The Reel Thing: Alt-Right Now

 

Bella-Emberg
Right-wing fraud Brie Lawson looking less than marvellous without heavy make-up and sympathetic lighting.

By Ben Pensant

Few things are as painful as a disappointing cinema visit, especially one you’ve avoided paying for by hiding under a seat pretending to be a shadow. Sadly, it’s a trauma all-too familiar to liberals, such is the volume of alt-right propaganda produced by the most left-leaning industry on earth. And while I haven’t paid for a film since 1999, there’s little consolation in knowing the racist trash I’m forced to sit through cost nothing. (Oh and fuck UCI and the fascist bouncers they hired for the opening weekend of Star Wars: Phantom Lord. I hope you choked on my bastard fiver.)

The sad thing is I was under the impression Hollywood had finally embraced modern progressivism and started allowing million-dollar decisions to be routinely dictated by outraged virgins on Twitter. Instead I regularly arrive at my local arthouse for the latest ‘wokebuster’ only to find it’s anything but. Even worse, most of what masquerades as SJW cinema doesn’t merely fail to espouse left-wing ideology: it pisses all over it.

Like cis-gendered wolves in non-binary clothing, Tinseltown has decided the best way to remain relevant is to churn out movies that appear stuffed with progressive values but on closer inspection brim with far-right fury. Exactly the kind of deception you’d expect from an industry run by Nazi Jews and faumosexual rapists.

And in 2019 this dark trend is spreading like cancer, with fresh dollops of fascist dogma stinking up multiplexes weekly. Hence this damning report, which is in no way whatsoever a lame excuse to paste together various stray observations too half-arsed to warrant a whole article.

Which brings me to Lady Marvel. After respectfully waiting a month in order to give the female comic-geek community of Newcastle a chance to see it first, I eventually took the plunge in April, satisfied that the fat goth from Presto and her ugly mate who wanked off my cousin on the X25 had seen it twice. As I made my way into the auditorium disguised as a cleaner I was giddy with excitement. And with good reason, as Mrs. Marvel ticked every box: female lead, women chinning blokes, and virtually no white men apart from that English baddy with the girl’s name. Star Brie Lawson also got me in the mood before the movie’s release with a series of interviews stuffed with brave, ballsy platitudes about gender and empowerment or something.

But having duped the usher with a soggy jay cloth and two popcorn cartons taped to my chest, what unfolded over the next two hours shook me to my core. Because far from being a switched-on celebration of victimhood, the film essentially says ‘up yours!’ to modern feminism. Indeed, the internalised misogyny of Lawson’s Karen Danvers finally confirms that summer blockbusters are now completely controlled by the Trump administration.

Consider this: After finding out Danvers isn’t a Martian, we learn that she became a brilliant pilot after working hard and proving herself rather than being parachuted into a job to satisfy diversity quotas. We then see her beating up men because she’s better at fighting than them, and not because they let her win for the sake of intersectionality. And most egregiously, after Danvers saves the day she has the chance to punish crap Caucasian villain Judy Law. Does she do what any self-respecting progressive would and pen a searing blogpost about toxic masculinity? Does she get him sacked because his foot brushed her fanny while she was kicking his head? Not quite. She decides the most fitting punishment for a space alien is to…send him into space. Wow. Why not just give him a farewell nosh while you’re at it?

This is Hollywood. A supposedly PC blockbuster with a female lead who makes her own luck without asking for special treatment and lets a privileged white supervillain off with a slap on the wrist. Basically, the complete opposite of everything modern feminism represents. And as if such tone-deaf chauvinism wasn’t vile enough, five minutes before the end I suddenly realised that Karen Danvers doesn’t have a cock. Yep, after giving leftists the come-on for two hours it turns out the film’s protagonist isn’t even a real woman: she’s a sodding menstruator. With tits and a functioning fanny. Way to alienate your audience, DC.

But this is typical of a film with the most ill-judged casting since HBO denied drug-dealing Maths teachers the opportunity to represent themselves by hiring Brian Cranston to star in Breaking Saul. And it started so well: I was initially blown away by how much the actor playing young Larry Fishbone looked exactly like young Larry Fishbone. “Wow” I thought. “They gave the role to someone who actually resembles the Reservoir Dogs star, rather than just hiring a teenager with the same colour hair!”

Sadly, it soon became clear that I wasn’t watching a member of the Larry Fishbone lookalike community at all. No, the DC suits had gaslighted the real Larry Fishbone into taking the white man’s dollar on the promise that they obscure his wrinkly face with cheap make-up and rubbish GCI. Needless to say I stormed out the second the credits rolled, not even pausing to spit on the usher like I usually do when I’m short-changed by a film I haven’t paid to watch. But the sad thing is, in any normal year a movie as eyepoppingly right-wing as Marvel Girl would be an anomaly, roundly mocked and boycotted by people who’ve never seen it. Things are far from normal in the post-Trump world however, as 2019’s roster of cinematic duplicity demonstrates.

Take Ian McKay’s The Vice, the Dick Chaney biopic that appears to hit all the right notes before disgracing itself in the third act by promoting the most luridly right-wing ideology this side of The Green Hornets. Which is a huge shame as the film gets so much right, spending most of its running time pretending the last two Democrat governments didn’t exist and ignoring the fact that their foreign policy was remarkably similar to the evil Bush regime’s. And naturally Bush and co. are held uniquely responsible for every bad thing the USA has ever done, even though their love of torture and bombing Muslim countries was adopted with gusto by St. Barack.

Chaney’s tyrannical use of executive orders to push through diabolical policies is also attacked, the film suggesting this directly lead to the obscene powers now enjoyed by President Pussy-Grab. Luckily the film avoids mentioning that no President has pursued executive power as hungrily as Obama, who made a hobby of extending his reach throughout his glorious 8 years as LOTUS. Indeed, in line with the modern liberal trend for pretending Obama’s presidency never happened, the script virtually ignores his two terms, McKay jumping straight from Dubya to Trump and standing up for liberal values by erasing one of the most important black men in American history. In fact, Obama and Mr. Hillary Clinton get so few mentions you’d think they’d never been in power. You’d certainly never guess they were responsible for a multitude of reckless interventions every bit as hawkish and warmongery as those carried out by the awful Republicans.

Elsewhere, the film makes much of Chaney supposedly advising his daughter not to back gay marriage when she ran for the senate, causing a longstanding rift with her gay sister. Naturally, we have no way of knowing if Chaney caused the fall-out by talking her into betraying her sibling for political capital. But that doesn’t bother McKay, who decides he must have done because well, as the director is somewhat keen to point out, Chaney was Satan. He even cheekily inserts a false ending which implies that if Chaney weren’t Satan he would have resigned years earlier and kept his daughter’s sexuality a secret. Perfect. And while it may seem strange for a liberal to argue that gay people should keep their gayness to themselves, one of the greatest things about modern leftists is our ability to wilfully contradict ourselves and still be the most progressive people in the room. This is also apparent in the film’s puritanism, with Chaney repeatedly shamed for being fat, unhealthy and – the horror! – liking a drink. A sure-fire sign of diabolical evil, as anyone who’s seen Nigel Farrage swig a pint knows.

Sounds great, eh? And it is. Until the film turns its attentions to terrorism and shits its brains out. Because in an act of cowardice on par with Steven Soderbergh depicting Black November as cold-blooded killers simply because they killed people in cold blood, McKay destroys his good work by suggesting that Islamic extremism is a bad thing. So while every proper leftist knows fine well that the jihad against the West is fully justified because of Islamophobia or something, McKay bottles it and merely blames the US for creating the conditions which allowed Islamic extremism to flourish, acknowledging that we created vacuums and grievances that were exploited by bad people but failing to defend those grievances or side with the bad people.

McKay even highlights the terrorist attacks that have occurred since the Iraq war but chickens out of saying that the victims deserved it. Pussy. He then pathetically tries to make up for it with a half-hearted title card stating that 600,000 deaths were caused by the Iraq War – wisely neglecting to mention that those nice Iraqi Resistance lads were responsible for a big chunk of them – but it’s too little too late. Depressing stuff but I’m not sure why I expected better from a director who put Gareth Bale in a fat-suit rather than giving the role to an actual porker.

A similar desire to court the alt-right pervaded U.S, the smash-hit horror that should have cemented John Peele’s reputation as the hottest new filmmaker in town but instead merely proved that he’s quite happy to betray his people if it keeps whitey happy.

I expected great things from Peele, whose disturbing debut Get Away pitted wealthy white liberals against a self-hating black determined to scupper their plan to empower African-Americans by implanting Caucasian brains into their heads. The thoroughly bleak climax saw Peele bravely eschew happy endings, as the deranged villain slowly wipes out the brave white family, before driving off in search of more middle-class leftists to slaughter simply because they value black people for their skin instead of their minds.

Sadly, U.S offers no such intersectional principles, with its tale of an abandoned underground facility teeming with a shambling army of uncultured, murderous clones desperate to experience life up top. Because what Peele is implying is that it’s not just race that divides America but class, as if social and economic issues affect all groups rather than just the ones the contemporary left have placed at the top of the Oppression League Table. But this is a filmmaker who sells out his brothers by demanding liberal audiences root for a black family who are best friends with a white couple. Sick. My guess is if you were to ‘Peele’ this so-called auteur there’d be nothing but vanilla ice cream underneath.

Still, at least he prepared me for If Beale Street Could Walk. Featuring an all black cast, directed by black Moonlight Mile helmer Barry Tomkins, and based on a book by black crime novelist Mike Baldwin, to all intents and purposes it’s the wokebuster to end all wokebusters. Until it takes a sharp rightwards turn halfway through, sticking two fingers up at #MeMe by suggesting that a man accused of rape might be innocent. Yep, in 2019 a movie is actually indulging the misogynistic myth that sometimes women lie. Subhuman. And to add insult to injury, despite copious black talent on both sides of the camera the film is piss-poor on representation. I mean, would it have killed Tomkins to cast an actual black rapist as the man accused of rape? It’s not as if there aren’t plenty to choose from.

But this is the new normal. As Marvel Woman illustrated, it’s the summer blockbusters that are raising the bar for right-wing messaging. Avengers: Ender’s Game raked in millions despite its rank fat-shaming and racist belief that the world’s problems can be solved by rich white men with magic spacesuits, while Godzilla: King Of The Munsters was a huge hit even though it demonised the entire green movement by making its baddies eco-warriors. Brilliant. Why not just have a 300ft Greta Funbag stomping skyscrapers and destroying the planet with her radioactive farts?

And don’t get me started on X-Men: Pat Phoenix, with its hateful lie that women are too flighty to handle superpowers without causing car crashes and killing their parents. Or Spiderman: Homeward Bound, which undermined its commitment to diversity by having progressive heroine Mary Joan spend the whole film swooning at a creepy white cis-boy in tights.

But the most disturbing part is that all of these films were box office hits despite uptight singletons complaining about them on social media, opening up the terrifying prospect that people who spend their lives moaning on the internet don’t have quite as much influence as we thought. And with Chris Tarantino’s Once Upon A Time In LA about to open and offend decent liberals everywhere with its sordid orgy of bare feet, ‘bitches’ and bigotry, it seems the Ovaltine Window has significantly shifted: they’re not even pretending to be woke anymore. Shameful.

All we can do is pray that the few out-and-proud liberals who haven’t been banished from Hollywood will continue making their voices heard. So three cheers for the brave producers who put principle before profit and internet outrage before common sense by firing edgy comic Sarah Silverwoman after footage emerged of her dressed as Diane Abbott.

Much like Brie Lawson, Sarah had spent years fooling the world into thinking she was one of The Good People, though in this age of antisemitism smears and shady Zionist lobbies, one look at her surname should have been enough to tip us off. No doubt whoever binned Sarah will end up like Brian Epstein once the FBI find out but Christ, at least they did something.

Anyway, exposing all of this bigotry has made me quite nauseous. Time to take a break from the racism and sexism and occupy my mind with something altogether more progressive. Thank god I have a column to write on Carolyn Lucas’s all-white, women-only anti-Brexit cabinet. I hear her brother George is already planning a film about it. Now that’ll be worth hiding under a chair for.

 

Carl & Jessica Sitting In A Tree, Where’s The Left-Wing Solidarity?

 

Katherine-Elizabeth-Upton-most-beautiful-woman
Beautiful Jessica poses for fans after her triumphant Human Rights Tribunal.

By Ben Pensant.

The modern left love a good fantasist. And fortunately 2019 has been ram-packed with them, melting progressive hearts with their principled activism and severe mental illness. We swooned at Apache brave Nathan Philippe and his belief that banging a drum in a teenager’s face makes the teenager racist. We prayed for Jessie Smollet after his assault at the hands of two Trump supporters disguised as invisible Nigerians. And we wept as James Robson and Wade Safechuck detailed how they were abused by the Paedo of Pop in a train station that hadn’t been built yet.

There’s been plenty of make-believe this side of the pond too, from Boris Johnston’s courageous neighbours deciding it’s in the public interest to know a blonde buffoon rows with his missus, to die-hard Remainer Otto European’s fervent belief that turning your back in protest means you’re a Nazi. And let’s not forget David Lamby whose flights of fancy are so potent he can look at a photo of a Tory hustings and conclude that no women were allowed in, even when there are about ten of them in the picture.

Coupled with the enduring mythology of hate crime spikes, gender pay gaps, and Sean King’s pigmentation, it’s safe to say that if you have an engrossing, fictional, career-destroying story to tell, the left has your back. Or so I thought.

Sadly, it seems prominent left-wing voices have been actively shunning the delusional narcissists they previously pledged support to. Which is why feisty trans activist Jessica Yavin’s story is so shocking, the silence from high-profile champions of gender self-ID so deafening. Because it was their mantra that ‘transwomen are women’ and their insistence that any man can become female simply by saying he is that led to Yaniv demanding women wax her knackers in the first place.

That’s right, Jessica Yavin has testicles but thinks she’s got a fanny. GET OVER IT. Jessica has, her family has, and the schoolgirls she allegedly stalked, bullied, and offered to share ‘kid porn’ with certainly have. The only people struggling with it are the transphobes who refused to touch Jessica’s cock and the army of TERFs smearing this gorgeous lady as an entitled, misogynist sex-pest.

Because Jessica is merely one in a long line of beautiful women cruelly assigned ‘m**e’ at birth by bigoted doctors too consumed with hatred to look beyond the boyish genitalia and see the pretty foo-foo within. No doubt the quacks responsible would claim they made their choice via science, reason, and the human eye, as if a tiddler and two sacks of meat are a better indicator of someone’s gender than an imaginary clout. And who’s to say these negligent bullies were correct anyway? Errors can be made, and as anyone who’s watched enough non-binary porn knows, it’s very easy to mistake a transwoman’s clit for a stubby baby-cock.

Naturally, Jessica has experienced brutal transphobia. So brutal that when she decided to learn how to insert tampons into the minge she doesn’t have, she was left with no option but to impersonate a girl-band manager and hang out in Facebook groups asking children for advice on the best way to shove a sanitary towel up her shitty arsehole.

Jessica was also recently left heartbroken when a topless swimming event for 12-24 year old non-binaries in Toronto was cancelled. Thirtysomething Jessica even applied for permission to attend the event, which had a safe, sensible, and not-at-all sinister ‘no parents or guardians allowed’ rule. Happily, rumours suggest Jessica is currently organising an alternative, to be held in a remote warehouse not unlike the one in Hostel 3, where the lack of nubile flesh will be compensated for by a twenty-strong gang of middle-aged social workers dressed as babies.

But let’s focus on the real reason for Jessica’s new-found fame: her principled campaign to put waxing salons out of business, a plan hatched after she was ostracised by sixteen transphobic waxologists who refused to accept her custom on the grounds that because it looks like she has a cock and balls, she must therefore have a cock and balls. Even worse, having told the ladies upfront that she was a woman with a vagina, they then turned on her after learning she is actually a man with a penis.

“Never mind” you’re probaby thinking. “At least Jessica had plenty of backing, especially from all those gender self-ID proponents in The Guardian and that”. ERR-ERRRR! Shamefully, the pundits and politicians who’ve spent years arguing that a man who says he’s a woman is as much a woman as an actual woman were strangely silent on the thorny subject of Jessica’s bollocks, leaving her to fend off the torrent of abuse alone.

So Jessica received zero solidarity from Lorry Penny, OJ Jones, or Ash Starkers, three people at the forefront of promoting the idea that transwomen are women and anyone who disagrees is a disgusting Nazi who can shove their bigoted hate speech up their loose furburger.

Similarly, new SDP leader Jo Swinton failed to stick up for Jessica, despite being a firm believer in gender self-ID and allowing men to piss, shower, and masturbate wherever they like. Ditto Labour’s Steven Doughty, who has attacked all manner of far-right feminists for objecting to creepy men exploiting trans ideology yet has so far failed to defend Jessica with the same pride, passion, and naked opportunism with which he attacked evil hatemongers like The Daily Fail’s Janice Taylor.

Dr. Christian Jensen and Not-A-Dr. Adrian Harrods have also been noticeably silent on Waxgate, somewhat curious given their history of celebrating gender self-ID and grassing women up to their bosses for disagreeing with them on Twitter. Fingers crossed they were simply pre-occupied with other important work, such as doxxing women, defending sex with 12 year old girls, or examining swollen bellends in Magaluf. (Thank Allah we aren’t all irrationally averse to handling the naughty bits of half-naked horndogs.)

All of which begs several questions: Could it be that fighting fascism and saying ‘bollocks’ to Brexit has consumed the left so much they’ve taken their eyes off the unwaxed ball and temporarily neglected the trans-creep community?

Or could it be, as Tory trolls speculate, that they know fine well Jessica’s behaviour is unjustifiable, but to say so would both make a mockery of the ideology they’ve thrown their lot in with and increase their chances of getting twatted by a plumber in fishnets on Speakers’ Corner?

Or perhaps there’s an even darker explanation. Because I can’t be the only principled leftists to note similarities with the recent treatment of  Carl ‘Nasty Nick’ Beecham, the freedom fighting fantasist who wowed the left with his tales of VIP sex rings and drug-addled snuff parties. And needless to say, now that it’s finally been conclusively proven that Carl’s claims were utter horse-shit his celebrity cheerleaders are nowhere to be seen.

Of course, to anyone who spent five minutes researching his disturbing and highly implausible allegations it’s been pretty obvious for years that Carl had as much credibility as that bloke who hangs around Haymarket Bus Station telling old ladies he works for the CIA, chasing crisp packets, and arguing with pigeons. Indeed, the crooked BBC even aired an episode of Dramarama in 2015 which exposed Carl’s story  – promoted by pioneering conspiracy blog Exaro Media – as unfounded nonsense. Luckily, Carl’s famous champions either didn’t see it or pretended they hadn’t, allowing the myth to flourish in it’s natural habitat: the internet.

Indeed, left-wing dupes on Twitter still talk in hushed tones about Satanic sex-cults involving murderous MPs, blissfully unaware that neither exist. Even Carl’s conviction and 18-year sentence hasn’t deterred them, with conspiracy loons worldwide insisting the hapless nurse was ‘set up’ by sinister establishment forces who destroyed vital evidence and forced him to flee to Scandinavialand after child porn and toilet-spying technology were planted on his laptop.

All of which successfully destroyed Carl’s veneer of credibility, previously maintained by the high-profile cheerleaders bowled over by his tales of devil worshipping Tory nonces. So bowled over that they continued to believe him long after it became clear to anyone who’d looked into it that Carl was a deranged lunatic who couldn’t lie straight in bed.

These included Tom Watkins, who publicly repeated Carl’s claims about dead Tory Len Brittan, stating repeatedly that he fully believed the entirely convincing story told to him in person by the wild-haired, socially awkward weirdo . The fact that there was zero actual evidence was irrelevant, and Tom should be applauded for being an early champion of #BelieveVictims, the international craze that would erupt in glorious technicolour two years later to ruin careers, destroy families, and tarnish the reputations of innocent men worldwide. Go Tom!

Other politicians included former Labour MP Simon Dhansak, whose work exposing the sexual exploitation of young women by politicians was unfairly cut short after he was suspended from his party for sending saucy texts to a 17-year-old girl. And let’s not forget Gorgeous ‘George’ Galloway, who interviewed Exaro Media‘s no-nonsense editor Mark Watson on Russia Tonight, concluding that the sheer volume of imaginary Tories who’d spent decades abusing delusional loners was as good an argument as any for overthrowing the government and declaring war on Israel. (Patience, sweet terracotta warrior. It’s coming.)

Carl was also backed by James ‘How To Be Right’ O’Brian, who regularly hosted Mark Watson on his NBC show. Indeed, Watson’s thoroughly disturbing, entirely unsubstantiated reports of establishment kiddy-fiddling were like catnip to O’Brian, who has spent the last three years calling 17 million people he’s never met gullible idiots. And James carried on having Mark on the show long after most people had realised the VIP story was utter rubbish, such was his dedication to holding imaginary paedophiles accountable for crimes that never happened.

Sadly, by 2016 James had abruptly abandoned the story, presumably in response to the BBC documentary which confirmed what anyone free of political, ideological, or tinfoil hat bias already knew: it was all made up. Fortunately James refused to take the coward’s option of apologising and admitting he’d been duped, preferring to say nothing and ignore or block anyone who suggested he has a nerve accusing others of naivety considering he was taken in by a transparently mental paedophile.

Needless to say, neither James nor Tom have admitted any culpability in destroying Harley Proctor’s life and sending Brittan to an early grave. Instead they issued terse, uniform statements which failed to mention their own complicity. James even pledged to carry on Believing Victims, delighting his fans by effectively admitting he’s learnt absolutely nothing. Good. If Brittan thinks being a rich white man accused of noncery is bad he should try living in Boris’s Britain. These dead Tories who carked it before Brexit don’t know how lucky they are.

Still, as commendable as it was to see Carl’s former champions cover their own backs and refuse to say ‘sorry’ for indulging a dangerous nutter, what was sorely lacking was full-blooded support, the kind also denied to Jessica Yavin. Indeed, you’d expect James to come up with the goods on both issues, having last year blasted a transphobic menstruator – is there any other kind? – who suggested that young girls shouldn’t have to share changing rooms with hairy-arsed adult men, blissfully unware that these men’s arses are only hairy because a handful of toxic TERFs are too up themselves to wrangle the odd willy.

Sadly, those days are long gone and James’ support for Jessica was as non-existent as his anger at Carl Beecham’s imprisonment. And we all know why. Because the right have bullied decent liberals into silence, to the point where we know fine well if we say the wrong thing our careers are over.

Meanwhile they continue to steal the left’s best moves. As I’ve previously discussed, there is a terrifying new breed of right-wing social media fantasists, spreading smears and fabrications as if they were New Statesmxn columnists. Perhaps the most enduring is the fantasy that Tommy Yaxley Robinson is a crusading truth teller fighting for abused children, as opposed to a dim-witted hooly whose only talents appear to be lying, scrapping, and coming up with increasingly silly ways to get himself thrown in jail.

So this is 2019. A transwoman persecuted for standing up to bigotry, an NHS angel locked up for telling his story his way, and two marginalised victims with a shared interest in what children get up to in bathrooms thrown under the bus by the very people who elevated them to stardom. And all because the far-right are determined to punish people for expressing opinions they don’t like.

Perhaps the world ending in six months isn’t such a bad thing after all.

 

The Revolution Will Not Be Trivialised

 

cropped_Bundesarchiv_Bild_183-J07994__Berlin__Skorzeny__Reinhardt__Zschirnt__K_rner
Farrage, Fox, and him who used to edit ‘Nuts’ take their seats in the European Parliament.

By Ben Pensant.

There are so many things the left do better than the right. From losing referendums and coming second in elections to misrepresenting statistics and pretending men can get pregnant, it’s safe to say we best them in every category. Sure, they’ve recently given us a run for our money in the fields of ‘faking hate crimes’ and ‘reporting comedians to the police’ but they can’t hold a candle to us when it comes to stuff that matters, such as attending Pride parades dressed as leather-clad sex-dogs. (Tories prefer to do that in private, the dirty, repressed bastards.)

But they will never come close to us when it comes to insurrection. You only have to look at those alt-right bellends in yellow tabards stinking up Westminster Boulevard to see how rubbish they are at protests. Okay, they may have pulled off the remarkable feat of convincing the left-wing media that they’re both pathetic losers whose fans would struggle to fill a phone box and the greatest threat to civilised society since Oswald Mosley’s Blacksocks, but at the end of the day their sad antics are about as incendiary as a baby mouse wet-farting Deutschmark Uber Alles.

In this exciting era of milkshakes and tear-gas it must be pretty embarrassing when your most memorable examples of direct action are pestering Anna Sourface and calling OJ Jones a puff. They don’t even wear masks or carry bike locks. This startling lack of originality runs right through the alt-right’s bland approach to protest, though this doesn’t mean they’re not the most terrifying presence on British streets and must be eliminated before they cleanse the UK of everyone who isn’t white or cisgender.

Which brings me to last week’s cringeworthy yet horrific display of arrogance by the Brexshit Party, who somehow managed to sink even lower when they turned their backs on the EU’s official jingle, Ode To Juncker. Yep, not content with disrespecting the greatest institution on earth – one so awesome it singlehandedly stops World War 3 every day – they also offended a brass band. Clearly the note perfect rendition of this life affirming anthem didn’t do it for them, probably because it doesn’t contain enough oompah stylings or jackboot drumming for their far-right tastes.

But there was an even darker side to their performance. Because as anyone who’s spent more than five minutes navigating Political Twitter knows, you can’t simply criticise the Brexshit MEPs for being rude, childish, or egotistical. You can’t just mock them for bigging up their silly protest as if it were an act of defiance on par with Wayne Gandhi’s Salt March. And you can’t merely point out the ridiculousness of taking a seat in the European Parliament despite spending your days telling people how terrible the European Parliament is.

No, what you have to do is state with absolute certainty that all 29 BP MEPs – three of whom I’ve actually heard of! – decided to turn their backs on the European Parliament not because they’re vain egotists or publicity hungry clickbait whores. They did it because they’re Nazis.

Which is what thousands of educated people with important-looking letters after their names did last week when it became blatantly obvious that BP’s trite spectacle was a far-right dog-whistle, clearly designed to invoke memories of a similar protest done by a bunch of genuine Nazis in 1936 or something. The fact that none of the die-hard Remainzealots accusing the foul MEPs of deliberately referencing Nazis had heard of the incident until that day was irrelevant, as was the fact that people have been turning their backs as a form of protest for decades and it has bugger all to do with death camps, swastikas, or genocidal dictators with missing knackers.

Understandably, decent people were repulsed by this brazen tribute to the Fourth Reich, so brazen it was only picked up on by people with blue flags and pointless acronyms in their Twitter handles. Leading the charge was EU-lovin’ social media personality Otto European, who melted FBPEMFTM hearts by re-tweeting a picture of Farage and co’s ancestors pulling their dirty trick in the ’20s, before accusing their modern day proteges of “using the Nazi playbook”.

This naturally made Guardian readers swoon hard, almost as hard as that time Otto posted creepy pictures of a lady eating some food on a train. That woman, of course, was leading Brexshitter Clare Fox, which handed European and his deeply progressive followers a free pass to disseminate photos of a 60-year-old woman taken without her permission, cleverly avoiding the cries of ‘toxic masculinity’ that would erupt from his fans if someone did that to a proper left-wing politician. (Fox likes to pretend she’s one of us by bragging about her Communist past and supporting noble causes like killing British soldiers but she’s fooling no-one.)

Otto was ably assisted by his faithful Twitter followers, leaping to his defence with the sort of rabid commitment and unabashed sycophancy unique to the modern left – two more things we do waaay better than the rotten right. Predictably, they had to fend off Tory trolls pathetically arguing that people have been making political statements by turning their backs for years, from anti-Trump protesters to Canadian women upset at Justin Trudeaux for banning periods. These lame deflections were met with short shrift by Otto’s army, who responded like trained seals and repeatedly pointed out that the difference between these examples and the racist MEPS was that the latter are elected representatives, you idiot. What this had to do with Otto’s claim that to turn one’s back on someone was to “whistle the same motifs” as the Nazis was unclear, but I’m certain there was an important reason behind it. Otherwise it would mean they’d completely missed the point and educated leftists never do that, do they?

The only sticking point was Otto. Now, far be it from me to cast doubts on such an obvious ally but even Mr. European himself would agree that in these divisive times it’s hard to know who to trust. So forgive me for not passing on your wise words Otto, but I’m afraid your first name sounds a little too ‘Nazi playbook’ for my liking.

All of which emphasises how utterly useless the right are at protesting, their cack-handed attempts insulting true rebels everywhere and making a mockery of the revolutionary tradition. To see how it’s supposed to be done, you only have to look at the assortment of left-wing protests that have happened over the last fortnight, each one as daring and rebellious as the Brexshit Party’s was safe and irrelevant.

Take the counter protest which took place on the same day, as a gang of brave Lib Dems in wacky yellow t-shirts left the BP absolutely rattled by marching into the European Parliament with ‘BREXIT IS BOLLOCKS!’ emblazoned across their tits. Ha! Needless to say, this madcap act of subversion left the alt-right fuming. And if for some strange reason their stunt doesn’t stop Brexit, at least these freedom fighters will know that while few people could tell you their names, at least their clothing trended on Twitter for an hour. Take that, Nazi sods!

Elsewhere, we saw yet more bravery from Antifa, the modern day equivalents of everyone who died in WW2, particularly those nice Stalinists who helped the Allied Forces crush Hitler before spending the next few decades quadrupling his death toll. For further evidence compare the Brexshit Party with the black-clad warriors who clashed with Nazis in Portland Bill two weeks ago, finding themselves under such a sustained attack from alt-right shit stirrer and self-hating homo Andy Ngogo that they were left with no choice but to defend themselves by beating up the unreconstructed Solero.

This is how you get stuff done. And the great thing about Antifa violence is that, unlike violence committed by your common-or-garden mace-wielding fascist, Antifa’s brand of peaceful bullying always earns the support of British liberals. One of the most passionate is left-wing blogger Bob From Throckley who, despite regularly decrying class divisions, hate speech, and incitement, expressed little condemnation for the privileged activists who put Nguyen in hospital. On the contrary, he blamed the Asian white supremacist for provoking them, reminding everyone that evil Andy is ‘far-right’ thus legitimising the principled decision to beat him up.

Unsurprisingly, Bob then indulged in the kind of apologism and victim-blaming now commonplace on the modern left, from casting doubt on whether Umbongo’s injuries were real and denying that Antifa activists have ever behaved like fascists to defending their right to hit people they disagree with and using ‘they started it!’ as a grown-up justification for violence. Good lad. All in all, for someone who dislikes Corbynites Bob doesn’t half sound like one. Fingers crossed he keeps up the good work – once Jezza sweeps to power and Broccoli finishes his five year stretch stitching berets in solitary we could use a brain like his.

But the most impressive left-wing protest happened last week when Jess Philips dumped her son on Theresa May’s doorstep. This genius move was designed to blame the doomed PM for Master Philips’ school closing on a Friday afternoon, as well as highlighting the fact that Jess’s life is so hectic and her salary so meagre she has neither the time nor money to arrange for someone to change her 10-year-old’s nappy.

The tremors from this bold attempt to change the world were felt all the way from Number Ten to Number Eleven, with Jess’s bravery fawned over by the type of people who think swearing and interrupting people more than make up for a complete lack of personality. As you’d expect, these superfans happily bought into the left-wing fantasy that her son’s school closure was entirely the fault of the government and nothing whatsoever to do with mismanaging its budget.

Sadly, the ballsy act of dissent had zero effect on policy but the ripples it generated on Jess’s Twitter feed more than made up for that, which was kind of the point. And while Jess’s son’s school remains closed on Fridays, rumour has it Terrible Theresa was so flustered she offered to pay a visit to Brumingham to wipe his arse while Jess gets her nails done. We’ll see.

As for Fearless Philips, she may have repeatedly betrayed the Dear Leader but we Corbynites are a forgiving bunch. She keeps up these shamelessly opportunistic publicity stunts and there may yet be a role for her when Jezza seizes power. I can’t promise anything but if she maintains her insurrectional streak we may be able to convince Brother Seamus to only hang her once.

Until then we’ll keep showing the fascists how it’s done, starting with our all-out war against the Bastard Broadcasting Charlatans, whose jawdroppingly offensive World In Action documentary on the myth of left-wing antisemitism rightly sent proud Corbynites into the biggest, loudest rage since that infamous Newsnight interview when Laura Cuntsberg pumped and blamed it on Jezza.

Luckily we’re old hands at this protest lark, and the reaction to the smear-filled hatchet job has been as sleek as you’d expect, with some of the outrage even coming from people who’ve seen the programme. I myself refuse to watch it but that hasn’t stopped me sending an angry email to Ofsted and posting envelopes filled with cat-shit to the producer. Meanwhile, all over social media decent Jezzabels have been demonstrating how ridiculous the BBC claims of Jew hatred are by spending the last few days abusing Jews.

See how it’s done, righties? Now if you’ll excuse me this ‘BOLLOCKS TO BORIS!’ banner won’t write itself.

Fight the power!

Good Jews For People Who Hate Bad Jews

 

BBMSfIe
Some Good Jews, yesterday.

By Ben Pensant

Like most die-hard Corbynites, I don’t even notice the smears anymore. Sure, I read them, spit on them, and send death threats to anyone who retweets them, but other than that they barely register: a faint, inconsequential drone of lies, propaganda, and demonstrable facts. Indeed, they bother me so little it’s been three whole days since I last cried myself to sleep thinking about them, and almost a week since my daily commute to Cowgate food bank was marred by some Zionist bitch eating a bagel on the Metro.

Needless to say, the latest round of scurrilous allegations were as empty, predictable, and easy to ignore as ever, with hit-piece after hit-piece pathetically arguing that Chris Williams’ re-admission to Labour was evidence of the party’s ‘racism’. Please. Any idiot can see it’s actually evidence of their dedication to promoting diversity by creating a safe space for everyone from skull-faced militant antisemites to antisemitic militants with faces like skulls.

But amazingly last week saw an even more tiresome smear, one so tedious I barely spent more than four afternoons, three bus journeys, and an entire sleepless night curled up in an empty bath bubbling about it. Because the centrist swines and their Tory bedfellows excelled themselves this time, sinking even lower than usual by accusing several Jewish Labour accounts of being fakes. Their justification? Well apparently they commited the cardinal sin of regurgitating the exact same story. A story they were accused of stealing from someone else. Yep, it seems shared experiences are a bad thing in Brexit Britain. But that’s not even the worst part. Because these accounts didn’t belong to just any old Jews. These Jews were the relatives of Holocaust survivors.

That’s right, the very same alt-right hawks who’ve spent the last four years accusing St. Jezza’s Labour of antisemitism have now decided to throw people whose parents lived through the horror of the concentration camps under the bus. And all because their recollections of the ordeals they faced in the ’40s sounded slightly similar. Sickening. 

Still their relentless slander affects me so little I haven’t even smashed a plate thinking about them since midday. Obsessing over antisemitism smears is just soooo 2015. Far better to let Jezza’s Jews speak for themselves. Yes, they exist. This may shock those gullible wretches who’d believe Corbyn scratched his bum and sniffed his fingers in Strangers’ Bar if The Daily Fail said so, but facts are facts.

Because unbeknown to most of the British public, social media is awash with high-ranking Hebrews who worship Our Next PM every bit as passionately as normal people do. Unlike the celebrity Zionists spreading poison all the way from Twitter to Facebook, these honourable non-gentiles acknowledge their role in the persecution of Palestinians that started before they were born, and are acutely aware of their complicity in the actions of a government six-thousand miles away that has fuck all to do with them.

Twitter in particular is brimming with these folk. Take @KosherKopite#JC4PM a retired jeweller from Merseyside whose parents fled Germany for Amsterdam in the ’30s. After the Netherlands fell to the Nazis she and her family went into hiding, spending the rest of the war in a secret room behind a bookcase in her father’s office. Sadly, after being discovered by the SS in 1944 the whole family were sent to Auschwitz. Apart from @KosherKopite#JC4PM that is, who managed to escape the clutches of the Nazis and hitch-hiked her way across Europe before stowing away on a ferry bound for Merseyside. Upon arrival she was found shivering in a doorway and taken in by a kind Trotskyist family from Bootle, whereupon she devoted the rest of her life to campaigning for the many not the few by writing meaningless slogans on bedsheets.

As she put it herself last week after debating the finer points of the Be-Ro Flour Declaration, a discourse which culminated in her calling Rachel O’Riley a blonde slag: “I’ve learnt one thing. You only get to know a person after a fight. Then you judge their true character!”

I couldn’t have put it better myself, @Kosher.

But she isn’t the only Survivor saying ‘enough’s enough!’ to the anti-Corbyn onslaught. @MerseysideMensch#JC4PM#GTTO is another account which utterly destroys the idea that Jews hate Jezza. Like @Kosher, he was born in Germany but spent most of his childhood in the Netherlands after his parents fled Frankfurt to escape persecution. When the SS uncovered a secret room hidden behind a bookcase in his father’s office and sent his family to Dachau in 1944, @MerseysideMensch#JC4PM#GTTO escaped, trekking through war-torn Europe and somehow making it across the Channel to Liverpool where he was instantly adopted by a couple of scouse social workers. Since retiring from his successful career as a bank manager he spends his days campaigning for universal human rights and admonishing himself for causing the Six Day War despite never having set foot in Israel.

As he recently said to Tracey-Ann Doberman during a lively Twitter chat about Hamas in which he argued his point respectfully before accusing the former Corrie’ killer of eating babies’ faces: “I don’t want to live in vain like most people. I want to be useful or bring enjoyment to all people, even those I’ve never met. I want to go on living even after my death!”

You tell her, @Merseyside.

And let’s not forget @TalmudistOfToxteth#JC4PM#GTTO#ACAB, the 90-year-old former Chief Rabbi of Aigburth and full-time non-binary transbeard who arrived in the north-west as an orphan having fled Amsterdam during the war. Born in Germany, @TalmudistOfToxteth#JC4PM#GTTO#ACAB’s family moved to the Netherlands after Hitler swept to power but were captured and sent to Belsen in 1944 when their secret bedroom hidden behind a bookcase in their dad’s office was discovered by the SS. @TalmudistOfToxteth#JC4PM#GTTO#ACAB somehow made it out alive, risking life and limb travelling across Europe before breaking into the home of a family of bohemian intellectuals from Canning, who were instantly smitten with the knife-wielding genderqueer intruder, bringing them up as one of their own. After a difficult childhood they excelled academically: devouring the Toyah, studying post-modernism, and developing a penchant for fishnet tights, before hitting the streets and learning how to successfully evade arrest when leaving Woolco with a pound of pick’n’mix hidden under your Kipper.

They are one of the most learned Jewish scholars out there, as you can see from this pearl of wisdom they delivered to workshy capitalist Alan Shuggyboat during a heated exchange about BDSM, just before they blocked him and threatened to slit his wife’s throat: “We have many reasons to hope for great happiness but we have to earn it. And that’s something you can’t achieve by talking the easy way out. Earning happiness means doing good and working, not speculating and being lazy. Laziness may look inviting, but only work gives you true satisfaction!”

Wise words, @Talmudist. Wise words.

And they aren’t alone, as Twitter is ram-packed with similar testimonies by other ageing Christ Killers with remarkably similar backgrounds; their identical stories liked, loved, and retweeted by people whose idea of fighting fascism is calling soap actresses whores.That they get zero press coverage is hardly surprising, as the likes of Skynet News and the Brexit Broadcasting Corporation long ago abandoned any pretence of neutrality in favour of shilling for the alt-right.

But we know they’re out there, which is all that matters. As I’ve repeatedly stated, their smears bother me so little they might as well not exist. In fact, since I started writing this blog a few hours ago I’ve only broke down in tears over Wreathgate twice, and still haven’t even got around to sending my weekly DM to one-eyed Torygraph hack Dan Hedges. I just couldn’t care less.

And why should I? The press can go swivel. If I was hit by a bus tomorrow at least I’d die knowing the voices of Good Jews are being heard. So three cheers for @Kosher, @Merseyside and @Talmudist for risking the wrath of Mossad by spreading the truth, speaking their minds, and accepting that as awful as the Holocaust was, as a pre-emptive punishment for what Israel would spend the next 70-odd years doing to the brave people of Palestine, few could argue it wasn’t richly deserved.

Now, if you’ll excuse me I’ve an article to write about how 29 egotists turning their backs on a jingle means they’re Nazis.

Maisel Tov, everyone!

 

Tube Tales: Years and Years and Years

 

12b742d37d27bf97e43c403748349222f8d70eb632eea69ec8bb84f7af9f5f7adb2ac93062b5cc114bd74a9ed5bd4e54c768ed1d14d14b69a9ed4946d1d2932b
The Lions look on in horror as the 2028 crash renders their shares in flax seeds utterly worthless.

By Ben Pensant.

Like most progressives I have a rocky relationship with the BBC. On the one hand I despise the way they flaunt their anti-Corbyn bias by giving hours of airtime to his gang of obsequious cheerleaders. I’m also appalled at how they display their blatant pro-Brexit agenda by stuffing every news show with more die-hard Remainers than a Holland & Barrett’s Trolley dash.

But at the same time, it’s hard to fault their efforts to promote diversity, advance identity politics, and normalise the wonkiest left-wing ideas since Lilly Madigan convinced the Dullwich College School Choir to take part in a sponsored circle-jerk to raise money to get her knackers cut off.

Sure, we all felt like razing the Beeb to the ground when they photoshopped Jezza’s beret to make it look more Russian, an act of digital trickery so subtle it was only noticed by myself, Aaron Bastardi, and every single antisemite on Twitter. But lest we forget this is the corporation that preaches inclusivity, discriminates against white people, and hand-picks Islamic extremists to grill evil Tories on prime time telly. Surely it can’t be all bad.

And let’s not ignore the leaps the BBC has made in terms of drama, with every cliched cop show or 19th century lesbo-crime romp coming gift-wrapped in the kind of wokey-woke values designed to appeal to everyone from Liberal Democrats to New Statesmxn subscribers. One only has to look at the Beeb’s bold re-casting of the lead in their flagship Saturday sci-fi show Dr Who? to see the channel’s commitment to disavowing its misogynist past.

Indeed, as an ’80s child I would never have guessed that 30 years later I’d be masturbating over both the new Doctor and Higgins out of Magnum PD. As the time-travelling menstruater put it herself “…when people need help, I never refuse”, a pledge I intend to bring up when I eventually meet the divine Josie Whittaker and ask if she’d be kind enough to give me a hand sucking my own cock. That forward-thinking BBC brainiacs have created a world where I’m able to say that is a thing of beauty. (Though they’re still nailed on to be strangled in their sleep when Labour finally seize power.)

Which brings me to Years and Years and Years, the terrifying futuristic miniseries created by former Who? showrunner Russel T.Hobbs, which came to it’s explosive climax last week and left me so emotionally devastated it’s taken seven days to process just what the hell happened. The answer to that one remains elusive but one thing’s for certain: you won’t see a better drama all year.

YaY(aY) followed the Lions family as they struggled with an assortment of trials and tribulations familiar to middle-class Mancunians with barely a Mancunian accent between them. In a controversial move, the fact that the Lions were predominantly white was for once presented as a positive. And quite right too. Because the last thing we need in 2019 is pale-skinned scriptwriters thinking they’re allowed to create characters who don’t look like them. Fortunately Russell is also gay, his sexuality gifting him an intersectional pass to throw a handful of minorities in to the mix before he’s accused of erasing them. (See? You can have it both ways.)

The Lions were pretty much a Guardian reader’s dream family: a gay, a disabled, a refugee, a bisexual eco warrior, her tough girlfriend, a non-Brexity pensioner, a strong black woman and her two mixed race daughters, one of whom is half-robot. (The white half, obviously. Even in fictional dystopias, some privileges never die.)

5013
The Lions family portrait simply oozed diversity. 

Russell also kindly shoehorned a Chinese trans-child into the family, demonstrating his commitment to Asian and non-binary representation by giving her neither a line of dialogue nor anything remotely interesting to do. Instead, this brave girl-boy hovered around in an ill-fitting dress before inexplicably turning into a beautiful young woman in the final episode. Thankfully, she was still endearingly mute and utterly devoid of personality. Which is quite right, as last I heard Russell T.Hobbs is neither Oriental nor wears his hair in pigtails.

This woke sensitivity extended to the straight white male characters, all of whom were either dead, silent, or pieces of shit. The exception was the love interest of feisty wheelchair-bound Jodie, though his swarthy complexion and the fact that he was played by an actor with the surname ‘Bukhari’ would indicate he’s not quite as white as he seems. Either way, whatever colour he is I’m sure we can all agree he more than earnt his oppression cred by selflessly shacking up with a cripple.

The same couldn’t be said for Roy Kinnear, the Lions family’s solitary straight white male, and the character with the most privilege and least morals. Thankfully, despite my unease about his patriarchal presence in the otherwise perfect unit, it quickly became apparent that he was both a bellend and an adulterer. Phew! Not much was known about his nephew – the only other straight white male Lion – as he barely said a word throughout the whole series. (Mutism is clearly a common affliction in the post-Brexit north-west) This was of course the correct choice: one straight white male clapping, butting into conversations, and mansplaining all over the shop is more than enough micro-aggression for modern audiences to deal with.

But back to Roy, who very nearly earnt himself a free pass by having a black wife and biracial children. Sadly he showed his true colours by leaving them for a white whore, forcing them to live with his dotty but defiantly tolerant granny, the type of quintessential northern OAP who adopts refugees, loves the gay-gays, and only exists in the minds of BBC scriptwriters.

Roy eventually sunk even lower by finding work with a shady property company owned by his schoolfriend Woodsy, a demonic Manc chancer played by demonic Manc chancer Kieran O’Gruey, and the only other straight white male with the ability to talk. Appalled by the company taking on a secret government contract to build concentration camps for immigrants – and wracked with guilt for sending his dead brother’s lover to one such camp for a laugh – Roy partially redeemed himself by blowing the whistle on the genocidal ambitions of rabble-rousing-populist-turned-fascist-PM Vivien Rock, but it was too little too late, Roy having thoroughly played the white man by destroying the lives of his family, friends, and loads of foreigners. Indeed, the only misstep in the whole series was the decision to send a suicidal Roy to jail rather than let him blow his bald brains out.

But evil Kinnear was a pussycat compared to Rock, played by Emma Thomson and seemingly created purely to massage the egos of left-wing intellectuals. So much so that every time she did or said something that resonated with the savage hellscape of 2019 you could almost feel the seismic surge as all manner of art students, civil servants, and craft beer enthusiasts nudged, winked, and furiously nodded at each other, pleased as organic punch that they picked up on the sledgehammer subtlety.

D96T4ckWkAI_dhC

Indeed, few things have ever made me feel quite as proud as imagining my liberal brothers and zizters watching horrific scenes of Viv being ghastly and turning to their civil partners wearing smug facial expressions not unlike this one by Larry Seinfeld. To wit:

Viv makes a name for herself by ‘telling it like it is’ on daytime TV. “Hmm, that’s just like Katie Hopkins, isn’t it?”

Viv blames immigrants for Britain’s problems. “Hmmm, that’s just like Nigel Farage, isn’t it?”

Viv counters criticism by moaning about ‘fake news’. “Hmmmmm, that’s just like President Pussy-Grab, isn’t it?”

Viv talks about censoring the press and banning stupid people from voting. “Hmmmmmm, that’s just like us, isn’t i…erm…I mean…erm…okay, can we fast-forward this bit, Hugo?”

But amazingly, there was even more to this landmark drama than sharply drawn characters, an utterly realistic depiction of the typical northern family, and a determination to make viewers feel smugly superior by confirming their prejudices about mouthy right-wing ideologues and people who don’t share their erotically-charged obsession with immigrants. Because what really made this the greatest drama, like, ever was its terrifyingly plausible vision of the future. Or rather, the now.

Because it’s only a matter of time before power-cuts become a daily occurrence, concentration camps pop up on school fields, and every down-to-earth family living in a mansion has their very own ornamental Asian trans-child. But perhaps the most disturbing prediction was the depressing sight of a black woman selling out her skin by voting Tory. Urgh. Expect more of this in the coming years (and years), as minorites too oppressed to think for themselves have their heads turned by cynical politicians, exploited into thinking it’s up to them they vote for, as opposed to educated white progressives whose only contact with black people is giving stingey tips to Baristas or bollocking their Nigerian nanny.

Throughout the series Russell planted clever seeds warning us that this Auntie Tom was a wrong ‘un, the most subtle being her bald head, clearly shaved in a manic fit of internalised racism and anti-afro self-disgust. But what do you expect from a woman who not only married but had children with a Caucasian? All things considered, that her no-good husband went to jail and she ended up penniless was a fairly lenient punishment for rejecting her community to suck face with whitey.

Fortunately, Russell did find some comfort in his depiction of the future, with the bold advancements in technology a joy to behold. As embittered activist Jessica Heinz died of food poisoning, her diarrhea-free consciousness uploaded to a speaker on a coffee table, it offered a beautiful glimpse into a future busting with possibilities. Imagine the groundbreaking work OJ and Ash could pull off if their entire beings were stored in household ornaments. Or consider how many Tory MPs could be recorded arguing with their girlfriends and exposed in the left-wing press. What better way for the next generation to fight fascism than listening in on right-wingers being harangued by their posh blonde wives for leaving all the lights on or using too much bog-roll? And how grateful will the public be when these life-threatening domestic disputes are leaked to The Canary and laid bare as important incidents of huge public interest? I can’t wait.

Even better, once our devices are permanently transplanted into our brains we’ll never again have to face the horror of putting our phones down and switching off from social media. A future in which we can abuse strangers and send death threats without taking our hands out of our pockets is a future every true progressive can get behind.

 

e7028da5f97ae3a5e5e3688176336897

So keep it up, Auntie. I’ll happily take the death camps, financial crashes, and fascist Prime Ministers if it means I can log on to Twitter and fight injustice by simply thinking about it. The Manchester of 2035 (left) may be an uninhabitable apocalyptic wasteland, but at least no-one will have to worry about being offline for half hour because they left their phone on the bus. Because there won’t be any phones. Or buses. But at least we’ll be able to spend all day on the internet telling everyone how it’s all Boris Johnston’s fault that there aren’t any phones or buses. I can’t wait!

I just pray all those self-hating black women manage to control themselves, get back in their lanes, and keep the hell away from white men like me. Because as everyone who watched Russell T.Harty’s barnstorming series knows all too well, this ain’t the noughties anymore, bitchez.

By Ben Pensant.

 

 

 

 

 

Who Do They Think They Are?

 

Karla Gowlett
Brave Brand stares down the alt-right hate machine.

By Ben Pensant

They can’t help themselves, can they? First they demand four-eyed freedom fighter Pete Crowther is sacked, charged with assault, and designated a domestic terrorist for throwing milk and ice cream at some gobby fascist. Then they publicly shame the brave woman who screamed ‘Nazi!’ in that Nazi’s face at the recent anti-Trump rally, forcing her out of her job and condemning her to being occasionally called a ‘fat cow’ on Facebook. And last week the alt-right pulled off their most brazen trick yet, in an act of theft so cheeky it makes the 1958 Israeli land grab look like that episode of Home and Away when Todd pinched Jim’s sandwiches.

Because when lefty comic and former mental patient Joe Brand cracked that hilarious gag on Radio 5 about throwing battery acid at politicians, Tory Twitter once again displayed its stunning lack of originality by accusing her of ‘incitement’, demanding she is fired, and reporting her to the police.

Who do they think they are? Us?

Having long ago lost the battle of ideas, it seems the right have decided the best way to gain the moral high ground is to simply copy the left’s best moves. So while progressives reacted to Brandgate in the principled manner you’d expect – defending Joe’s right to free speech despite the fact when Cunt Dickula was on trial a significant portion of the left either said nothing or screamed for him to be jailed – right-wingers showed their true blue colours, adopting a lazy policy of ‘if you can’t beat them, be them’. Then screaming for Brand to be jailed.

They even had the nerve to justify this by stealing the left-wing battle cry of ‘they did it first!’, that reliable go-to utilised by every decent liberal who’s ever DESTROYED a racist by arguing that ISIS would never have raped children or thrown gays off tower blocks if the evil West hadn’t invaded Iraq, bombed Afghanistan, and drew cocks on their pencil cases.

They also took the progressive approach to racism – that the best way to tackle it is not to eradicate it but to make sure everyone experiences it – and appropriated it to justify their own authoritarianism. “It’s time the left had a taste of their own medicine!” whined one. “The more left-wing comedians hunted down the better!” snarled another. “It serves her right for getting Thatcher’s daughter sacked from The One Show” squealed thousands, deploying the tried and tested left-wing tactic of stating straight-up lies as facts because they know fine well there’s zero chance their ideologically warped followers will spend two minutes researching what actually happened.

And on they went, aping the contemporary left and demonstrating their commitment to free speech by demanding less of it. I can see them now, cackling as they turn our ideology against us, exposing theirs as nothing but a sham by insisting the same hate crime laws they’ve spent years decrying are enforced against a 61-year-old woman who said a naughty sentence on the wireless. Indeed if you swap Brand for Rod Lidl, replace the ‘acid’ gag with a rape joke, and pretend that the average outraged milk monitor calling for her head has blue hair and a face like a smacked arse rather than high blood pressure and cheeks of purest Gammon they’re indistinguishable from your common-or-garden left-wing SJW.

Needless to say, the mob got their wish and Brand was ‘assessed’ by the police, much to the annoyance of envious leftists who haven’t achieved such a feat in weeks. This in turn led to much celebration on right-wing Twitter, with champagne being uncorked by the very same people who would be whining about ‘threats to liberty’ and misquoting HG Orwell if Brand was a Tory.

Who do they think they are? Novaru media?

It was overwhelming. But here’s the thing. Like Harry Hill’s wife in Goodfellows, I gotta admit: it turned me on. And I couldn’t help but feel jealous that they were having such a good time. For a split second I even experienced a tiny smidgeon of – urgh – respect. Because while left and right may view the world differently – we want to save it while they want to rid it of anyone who isn’t straight and white – it’s hard not to empathise with their authoritarianism, no matter how much I’d like to stab them all in their sleep.

Because at least they believe in something, even if it is fascism. In many ways they’re just the Nazi version of us. None of which can be said for those godawful non-partisan types, parading their fence-sitting wares on social media, acting all superior and pompous just because they believe in ‘fairness’ and ‘consistency’. Tossers. They’re arguably even worse than right-wingers, with their cowardly insistence on holding both sides to the same standard, their belief that free speech applies to everyone rather than just people they agree with, and their deeply immoral view that no-one should face the sack or a police investigation for telling a joke.

Who do they think they are? Adults?

Which got me thinking. As we know, the culture war takes place almost exclusively on Twitter. And with good reason too, as braindead drones in the Real World are too selfishly preoccupied with friends, family and enjoying life to concern themselves with backstops, critical race theory, and oppressed adults throwing money at 11-year-old boys in lipstick. But there comes a time when you have to accept that something no longer works. And I’m sad to report that, thanks to the killjoy antics of the aforementioned centrists, Twitter just doesn’t feel like home anymore. So I have a simple suggestion for those dull, reasonable, non-partisan cowards who have hijacked our beloved platform: why not bog off and start your own?

I mean come on, if you hate it so much why stay? It can’t be good for your health so perhaps it’s time to make a clean break, depart for pastures new, and leave us ranting ideologues to have fun hating each other without vanilla shitheads of no fixed ideology sticking their boring oars in to prattle on about ‘balance’ and ‘respect’.

You can be ‘nice’ to your enemies all day long in your new, milktoast version of Twitter. Meanwhile those of us who actually believe in something  – Good People on one side, Evil Shitheads on the other – can duke it out in peace. Once you’ve left Twitter can fulfil its destiny and become the thing we’ve always wanted it to be: the internet version of Skrull Island, with the crybaby extremist factions of left and right recast as the radioactive dinosaurs and horny giant gibbons of modern political discourse.

It might not be the Twitter everyone wants but it’ll sure as hell be the Twitter the world needs. And it’s one of the few things guaranteed to get extremists from all corners of the aisle nodding in agreement, bonding over their mutual excitement at the prospect of an interference-free battlefield on which to slug it out using facts, intelligence, and increasingly rubbish memes. You want common ground? Here it is, bitches.

Of course, it won’t last as virtually everyone will have been blocked, reported and banned by teatime. Which is win-win for the left. Because when that day comes we’re virtually guaranteed to be sitting atop the iron throne, at peace with the world we’ve destroyed and recreated, quietly revelling in victory like Thermos after he clicked his fingers and liquidised all the X-Men. Beautiful.

And the nice thing is that any fascists left over will be a peace of piss to convert. Indeed, you only have to look at the right-wing lunatics calling for Jo Brand to be locked up to see a ready made fleet of left-wing lunatics-in-waiting. Like their liberal counterparts, their ideology isn’t important: what they really believe in is having something to be self-righteous about. Whatever group they hang their piousness on is incidental, because much like us they’re authoritarians at heart, with little time for ethics or values, which can be abandoned or adopted on a whim depending on which group has the coolest costumes.

As shown by the back stories of the Yellow Tabard movement’s leading lights, this week’s Union Jack-clad Tommy Robertson clone is last week’s Kool-Aid Corbynite in a keffiyeh. The ideology is irrelevant: the thrill comes with belonging to a group who hate another group. And you only have to look at the rank double standards of the alt-right weirdos screaming abuse at Brand this week to see that all it would take to bring them over to the Light Side is a handjob from an Ash Starkers wannabe with nice tits, a filthy mouth, and an unswerving belief in literal communism.

In the meantime we’ll keep defending Brand and they can carry on abusing her, until the tables inevitably turn and we reverse roles the second Geoff Knobcott calls St. Jezza a puff. With both sides as convinced of their own superiority as they are oblivious to their mutual failings, we can sit back and await the glorious day Twitter is purged of all the cowards too scared to pick a side, allowing left and right to face off like two ancient behemoths, pounding each other into submisson by spreading lies, instigating pile-ons, and sending each other death threats. Altogether now…

Let them fight!

godzilla-vs_-megalon-screenshot_0
What Twitter Island might look like when all the non-partisan dipsticks have slung their bastard hooks.

 

 

So Why So Sadowitz?

1682126-inline-inline-3-how-david-chase-stopped-worrying-about-the-sopranos-and-learned-to-make-a-movie-about-rock-
Vile Sadowitz cuts a tragic figure without his trademark wig and rubbish hat.

By Ben Pensant

One of the best things about the modern left is our willingness to put ourselves in danger. Whether it’s risking assault by going out in public with our faces painted EU-blue, or putting our lives on the line reporting Twitter accounts with ten followers for calling Lady Thornberry a drunken arsehole, what separates us from the cowardly right is our selfless disregard for personal safety. And in 2019 there are few places as unsafe as comedy clubs.

Which is why a fortnight ago I grew some phaloplastic girl-balls and threw myself into the lion’s den that is The Strand, Newcastle. And it’s an evening I’ll never forget. Indeed, it’s taken me two weeks to muster the courage to revisit that terrible night. Because what I witnessed will be burnt onto my memory even longer than that grot movie where the two girls drink each other’s shit, a film so repulsive I had to delete it from my hard drive after the fifteenth viewing.

Sadly, there’ll be no such easy erasure for the brutality I witnessed the weekend before last. Because this was no ordinary comedy night, where decent leftists crack edgy gags about Donald Trumpton’s hair or the racist stupidity of Leave voters. No, this was something else: the world’s most offensive comedian, a walking, talking monster who styles himself as “the only comic who campaigns against human rights”. This wasn’t the smug sophistication of Richard Heron or the wacky blandness of Harold Kumar. This was the spite-filled bigotry of Scottish Zionist Gerry Sadowitz and I pray to Allah I never experience it again.

But I will. Because this is what we do. Though why this hateful Highland beast is still filling shitty basement clubs decades after being banned from television is a mystery. Then again, with fascism on the rise and hate crime levels being wildly exaggerated daily, is it any surprise the far-right have infiltrated the comedy scene?

I won’t dignify Sadowitz by repeating his repellent ‘jokes’, partly out of respect for my readers but mainly because I successfully erased them from my memory after two weeks of intensive therapy consisting of long lie-ins, regular naps, and repeatedly watching that video of Aaron Bastardi DESTROYING Skynet News by claiming Beth Rugby had said something then shitting his pants like a pro when it was pointed out she hadn’t.

Suffice to say Gerry stuck the boot into gays, midgets, Muslims, transwomen and foreigners with all the sensitivity of a rabid pit-bull, at one point even showing a complete lack of respect for the disabled by mocking that weather girl with the stumpy arm. Blacks, browns, yellows and reds felt the full force of his fascism too, in amongst obligatory gags about Scots, Jews and white men, crowbarred in to give the impression he treats everyone with equal contempt rather than just the groups he’s been told to take the piss out of by Rupert Maxwell and The Daily Fail.

This vile vein continued with his ultra-offensive ‘political’ material, an endless toonarmy of violent attacks on socialism, Lord Jezza, and Dame Diane Abbot. Again, to maintain the illusion of ‘balance’ he meekly took the piss out of the Tories and the Royals too, though it was painfully obvious how uncomfortable it was for this working-class Glaswegian to stick the boot into the English ruling classes.

Worst of all, after bullying traumatised Remainers and brazenly admitting to voting Leave, Sadowitz had the gall to suggest that in the real world most people couldn’t care less about Brexit. Dear me. Like so many fascist fruitcakes before him, Gerry has swallowed whole the dangerous, dishonest, demonstrably true narrative that only MPs, journalists, and self-important bores on social media spend their lives obsessing over Brexit when everyone knows it’s actually MPs, journalists, and self-important Good People. (As well as loads of flag-waving fascists but the least said about them the better.)

Predictably, the only person Gerry said anything nice about was President Pussy Grab. Indeed, the foul Scot repeatedly confessed his admiration for Agent Orange, causing audible gasps, several walkouts, and three heart attacks before losing the room completely, with as few as 295 out of 300 people laughing at every word while the rest of us sat stony-faced.

But as vile as his love for The Donald was, the most disturbing aspect of this grim evening was the audience: pinned to their seats, grinning maniacally, terrified of being taken into the beer garden and hung for not giving sufficient respect to a ranting loon in a top hat poking fun at the IRA.

Most worryingly, amongst the sea of privileged white faces I spotted an Indian couple, three black lads, and a Chinee. Yes, really. Horrified that these marginalised millennials had attended an event designed to disenfranchise them, I approached their tables, demanded to know why they hadn’t walked out and politely asked them to leave. Sadly these interventions were met with a barrage of abuse and a threat of Judo-inspired violence from the self-hating Oriental, forcing me to retreat to my seat and lament the way British society turns harmless ethnics into hate-filled thugs.

Whether their insistence on ignoring me as I stood in front of them blocking their view was a result of brainwashing or a desperate desire to appease white supremacy remains a mystery. Either way, it doesn’t take a genius to see this is what happens when minorities are forced to assimilate. The sooner St. Jezza becomes PM and passes a law banning non-whites from comedy clubs the better.

As the show reached its climax the tension in the room was unbearable, the audience stunned into silence as if locked in communal prayer. Sensing their nightmare would soon be over they pleaded with Muhammad for safe passage, avoiding eye contact with the plain-clothed Nazis patrolling the aisles and prodding anyone not laughing with invisible nightsticks. But Sadowitz had no intention of letting his prisoners go peacefully, saving the worst for last and showing his true Hebrew colours by performing a series of card tricks.

Mercifully, after lodging a fictional complaint about an audience member spotted reading The Establishment: And How They Smell Like Poo I was able to slip out while the fascist heavy on the door stopped playing with her pigtails for five minutes to investigate. Knowing the Nazis’ historical obsession with black magic it was inevitable Sadowitz would try to bewitch his entire audience in the name of UKIP, but there was no way I was becoming one of his brainwashed minions.

Of course, this won’t be the last time he pulls this sinister subterfuge as deception and deceit are bread and butter to card-carrying Zios. In fact I wouldn’t be surprised if he hypnotised the whole audience and sent us into a deep sleep so he could rifle through our pockets, or put us under a spell which will make us stab the nearest Muslim to death the next time we hear the theme tune from Seinfield.

Luckily I escaped with only mental scars. Though I almost sustained physical ones too when the male half of the Indian couple brutally barged me out of the way following my peaceful attempt to block his wife from leaving until she’d explained why she sold out her sisters by laughing at Sadowitz’s offensive Pakistani accent. Needless to say, I hold no grudge as this tragic pair are clearly unaware of their own internalised Islamophobia. But should hubby follow up on his promise to knock my ‘fucking teeth out’ if he ever sees me again I will be left with no option but to report him to The Muslim Brotherhood. Don’t make me do it, Vijay.

Feeling shaken and threatened by such unreasonable behaviour I exited immediately before the Japanee came at me with another Karate chop or the three black lads tried to pop a cap in my bottom. It speaks volumes about the damage stand-up comedy is inflicting on the world that all it takes is a long-haired comic to radicalise oppressed POCs into becoming spiteful bigots so prone to hatred and abuse they might as well be white. But from Lewis CK to John Cheese, everywhere you look a privileged male ‘funnyman’ is abusing the freedom to say what the hell he likes no matter many New Statesperson columnists it offends.

Thankfully the tide is turning, and last week a brave reporter from The Vice followed my lead by going undercover at notorious alt-right open mic night Comedy Unbound, a weekly festival of hate organised by Andrew Doylem, the self-hating homosexual behind tired SJW spoof Titania McGhee.

Held at a top secret location in London – deliberately chosen for its uncanny resemblance to those Dusseldorf beerhalls the Nazis used to smash up for playing R&B – the night was as eyepoppingly right-wing as you’d expect. Thankfully, since being exposed by The Vice, Doylem’s club has received a barrage of condemnation from hundreds of educated progressives who’ve never actually been to it. Indeed, the fact that most of the comics who’ve performed there aren’t even right-wing was cleverly ignored by all the brave liberals sticking their heads above the parapet to tell everyone how racist it is.

As well as the endless parade of conservative brutes cracking ‘topical’ gags about how awesome that ginger Nazi in the Shite House is, the celebrity guests given the VIP treatment were a veritable Who’s Who? of modern fascism, with Paul, Joseph & Watson and Toby Jones spotted guzzling fried chicken with Mick Griffin and the ghost of Hitler.

All of whom fit in perfectly with the grubby clientele: a sordid assortment of Tories, Incel Ultras, and heartless entitled bastards who think being white and cis-gendered gives them a god given right to pay money to laugh at jokes. And it’s thanks to these giggling ghouls that monstrous MELTS like Sadowitz are allowed to earn a living saying amusing sentences to people who want to hear them. Capitalism in all its vulgar glory. Meanwhile, thanks to the proliferation of alt-right comics clogging up the circuit, genuinely funny comedians – i.e left-wing ones – are denied the chance to shine and forced to make ends meet by slumming it on hugely popular nationally syndicated panel shows.

Still, at least we have brave allies like myself and that queer from The Vice risking our lives on the frontline, exposing the horror of modern stand-up using facts, reportage, and bare-faced lies. In the meantime let’s leave the last word to hilarious Kiwi comic Nanette Gadsby, who electrified social media last year by taking the dark, experimental, joke-free stand-up pioneered by Stuart Lee and re-packaging it for woke perverts with blue hair. Her simple but devastating wisdom offers a beautiful vision of how exciting modern comedy could be if it were cleansed of dangerous bigots like Sadowitz and Doylem:

“I don’t want to unite you with laughter”

You never will, Nanette. You never will.