. Unless it’s found in left-wing media in which case it’s not misinformation but a vital tool for fighting oppression.

And when this misinformation literally kills people, the need to censor it is even more justified, even if there’s zero evidence of it killing anyone. Indeed, over the last fortnight the phrase “Joe Rogen spreads misinformation that costs lives!” has fast become so ubiquitous it’s leapfrogged “JK Roland thinks trans people shouldn’t exist!” to become the no.1 sentence modern liberals casually repeat as accepted fact despite being about as factual as Donald Trump’s hair. Ask a Twitter progressive to prove Rogen’s podcast ‘costs lives’ and they’d sooner block you on sight than provide a single example of a person dying because of something Joe Rogen told them to do. In fact, there’s no evidence of Rogen ever telling anyone to do anything, other than eat well, exercise, and watch YouTube videos of raccoons arm-wrestling yetis.

See, another cool thing about being a modern liberal is that we always think people expressing opinions are telling us what to do, because when we express opinions we damn well are telling you what to do. Therefore, if you listen to a podcaster you clearly agree with everything he says. And if said podcaster did something – such as declining the vaccine because he personally didn’t think he needed it – then that obviously means he’s telling his audience to decline the vaccine because they don’t need it. And his followers will do the thing he hasn’t told them to do immediately because that’s what gullible meatheads do. As is always the case with censorship, it’s never about the person being censored: it’s about the ignorant masses too dumb to think for themselves.

Which is why millions of unvaccinated ignoramuses die every day thanks to Rogen. Sure, as anyone who’s listened to his podcast knows, Rogan isn’t anti-vax and has stated several times that he advised family and friends to take it. Luckily, people who’ve listened to his podcast are irrelevant and should be reported to the nearest constabulary immediately before they melt more minds with their ugly blend of facts and fascism.

Rogen hits the streets of Austen to hunt down and kill mask wearers.

Because once you let the Rogan narrative be dictated by people who actually know something about him you’re asking for trouble. Go down that road and before you know it you’re learning that the misinformation Rogen has been spreading amounts to – the horror! – criticising lockdowns, condemning vaccine mandates, chatting to people with concerns about the jab, pointing out that young, healthy people are unlikely to get sick from Covid, and worst of all, occasionally saying stuff that turns out to be wrong. Nurse!

Not that we could tell you what was wrong – that would require listening to the podcasts, silly. And nor can we explain why someone being wrong about something is grounds to have them censored. Because we don’t need to. All we know is: Rogen and his guests lied, people died because of it and he must be STOPPED.

As must the right-wing trolls who claim the most effective way to confront Rogen and his gang of quacks is to document and expose their errors and inaccurate claims, some of whom even had the gall to ask why all the high profile politicians, journalists, and celebrities attacking Rogen didn’t use their considerable platforms to address and counter all the things he got wrong. Which is exactly what some treacherous doctors and sciencey people lurking in the dark corners of the internet did, offending liberals everywhere by taking the time to listen to the arguments before patiently rebutting them, when anyone with half a brain knows the most appropriate reaction is to demand Rogen is silenced and call him a murderer.

Fortunately, that long gone era when left-wingers encouraged open debate and welcomed the opportunity to correct wrongs in a mature, non-hysterical manner is well and truly over. Because that would involve, y’know, listening to the podcasts and modern leftists are far too busy fighting white supremacy to waste precious scrolling time researching the things we want banned. Why would a liberal who’s never listened to a Joe Rogen podcast need to listen to a Joe Rogen podcast when he can get the skinny from another liberal who’s never listened to a Joe Rogen podcast?

Some alt-right loons have even claimed that liberals promoting the idea that saying something untrue is grounds for censorship is a risky strategy, especially when progressive outlets like CNBC regularly spread misinformation about Rogen. Others brazenly suggested the misinformation found on these platforms is far worse than that spewed out by Rogen, citing widely disseminated, rarely corrected lies about Russiagate, AnTiFa, Jessie Smollett, Black Life Matters, Woody Alan, Karl Rittenhouse, President Pussy-Grab, the Covington smirk-racists, Michael ‘Jackson’ Wacko, and Covid-18 itself, including a veritable bounty of falsehoods, from denying the virus originated in China, to claiming that cloth masks are 100% effective, to telling viewers the vaccine stops people contracting or spreading the virus, to repeatedly claiming that a drug routinely prescribed to humans for over thirty years is actually a paste given to horses with the shits.

A youthful, slimmed down Rogan backstage at The Comedy Store, NYC.

What separates these Nazi chancers from us is that our misinformation is pumped out for the greater good. (You’re welcome.) Our media doesn’t just express unpopular opinions or promote the odd conspiracy theory: we deliberately churn out demonstrably false claims for months and years at a time with nary a correction in sight, unlike pussy-whipped Rogen who regularly demeans himself by admitting he gets stuff wrong, a cardinal sin on the progressive left.

But enough about the Fear Factory bozo. Let him stew, clearly enraged that Young’s censorious stand and the juggernaut it set in motion has introduced even more people to Rogen’s shitty podcast. You might be free to spread hate with your ‘balanced’ discussions for now but the clock’s ticking, baldy. Luckily for Rogen I decided against utterly rattling him with a proper hit-piece but make no mistake, I could. Such is my arsenal of anti-Rogen ammo I even toyed with analysing all the things he’s been wrong about and penning a detailed retort but that would mean listening to his podcasts and there’s no way I’m poisoning my ears with that.

No, this is about Neal Young. His strength, his decency, his unwavering quest to erase things he knows sod all about. So, with a lot of youthful liberals eager to learn more about their new idol they hadn’t heard of a fortnight ago, I took on the task of documenting the previous times Young put his head on the line in the name of social justice.

Unfortunately I didn’t get very far as it appears I know even less about Young than I do about Joe Rogen – and I know shit all about him. Still, I’ll be rectifying that pronto and educating myself on all things Neal Young by reading some Twitter threads about the great man. And thankfully, as Young is officially one of the Good People – he’s married to a mermaid and everything! – there’s zero chance of me finding out anything problematic or cancel-worthy about the his past, such as, I dunno, supporting Ronald Regan or calling gay people ‘faggots’.

This Good Person status is also reflected in the contemporaries who’ve followed his lead by removing their music from Sportify too, such as Young’s ex Joanie Mitchell and Crazy House drummer Nils Lundgren. Principled, passionate, extremely wealthy heroes to a mxn, and it’s especially heartening to know that so many musicians were happy for their content to stay on a streaming service famous for exploiting and ripping off bands but drew the line at them refusing to censor a podcast because a 75-year-old millionaire asked them to.

And it seems the momentum from Young’s principled action shows no sign of slowing down, as the weekend saw Sportify responding to the pressure of online outrage and calculated media manipulation by removing 171 JRE podcasts featuring a who’s who? of offensive comedians, as well as notorious Nazis like Bill &Ted director Kevin Smith and Tool guitarist Maynard James Keegan. Why these episodes were removed and what was offensive about them remains unknown, especially by me as I’ve never listened to them. But Rogen’s presence alone is offensive enough, as anyone who’s watched the craftily edited, context-free compilation video of all the times Rogen used the N-word knows all too well.

Rogen wears blackface to celebrate Trump’s inauguration, 2018.

Needless to say, Rogen issued a mealy-mouthed Instagran ‘apology’ – his second in a week! – saying sorry for using this vile slur, pathetically pleading that he said it during discussions about the N-word, and would never use it to describe a Black person. This can of course be verified by anyone who’s actually watched the entire videos, but I have no intention of doing that and neither should you. And if you seriously think you can learn more about a person’s feelings towards non-white people by spending years sitting through thousands of hours of footage than you can from watching a handful of split-second clips cynically stitched together to cause maximum offence then I have a rather large budgie to sell you.

Luckily, Rogen was left red-faced again when another clip emerged showing the vile wrestler comparing a suburban Black neighbourhood to the planet full of monkeys from ’80s ci-fi classic Planet Full of Monkeys. Gotcha! Despite the fact that this is the only actual racist comment Rogen has ever made in thousands of shows, combined with the distorted N-word usage it became cast iron evidence that the chrome-domed cretin is a hardcore bigot who thinks black people are apes, as opposed to a stoned comic who attempted a bad joke when shooting the shit with other comics, a joke he immediately admitted sounded racist before continuing with the point of his story, which was about how much fun he had. (Yeah, right.) All of which was naturally removed from the clip doing the rounds just in case anyone deduced Rogan isn’t actually a member of the KKK but a comedian who said something awful ten years ago.

Unsurprisingly, it was revealed today that Patriot Fakes, the harmless group of concerned bottom inspectors who unearthed, cut, and circulated both videos (and indeed much of the blatant Rogen misrepresentations – some might say, ‘misinformation’ – swirling around the internet) have close links with a multi-million dollar PAC run by three brothers, the purpose of which appears to be fighting social justice by collecting eye-watering donations to fund media manipulation campaigns against people the Democrats don’t like. Heroes, in laymxn’s terms. Sadly I can’t tell you anything else about these brave siblings as reports suggest one of them is on record using the N-word in a text message a few years go, so I won’t mention them again and we should all move on and pretend this entire paragraph never happened.

But one thing that definitely did happen this weekend was the auspicious inception of Joe Rogen’s slow, painful cancellation. And we owe it all to one Old Man. So please join me as I raise a mungbean smoothie and salute Neal Young’s principled protest, his astounding bravery, and his commitment to taking no shit from a paranoid conspiracy theorist podcaster who as well as being a virulent racist is clearly a deep cover shill paid to spread misinfo by the military industrial complex. And the Jews.

Anyway, that’s enough science-denying crackpots for one day. If you’ll excuse me I’m planning to toast Rogen’s demise by listening to Young’s 2015 concept album about the dangers of genetically modified crops. I hear the track that explains how Frankenstein carrots cause autism is an absolute banger.

Keep on rockin!

Edukashun Corna: Twenty Things You Never Knew About Janets

By Ben Pensant

One of my many new year’s resolutions was to stop despising people I disagree with and start educating them instead. Needless to say this hasn’t been easy. In fact I’ve failed miserably, primarily because people I disagree with tend to be the dumbest fucks on the face of Twitter.

Still, as the saying goes, Jezza loves a trier, so I refuse to quit, no matter how many morons ignore me when I politely explain to them that yes, men can have babies and no, there’s nothing weird about wearing three facemasks and four pairs of surgical gloves to hang the washing out.

Because if we can’t reach these loons by filling their heads full of socially acceptable garbage then we may as well fuck off and join the Tories. But it’s not just the political arena in which our enemies are sorely lacking in smarts – they know sod all about other important stuff too, such as science, history, and furries. And what they do know often falls into the toxic category known as ‘inconvenient facts’, those depraved, dangerous, demonstrably true certainties that must be resisted at all costs.

Which brings us to chrome-domed wrestler turned alt-right shit-caster Joe Rogen, left red-faced last week after one of his guests cut him down to size by politely pointing out he was wrong about something. Gotcha! But as if this wasn’t glorious enough, Rogen went on to inadvertently rubbish the ridiculous notion that he’s some sort of liberal by taking to Twitter and admitting that he’d been wrong about something, a pitiful act of cowardice no true progressive would ever dream of doing.

See, one of the many superpowers granted to modern leftists is the ability to speak with authority about stuff we know sod all about. Indeed, as the fallout from his recent roasting proved, the best preparation for commenting on Joe Rogen podcasts is to never watch a Joe Rogen podcast.

This beautiful dichotomy was summed up in a brief, innocuous Twitter exchange between the well-read guitarist from a successful Scotch rock band and some right-wing shithead. As often happens, the guitarist – let’s call him Scotchy – had scolded a music journalist for pointing out that Rogen isn’t remotely ‘far right’ and actually leans left on most issues. Scotchy was having none of it, confidently arguing that Rogen ‘regularly’ chats to far-right people, and left-wing guests such as Bernie Saunders – who Rogen once backed for President – were ‘outliers’. All of which was as blandly predictable as you’d expect, a textbook example of a blue-tick leftist saying exactly what a blue-tick leftist is supposed to say.

But it got even better when the right-wing shithead – let’s call him Shithead – entered the fray, pathetically countering Scotchy’s argument by listing numerous other left-wing people who’ve been on Rogen’s show and smugly asking if they were outliers too, before suggesting that Scotchy clearly knew very little about Rogen or his podcast. Which Scotchy brilliantly countered by flatly ignoring the list of examples and agreeing that yes, he knew very little about Rogan other than the fact that he regularly platforms far-right figures, such as Vox founder Gavin McIncel who hasn’t been on the show for years. Get out of that one, Shithead!

As tediously commonplace as online chats like this are, with those six words – ‘I know very little about Joe Rogen’ – Scotchy spoke for every one of us. Because we don’t need to know anything about Joe Rogen or watch his problematic podcast. If someone from The New Statesmxn say he’s an anti-vax alt-right adjacent transphobe who believes in aliens and lives on moose-meat smoothies then he bloody well is. The fact that none of these things are true is irrelevant, as is the fact that the vast majority of people who appear on his show are left-wing. Liberal celebs like Scotchy have spent their careers surrounded by other liberal celebs telling them they’re right about everything. Who else is better qualified to comment on stuff they haven’t the foggiest about? Shitheads like Shithead? Jog on. Next thing you’ll be telling us we have zero credibility to attack a load of comics we haven’t heard of for appearing on a news channel we’ve never watched.

Thankfully, my first selfless attempt to teach right-wing dunces what’s what will studiously avoid anything likely to upset The Narrative. In fact, it won’t be remotely connected to politics or the culture war at all. Because before we start moulding gullible proles into compliant progressives we first need to teach them the basics, the simple stuff they would’ve learnt in school had they not been too busy scribbling ‘SEND ‘EM BACK!’ on their pencil cases. We can’t expect them to be as terrified of Climate Change as us if they don’t even know what climate, or indeed change, is. No, in order to successfully wash their brains we must first stimulate and finesse all that useless grey matter with exciting nuggets of knowledge about the world we inhabit, the air we breathe, the very cycle of life that fuels this bruised but beautiful corner of the cosmos…

So in honour of recently deceased Radio 2 DJ Janet Long, are Twenty Things You Never Knew About Janets.

20. No Janet has ever married anyone who isn’t called John.

19. Opinionated Loose Ladies anchor Janet Street-Preacher was both the first Janet to receive an OBE and one of only two who’ve seen Normzki’s penis.

18. US Attorney General Janet Ringo was the other one.

17. The name Janet is derived from the Bulgarian proper noun Zsanett, meaning ‘goddess of cottage cheese’.

16. In 1978, hard-partying Tiswas presenter Keith ‘Chegwin’ Cheggars forced teenaged sibling Janet Long to change her surname after being repeatedly mistaken for her by short-sighted sex-pest Jimmy Saville.

15. During the 1980s the receptionist population of the United Kingdom was made up entirely of Janets.

14. 56% of them were sleeping with their bosses, 37% of whom were called John.

13. When Janet ‘Wacko’ Jackson accidentally flashed her titty at the 2004 world Series she became the fifteenth Janet to receive the sex-eye from Justin Timbaland.

12. Number 11 was pint-sized funnyman Janet Krankie.

11. Janet spelt backwards is Tenaj, the birth place of Tarzam’s wife Jane, whose name is a diminutive of – you guessed it – Janine. Which sounds a bit like Janet.

10. 50’s screen siren Janet Lee stormed off the set of The Birds after director Alfred Hitchcook christened the actress ‘Gannit Lee’ due to her habit of scouring the catering truck looking for half-eaten sausage rolls.

9. Of the 15,000 Janets currently residing in the UK, estimates suggest at this very moment two-thirds of them are re-watching Pride & Sensibility and eating Maltesers.

8. Impressionist Janet Brown was so convincing as Margaret Thatcher that her terrified husband John secretly stockpiled cartons of milk in the airing cupboard just in case.

7. Unlike their distant cousins Karens, Janets have no issue with black men using public parks, believe people should be free to walk their dogs wherever they like, and only ever demand to speak to the manager if he has dreamy eyes like that Richard Gear.

6. Magpie presenter Janet Ellis became a hero among the UK Janet community in 1981 when she defied her mother-in-law’s wishes by refusing to name her daughter Ruth.

5. Former Pop Idol winner Janet Devlen was the youngest ever alcoholic Janet, and remains the only one whose crippling dependency is a result of self-hatred as opposed to having a useless lunk of a husband with a severely broken dick.

4. It is forbidden by UK law to organise a book club, coffee morning, or Anne Summers party without the involvement of at least 2.5 Janets.

3. December 2003 was a terrible month for performing Janets, with panto star Janet Krankie falling off a beanstalk and fracturing his brain during a matinee of Cinderella, and the tragic onstage murder of Pantera bassist Diamond Darren, affectionately known to friends as ‘Janet’ on account of his addiction to Babysham and girly hair.

2. At a birthday party I never went to a teenage friend of mine who wasn’t me almost topped a 45-year-old estate agent called Janet but was thwarted when she woke up.

1. There are nowhere near as many famous Janets as I thought.

An Open Letter to Stuart Lee

By Ben Pensant

Dear Stuart.

Oh dear, Stuart.

What the hell happened? You were our hero, our idol, the one comic guaranteed to make us laugh, cry, and feel intellectually superior to brick-thick Brexiters who only laugh at gags with punchlines.

You’ve ploughed this furrow for years, achieving middle-aged-man-of-letters status during the last decade when you stopped dressing like Su Perkins, grew a beard, and started dressing like Su Perkins wearing a Grizzly Adamson mask.

On you marched, stroking the egos of craft beer enthusiasts everywhere with your incendiary gigs, TV shows so sophisticated only Oxbridge graduates watch them, and scathing Guardian columns both dangerously edgy and as predictable as a Richard Littlecock rant about how we’re going to hell in a handbag because of all the woofters at the BBC.

Indeed, your position as the stand-up intellectuals can enjoy even if they don’t like jokes is well earned, having spent years convincing devoted fans you’re an embattled, dangerous outsider, rather than one of the safest comics around, as embedded into the establishment as your populist nemesis Michael McIntired.

Which is why it pains and rattles me that your recent end of year round-up was such a kick in the teeth. These carefully curated lists may have sent shockwaves all the way from Twitter to Facebook, ticking every box in the New Statesmxn’s Big Book of Tickable Boxes, but as those of us who spent hours picking it apart know all too well, there were shards of glass lurking beneath the impeccably chosen targets…

It all started off so well. Indeed, within hours of your list landing it had electrified social media, achieving the one thing modern leftists strive for: liberal joy and right-wing tears. Which as we know, is what the internet was invented for.

So you’d kicked off 2022 by upsetting and delighting people with far too much time and blisters on their hands. Result! And with that, both groups went off to analyse your words in search of outrage or validation, as if a record of a comedian’s likes and dislikes is a highly classified document and not just some random names on a much larger list of films, albums, and other fun cultural stuff far more interesting than a tediously predictable rollcall of goodies and bastards.

Naturally, Twitter had little interest in the fun stuff, instead utilising the Good and Bad lists to fight the latest round of the culture war before the next one comes along, invariably involving statues or JK Rowland. Which is when the first alarm bell rang. Because for some reason the flame-haired transphobe wasn’t on your Bad list.

No matter, you probably just forgot. Sure, in omitting her you inadvertently offended all manner of bullies and perverts but in a big brain like yours it’s easy to misplace a celebrity bigot. And god knows tolerant progressives could do with a break from obsessing over that ginger slag.

So we moved on, revelling in the way your magical missive backed up your belief that the ‘culture war’ is a confected sideshow orchestrated by the Tory press to sow division. Which you proved by splitting people up into good lefties and bad righties.

So one list featured the best stand-up comic alive, two of the greatest frontmen in rock history, and some of the most important figures in British sitcom history. The other featured OJ Jones, Ash Starkers, and that posh weirdo who beat a fox to death in his wife’s knickers. No prizes for guessing which was the Good List.

Thus, for people who’ve enjoyed your inventively bitter live shows – and people who’ve never enjoyed your inventively bitter live shows but love telling people they did – the Bad List was a glorious extension of your twin obsessions: awful Tories and misbehaving comedians. The latter group have long fuelled your act: sneering at comics who do adverts, sneering at comics who appear on panel shows, and generally sneering at comics who are more successful than you. Indeed, when trolls say Stuart Lee isn’t original I always ask how many other stand-ups spend as much time to attacking fellow comedians? I’ll wait.

You even added a clever twist by targeting a comic less successful than you, a jobbing voiceover artist who once committed the grave sin of writing a few tweets mildly critiquing your work. This problematic fellow, who I’d never heard of but was clearly alt-right – why else would he ‘critique’ you? – was reportedly so upset he left Twitter. Good. One less white supremacist to monitor and a dire warning to other non-famous agitators toying with slagging off the king of socially conscious situationism.

But the libellous smear that this illustrated your penchant for picking on the little guy was utterly destroyed by the rest of the Bad List, which included such outside-the-box targets as right-wing pundits Toby Jones and Lawrence ‘Looza’ Fox, evil Tories Prittstick Patel and Boris the Butcher, ungrateful ethnics Keenan Malick and Nincompoop Ali, and various formerly-funny leftists-gone-bad like Ricky Gervais and Graham Glinnerhan, who I also once wrote an open letter to and who apparently still cries salty transphobic tears about it.

Thankfully your knack for identifying partisan grifters and muck-raking ideologues only works for the right-wing variety, which is why your Good List was crammed with numerous left-wing ones, such as the aforementioned Jolene Maugham, the crusading QC so achingly progressive his hobbies include being clever, bludgeoning animals, suing Julia Hartley-Bullshit, campaigning to overthrow democracy, and telling off women who don’t want to share toilets with men.

Other equally noble, formulaic additions included: celebrity Corbynites Ken Roach and Miriam Gargoyles, hectoring comics Alexei Sale and Nanette Gadsby, agenda-bending pop academics Alice Robertson and David Olusoda, opportunistic Labour politicians with impeccable music taste like Claire Rayner and Sadiq Vaughn – the proud London Mayor so obsessed with woke cred he once claimed calling him ‘Jose Mourinho’s stunt double’ was a hate crime – plus countless other leftists as dedicated to fighting fascism with lies and distortions as their right-wing counterparts. The difference being leftists are allowed to play dirty because they wear masks, love the EU, and refuse to kick blind orphans to death no matter how shit they are at sweeping chimneys.

All of which should have been job – or rather, JO’B – done.

Except it wasn’t. Because in a moment of weakness I decided to read the whole screed, not just the comparatively small heroes and villains section, but the bulk of the piece dealing with the popular culture you enjoyed in 2021, largely unconcerned with cancel culture, right-wing rage, left-wing loveliness, or anything else guaranteed to boil the piss of sunlight-deprived Twitter addicts. Big mistake.

Because as all modern liberals know, researching the full story never ends well. Journey down that dark road and before you know it you’re exposed to facts no-one needs to know, such as “Karl Rittenhouse wasn’t a teenage white supremacist who travelled hundreds of miles across state lines with an illegal firearm to hunt down and murder peaceful protesters”.

Such dangerous, narrative-upsetting nuggets should be flatly ignored. But the vicious right-wing propaganda that made up the remainder of your list wasn’t so easy to avoid…

In truth I should have smelt a rat sooner. Because devoting more time to music and cinema than people you hate was in itself the definition of Not Okay. In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re in the middle of a pandemic, a genocide, and a bloody culture war so bloody it doesn’t even exist. How can any true leftist selfishly document stuff he’s ‘enjoyed’ in the midst of such horror? If you had an ounce of social conscience you’d be crying about it on Twitter, not gushing over Lines of Duty. You think OJ Jones wastes time listening to Yo La Tango when he could be calling Pierce Morgan a fascist?

But if the premise was worrying, the content was borderline evil, beginning with a shout out to notorious right-wing ‘comic’ Dug Stanhope. Sure, you called him a ‘former Libertarian’ just in case anybody mistook you for a Nazi fanboy, and included a pointed dig at US comics to ensure no-one thinks your love of Stanhope extended to his reactionary pals like chrome-domed weightlifter Joe Rogen. But the damage was done, compounded by your brazen belief that Stanhope can make you laugh “whether you agree with his worldview or not”. That’s right, in 2022 a so-called liberal is telling his fans it’s okay to chuckle at someone with different views. Yuk.

Jawdroppingly, your album choices ventured even further down the Hitler Highway, a vile compendium of musical fascists, some of whom I’d even heard of. First you praised redneck rockabillies Drive Thru Truckers, whose pretend leftism fools no-one, especially not those of us who didn’t have a clue who the flag-shagging crackers were this time last week.

Then you casually admitted to reading a book by former Smashing Pumpkin Mark Langham, a violent misogynist junkie and one-time member of Queens of the South, the drug-addled stoner rockers with the homophobic moniker. Lovely. As if this wasn’t grimy enough you went on to issue a dogwhistle to Incels and offend sexual assault survivors everywhere when lauding an album by Red House Pointers, the ’80s miserablists led by curmudgeonly rapist Mark Kojak. Jesus.

But as if dipping your toes into the murky waters of US jock-rock wasn’t awful enough, you then dived into the British scene’s equally filthy swamp, willingly listening to an album by Stone Roses, the grubby scousers led by anti-vax conspiracy gibbon Iain Brown. Suddenly your love for despised Zionist poshoes the Radioheads makes sense, as does your weird obsession with Van Doonican, the nationalist poster-boy as synonymous with Britain’s bloody history of imperialism as Winston Churchall’s cigar.

Predictably, your favourite films of 2022 were similarly vile, and it was unsurprising to see you swoon over DC’s tentpole releases, such as racist fantasy Shang Chi and the Lord of the Rings, which suggested Japanese immigrants would be much happier if they ditched the marshall arts nonsense and stuck to parking white people’s cars. You also watched Black Widows, the dire anti-communist actioner which offended the wives of African-American murder victims everywhere and starred self-hating transphobe Scarlett Johandjob. And the least said about your love of Spider-Man 4 the better, as only a Trumpster could find anything worthy in this eye-poppingly racist blockbuster, which united the Spider-Mans from previous movies but conveniently forget to invite Miles Moriarty or Viper, both of whom just happen to be black. Christ.

But it wasn’t just new releases that floated your 2021 boat. You also gorged on offensive movies from yesteryear, such as Chris Tarantino’s misogynist fever dream Kill Billy, Where Eagles Dared starring senile Republican Cunt Eastwood, various Star Trek movies – in which the only back character just happens to be series baddy Dark Vader – and The Queen, a woeful slice of Blairite propaganda and an unabashed love letter to the Royal Family. Which given all the historical sites you visited is hardly surprising…

Yep, from Kings Lynn to The King and Queen to the Royal Maritime Sodding Museum, you clearly considered a year of record-breaking inequality the perfect time to out yourself as the most rabid pro-monarchist since dead Windsor lickspittle James Shitaker. Though it’s a wonder you found time to kiss Royal bumhole in between visiting multiple churches and cathedrals, each one a micro-aggressive snub to Muslims everywhere. Still, it’s not like you also made a deeply suspicious trip to Tower Hamlets cemetery en route to coffee and cake with Nick Griffiths at BNP HQ. Oh wait, you did.

Frankly, it’s a blessing you spent most of 2021 at home instead of outside spreading right-wing poison, though looking at your small-screen choices it’s clear your hunger to revisit the glory days of Thatcher and Powell remains unabated. As well as guffawing at Yes, Westminster, the light-hearted romp which mined mirth from a bunch of zany Tories killing poor people in the ’80s, you also revisited and awarded five stars each to Faulty Towers and The Orifice, both of which were written by two of the evil right-wingers from your BAD list. Blatant hypocrisy, and another example of your sinister belief that it’s okay to enjoy stuff created by people you dislike. Cheers, Enoch.

Your favourite ‘new’ telly was even grubbier, with cowboy-spaceman romp The Mandolorian, starring washed-up Nazi wrestler Gina Caradune – who still hasn’t had the decency to grow a cock – rubbing shoulders with unfunny sketch show Inside No.8, which shamefully depicted an intolerant, obnoxious Remainer as the bad guy.

But most heinously, you couldn’t resist showing your true (blue) colours by swooning over Blair and Brown: The New Tory Revolution. Which as well as giving the finger to St. Jezza was also a kick in the teeth to your ex-friends at the Stop the Wars Coalition, the brave terrorist-lovers who demonstrated their commitment to democracy and left-wing values by supporting the Iraqi resistance as they bombed polling stations and murdered trade unionists. How do you sleep? With a belly full of grub you have no business eating if your food list is anything to go by.

First you detailed all the tasty delights you culturally appropriated in 2021, most of it from some Brexit-themed restaurant called Daisy’s, which apparently has no qualms about serving pizza, tortillas, garlic bread, and anything else they bloody well shouldn’t. Oh and they also do ‘Easter cakes’ and ‘hot cross buns’, just in case visiting Ch*i*t*an churches hadn’t alienated your Islamic fanbase quite enough.

But as well as dining out on immigrant pain, you also got your own hands dirty by cooking three ultra-hot curries. Indeed, it seems ethnic theft is all in a day’s work for you, cheerfully admitting you once made ‘Mexican tuna and rice’, no doubt while wearing a sombrero and shouting ‘Andale! Andale! Aribba! Aribba!’.

Amazingly you still weren’t finished pushing your right-wing agenda, coming full circle in your RIP section by paying tribute to dead Republican Noam Macdonald. Much like with Stanhope, you pathetically tried to reassure us you’re not fan of all of those other nasty American comics by calling Macdonald ‘the acceptable face of US comedy’ but it was too little too late.

If you absolutely had to laud a yank stand-up you could’ve chosen Patton Oswald, who recently melted leftist hearts by apologising to the internet for having a photo taken with black white supremacist David Shapiro, demonstrating true dedication to progressivism by prioritising the hurt feelings of psychopathic strangers over someone he’s been friends with for 35 years. But no, you had to appease your alt-right paymasters, gleefully dumping on traditional left-wing values like kindness and tolerance. On the other hand, Patton was friends with Shapiro in the first place so fuck that fat little lesbian.

To quote one of your own catchphrases from those long forgotten days when you were a Good Person: See that Patton Oswald? That’s you, that is.

I hope it was worth it, Stu. I really do.


18 Things Anti-Vax and Pro-Vax Zealots Have in Common

By Ben Pensant

Like all sensible Covid-cautious leftists, I despise people who don’t wear masks, refuse the vaccine, travel by bus, socialise in pubs, and leave the house every day to go to work instead of staying indoors and shitting a brick every time someone coughs on the telly. I also despise the government but not half as much as I despise people who won’t do what the government tell them. In short I despise anyone who isn’t a fully paid-up self-righteous doomsayer devoted to fighting this killer virus by tutting at strangers and calling Iain Brown a wanker.

But as I’ve written many times before, as much as these dangerous loons deserve pity, abuse, and death threats, we should remember that with a few simple tweaks they could easily be one of us. Because when it comes to Covid, the similarities between Good People who think we should be locked down forever and Bad Bastards who want to poison the population in the name of libertarianism are striking. Indeed, for every brave media pundit who thinks wearing a mask makes them Florence and the Nightingale there’s a deluded yet equally sincere denier who thinks not wearing one makes them Rosie Parks. And while our core arguments are clearly miles apart – we want to save the world, they want to murder it – the solid, principled, vacuously intolerant way we vomit them all over the internet is nigh on identical.

So in the spirit of Winterval, let’s put our differences aside and bond over what unites us. Because despite our mutual loathing, we can all agree it’s been jolly good fun abusing and smearing each other, like only people who’ve been barely affected by Covid but love to whine and pontificate about it on Twitter can.

So here are my 18 – for Covid-18, geddit? – Things Anti-Vax and Pro-Vax Zealots Have in Common.

18. We both spend our lives hysterically fearmongering about something that’s highly unlikely to kill us.

17. We both think you can judge a person’s entire character based on whether or not they put a piece of cloth on their face in Asda.

16. We both think relatively small numbers are actually really, really big ones.

15. We both think politicians are trying to murder us.

14. We both love telling the plebs what’s good for them.

13. We both think people who don’t spend every waking second obsessing over Covid are PART OF THE PROBLEM.

12. We both love banging on about The Science while ignoring the bits of The Science we don’t like.

11. We both take ghoulish satisfaction in people getting ill and dying.

10. We both have zero empathy for anyone who thinks differently.

9. We both think we represent ‘the people’ despite the fact that ‘the people’ either don’t know who we are or think we’re hysterical weirdos.

8. We’re both obsessed with posting pictures of ourselves on trains.

7. We both think normal folk adversely affected by Covid and lockdowns should be grateful to us for fighting their corner by arguing on the internet.

6. We both laud celebrities who agree with us as courageous plain-talking heroes but think the ones who don’t should stick to looking pretty and playing the bongos.

5. We both have a flare for lame hashtags and piss-weak puns such as ‘covidiots’, ‘plandemic’, ‘BorisThe Butcher’, and ‘KBFBITVHSCLUB7’.

4. We both love to share craftily edited, out-of-context, or blatantly fake video clips to promote our tedious agendas.

3. We both hate it when someone points out how similar we are.

2. We both really need to put our phones down.

1. We can both go fuck ourselves.

Top Ten Things What Are Worst Than the Talibans

Beaming Afghan women celebrate the Talibans takeover with a spot of shopping.

By Ben Pensant

Nothing was more predictable than the wave of Islamophobia that engulfed Britain last month after misunderstood fascists the Talibans reclaimed Afganisthan from the clutches of the West. From doctored news footage of Israeli hawks in fake beards beating up protesters and comedians to racist opinion pieces sneering at such quaint Islamic customs as banning choirs and beheading women, it was grimly inevitable to see the UK media once again set aside their differences and bond over their mutual loathing of fun-loving Muslims.

Distortion, misrepresentation, bare-faced fabrication: the MSM used every trick in the book to smear the T-men as murderous theocrats simply because they’d prefer their country’s future was dictated not by the imperialist whims of faceless Neocons but the wit and wisdom of a paedophile fisherman who died 700 years ago.

This miasma of misinformation climaxed in late August when a suicide bombing at Cabul airport was blamed on IISIS. That’s right, the other set of decent lads relentlessly demonised by the media for having the temerity to occasionally let off steam with lighthearted games of Toss the Batty Boy Off the Roof. Apparently the BBC and co expect us to believe that gangs of proud Muslims just go around killing each other for fun, despite the fact that they all look the same, sound the same, and have the same passing interest in destroying the West and abducting schoolgirls.

But hey, I guess it’s possible that ISIIS decided they’d had enough of killing infidels and started blowing up their brothers in arms for a laugh instead. In the same way it’s possible that Black November murdered the Munich Olympics and Al-Queda crashed a couple of jets into the Two Towers, just as long as you swap ‘Black November’ and ‘Al-Queda’ for ‘the CI5’ and ‘Mosadd’.

Needless to say, the torrent of media bigotry swiftly evolved into anti-refugee invective, as right-wing bores declared that only a terrorist could possibly choose to flee his war-torn homeland to settle in the nearest country that offers both asylum and a Gregg’s on every street. And not just normal terrorists, but brown-skinned terrorists with massive beards, the type that only exist in the fevered imaginations of Scum-readers and Lawrence ‘Looza’ Fox.

Which is an idea so offensive Pierce Morgan has already taken credit for it. Because the notion that we shouldn’t take in Afgani refugees because they’re terrorists is nonsense: the reason we shouldn’t take in Afgani refugees is because they’re not terrorists.

That’s right. These vanilla Muslims are nothing less than traitors, to their country, their people, and their quirkily genocidal religion. They made their beds by abandoning their Islamic brothers when they needed them most, taking the easy option of selling out to the West in exchange for an empty secular life with nary a Kalishnakov or public flogging in sight.

But as much as I’d happily send these self-hating pseudo-Muslims straight back, the Talibans are such affable sorts they’d probably greet them with open arms, limiting their punishment to one severed finger per traitor and merely gang-raping their wives and daughters instead of stoning them to death.

Far better to let them stew. They fled their country just as it was poised to revert to a theocratic paradise: why should they get a second chance? Like those cowardly Cuban stowaways who chanced their arms on the Straights of Florida in the ’60s, they’ll soon find out that the grass on the other side is grey, decaying, and stained with dog piss. And what better way to show them the error of their apostate ways than condemning them to suffer in a society far worse than the one they left?

Yes, I’m talking about the West, specifically the grubby, sprawling mass occupied by Brits and yanks and ruled by bloodthirsty, corrupt leaders so bloodthirsty and corrupt they make the Islamic extremists selflessly re-shaping Afganisthan look like yoghurt-knitting social workers.

Don’t believe me? Read on.

Top Ten Things What Are Worse Than the Talibans.

10. TERFS.

The right love whining about the Talibans’ poor record on ‘women’s rights’, a herring so red it doesn’t even have a beak. But anyone with half a New Statesmxn subscription knows the Talibans don’t want to execute women: they do it to protest the bombing of Muslim countries. And even then they take great care to only murder women who really deserve it, such as strippers or librarians.

Contrast this with western TERFS, the evil transphobes who’ve spent the last decade using words and memes to literally exterminate real women – the ones with beards and knackers – at a rate far more terrifying than that of the remarkably restrained ‘monsters’ putting Afganisthan back together. And unlike the Talibans, homicidal TERFS don’t have the decency to comfort their gender-non-conforming victims with some thoughtful words from the holy Kerrang before packing them off to the great Tammy Girl changing room in the sky.

Is it any wonder transwomen are flocking to inclusive utopias like Iran, where compassionate Mullers kindly offer ‘gay’ men life-saving gender-realignment surgery as a progressive alternative to being hung from cranes? Don’t be surprised if such defiantly liberal procedures are soon readily available on the streets of Kandyhar too.


It goes without saying that living under a democratically elected Conservative government is an ordeal few Afganis could endure, especially as this current rotten administration lurches even further to the right. There are far too many examples of why the Tories are more vile than the Taliban to list, but few are as rotten as the recent announcement that UK Muslims will soon be bullied into proving their Britishness when new laws are passed compelling them to wear badges celebrating our imperialist past.

The alt-right love to moan about the Talibans ‘forcing’ women to wear veils but unsurprisingly they’re A-Okay with them being forced to wear swastikas.


It’s safe to say many liberals had high hopes for Biden, especially those liberals who knew sweet fuck all about him other than the fact that he wasn’t Trump. But this doddery pretend leftist has disappointed at every turn, not least in the violent way he oppresses Women of Colours everywhere by refusing to die and allow Queen Kamala to claim his throne.

By welshing on the deal to step aside and let Ms Harrison take over he’s let the mask slip, sadly confirming his position as an ageing, straight white male and not the gender-fluid, mixed race millennial we thought he was. And please, enough with the lame excuses about how he can’t give up the job until he’s located the glasses case he put down somewhere in Camp Davids. Senility is not an excuse to stand in the way of progress.

Needless to say, Biden’s cheerleaders would have us believe the Talibans pose some kind of ‘misogynist threat’, as if his revolting treatment of Kamala is any better. Get back to me when you’ve asked an Afgan housewife which she’d prefer: taking the odd beating for leaving the house on her own or putting up with the most powerful politician on earth constantly forgetting her name.


There’s little to say about this maniacal monster that I haven’t already spent hours crying about. But if you genuinely think living under a hardline Islamic government is worse than having a Prime Minister who once loudly argued with his wife then I suggest you move next door to him and face the trauma of hearing this brute in action. Better still, marry him and let him stick his little blonde dick inside you before defending domestic abuse on the grounds that it was ‘just a tiff’. Yeah, just like OJ and Nicola Simpson were merely having ‘a bit of a squabble’ when he cut her head off.

It speaks volumes about our Islamophobic society that people actually believe men who politely force Muslim women to wear veils are more dangerous than one who calls them ‘letterboxes’.


Did this government’s piss-weak ‘restrictions’ ever even constitute a lockdown? Not from where I’m sitting. What the 500,000 people murdered by Johnston’s ‘anything goes’ attitude would give for the steely guidance of the Talibans, who have strict measures woven into their DNA.

Since recklessly opening up shops, bars, and sporting venues, Boris and co. have allowed millions of braindead morons to selfishly go about their lives, blissfully unaware they’ve been thrown under one big (red) bus. Islamophobes attack the Talibans’ supposed disregard for women’s safety but have you ever seen an Afgan lady without a face covering? I’ll wait.

Perhaps the next time someone spreads lies about the Talibans occasionally executing women in football stadiums someone should remind them that the Tories kill thousands every Saturday by allowing brick-thick soccer fans to mingle in them.


Ken Starmer? More like Klaus Stormer. Yep, the avowed Nazi in charge of the zombie movement that calls itself the Labour Party seems to think the Talibans are a problem that needs to be fixed by white politicians like him, blissfully unware that the Talibans wouldn’t exist if it wasn’t for white politicians like him.

Even worse, St Jezza’s lesser-successor is incapable of grasping that the grossly problematic way his dull-as-dishwater party has forced out bright, sassy, shag-happy Muslims like Ash Starkers is considerably worse than giving women fashion tips or banning them from driving.

Because this racist purge of sexy young leftists will damage the UK irreparably, as before long the likes of Ash will say ‘enough’s enough!’ and take their talents to Afganisthan, free to explore their sexuality and keep themselves in Allah’s good books. Ash may have to sacrifice the right to wear short skirts and ‘fuck like a champion’, but at least she’ll know if she does end up getting pelted with rocks for flashing her thighs it’ll be an infinitely more enjoyable way to meet her maker than being bored to death by centrist scum.


When not murdering women or shooting black people, the average British bobby can be found persecuting left-wing activists, as seen in the disturbing footage of this week’s Inoculate Britain protests. Point this out to the average Tory however, and they’ll deflect like pros, pathetically arguing that these brave motorway-blocking protesters were creating more pollution by causing huge traffic jams, as well as deeply damaging their cause by behaving like privileged posh arseholes who couldn’t care less about working people.

All of which is irrelevant. Because the real story here is one of brutish police officers making a mockery of our ‘superiority’ over Islamic theocracies, idly standing by as angry Leave-voting motorists revved their engines and intimidated the privately educated angels for having the temerity to spend their gap year saving the planet before taking that plum job at HSBC.

Worse, these callous pigs made no effort whatsoever to help the exhausted protesters slowly dying of thirst. Something tells me the right-wingers tut-tutting at the ‘horrific’ footage of women and children herded like cattle by rifle-wielding brown Islamists weren’t quite as disgusted at the sight of white police officers refusing to offer dehydrated environmentalists cups of pop and Kitt-Kats. ACAB.


Especially bald ones fond of eating horse de-wormers which aren’t actually horse de-wormers but loads of bitter blue-tick liberals say they are so they must be. But that wrestlemania fool is just the tip of the ice cream. Every time any comic opens his mouth he subjugates someone, unless that comic is Nish Kular or Kate Smurfwaite, whose mouths have only ever subjugated uneducated idiots too dumb to laugh at their fiercely original jokes about how racist The Daily Fail is.

That Western ‘comics’ are not merely allowed but encouraged to mock whichever minority they’ve decide to murder that day is a travesty. Yet apparently the Talibans, who care so much about protecting the public from hate-filled comedians they kidnap and bundle them into cars before slapping them about and shooting them, are the bad guys.

Gee, I wonder why the terrorists hate us so much?


Like Boris the Bastard, I refuse to give the Worst Thing Ever any more coverage than it deserves. But if anyone seriously thinks being terrorised by murderous religious fanatics is worse than leaving the EU then I suggest you think about this cold hard fact: The Talibans have been ‘oppressing’ Afgans for about five weeks. Brexit has been making James O’Brian cry for over five years. Do the fucking math.


See above. Then add Ant and Duncan, landlords, Only Fools & Racists, manspreading, Little Minx, grammar schools, Rudyard Kipling, his rubbish cakes, Carry On Raping, being asked ‘where are you from?’, and anything else this godforsaken island has forced upon the world throughout it’s blood-splattered history.

But hey, at least we don’t wear sandals and kill infidels, right?