Peter the Great

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

By Ben Pensant

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lockdown 2: Dark of the Toon

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

By Ben Pensant

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(*They will.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

See how it’s done, Nick?

The Sanderson Tapes #1 (AUDIO)

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

By Ben Pensant

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dry Pussy Blues

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

By Ben Pensant

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

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

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

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

Cardy B flashes her WAP.

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

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

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

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

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

Lady Shapero’s vagina, yesterday.

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

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

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

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

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

Mask of Sorrow



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

By Ben Pensant

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

5. Perverts


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


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

4. The Antifas


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

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

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

3. Muslim Men


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

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

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

2. Muslim Women


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

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

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

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

1. NHS Workers


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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







Picture Imperfect

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

By Ben Pensant

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

Or had he?

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

Rock on, K!


A Letter from Hell

JK Rowlings smirks as the latest trans suicide stats are released.

By Ben Pensant

As my five regular readers know, I don’t like hogging the limelight. While other commentators insert themselves upfront and centre into every story, I prefer beavering away in the background, quietly fighting fascism so people stupider than what I am don’t have to. So naturally I was mortified to learn that I’d inadvertently contributed to a recent shocking development in the ongoing culture war between decent liberals who want everyone to get along and evil right-wingers annoyed that they can’t make jokes about ‘woofters’ anymore.

Yes, I’m talking about last week’s infamous anti-cancel culture letter, a vulgar missive designed to give alt-right ‘intellectuals’ a free pass to persecute minorities. And it never would’ve existed if I hadn’t written a bruising polemic about communist sexpot Ash Starkers. Allow me to explain…

The modern right are always watching. Always. And they were clearly watching last week when when I published a fiery piece urging fellow progressives to stop demonising right-wing nuggets and start turning them into left-wing nuggets. Rattled at the prospect of their fascist foot soldiers defecting to the left, they swiftly devised a plan to compensate for the upcoming exodus.

Sure enough, days later notorious right-wing porn mag Harpo’s published their eye-poppingly offensive letter, signed by an assortment of successful authors, respected academics, and some weirdo who fucks sharks. As you’d expect, the signatories were all white males, even the black or female ones: the worst kind of white males. So like most sensible leftists, my reaction focused on them rather than what the letter said, which was fairly easy as I hadn’t read it. Indeed, deducing that the grubby screed was a spiteful response to my piece without having clapped eyes on it merely illustrates how grubby it was. Luckily the great thing about being a modern leftist is you don’t have to read something before penning an outraged column about it. Why bother when a soon-to-be unemployed Guardian columnist can read it for you then deliver it back with all the context removed?

What was obvious from the letter I hadn’t read is that my Ash piece touched such a nerve that an unholy cabal of conservatives, libertarians, and Jewish Nazis desperately tried turn the tables on me by recruiting mental left-wingers to their cause. And they would have got away with it if it wasn’t for this pesky kid.

Yep, even when they steal a good idea they arse it up. Because the ‘leftists’ they lured to spread fascism and promote ‘f**e s****h’ are anything but. Sure, their pretentious letter may have included obligatory swipes at President Pussy-Grab but it was clearly all for show. So well done, righties: you tried to get back at me by recruiting left-wingers but instead recruited a load of right-wingers. Slow handclap, dipshits.

Indeed, the signatory list features more alt-right loons than a Pokahontas-themed themed Halloween-and-sushi party. And I should know as I’ve actually heard of four of them: the grubbiest and most duplicitous of the lot.

Take Margaret Atwoods, the Handmaiden’s Tale author and feminist icon who earnt her spurs attacking the patriarchy and supporting trans rights. All good and well until you explore her work and realise this was simply a ruse to gloss over her Islamophobia, as seen in her most famous novel’s racist dig at the quaint Islamic custom of forcing enslaved women to wear silly dresses and executing them in football stadiums. She also believes in the archaic principle of ‘due process’ and once supported a white male academic accused of sexual assault. Christ, Marge – why not just write ‘I ♥ Hitler’ on your pink fanny hat?

But her betrayal was nothing compared to Norm Chomsky, the left-wing godhead revered for his love of murderous dictators and dogged determination to blame the west for absolutely everything. Indeed, his reputation as the Godfather of Moral Relativism earned him a permanent place in the hearts of modern progressives, some of whom have even read his books. Despite this he’s debased himself in recent years by repeatedly defending the fascist principle of free speech for everyone, even engaging in rambling email debates with vicious right-wingers like Peter Hitchens and Sam Harrison. I bet Paul Pot’s turning in his mass grave.

Much like the heroes of the Iranian revolution, whose enjoyment of their 73 virgins is soured by the knowledge that a man who wrote a book they haven’t read still walks the earth. Yes, I’m talking about Salmon Rushdie, the Islamophobic fugitive who remains a free man, 40 years after penning a novel that offended moderate mullahs so much they were forced to urge their followers to murder its author.

Like Atwoods and Chomsky, Rushdie masqueraded as a leftist for years, imitating a decent, open-minded liberal by calling all Trump supporters idiots and racists. But he’s fooling no-one. That Rushdie is still at large is heinous enough, but to further insult marginalised Muslims by promoting free speech is one kick in the burqa too many. He could’ve spared the Muslim community years of pain and saved a load of bother by turning himself in decades ago and allowing Cat Stephens to burn him alive. But no, he took the neo-con dollar instead. May Allah forgive him. Or cut his head off.

But the worst of the lot is JK Roland, who spent years pretending to be a decent liberal: campaigning to overturn Brexit, supporting Black Life Matters, and generally being as blandly conformist as your average millionaire progressive. Sadly, she soiled herself years ago by smearing Lord Corbyn, sealing her transition to the dark side when she outed herself as a raving transphobe, despite never having said anything remotely transphobic. So it was no surprise to see her name on this vile letter. To think I once read six whole pages of Harry Porter and the Wizard’s Sleeve: two hours I’ll never get back. TERF Bitch.

Thankfully, the left-wing response was as brilliant as ever, with thousands of principled authoritarians avoiding the contents of the letter in favour of abusing the people who signed it. And why not? It was anti-cancel culture: it might as well be anti-equality, anti-welfare state, or anti-cutting-your-son’s-dick-off-because-he-plays-with-Barby-dolls. When you’re anti-something amazing you don’t get to be engaged with. Why discuss what the letter says when you can simply remind everyone that one of the signatories wrote a shitty kids book featuring a Vietnamese character called Ching Chong and another likes to finger-blast aquatic mammals?

Far better to disprove its premise that the modern left enjoy cancelling people by, well, trying to cancel people. Indeed, this tactic worked so well one signatory publicly withdrew her support, which naturally saw loads of right-wing doughnuts try to cancel her. (See what I mean about how we should be recruiting them? Unless you’re one of the ten people who read my last blog, I guess not. Cunts.)

Across Twitter, Facebook, and anywhere else where people terrified of human contact hang out, the responses came thick and fast, boiling down to two arguments:

1. Cancel culture doesn’t exist.

2. Cancel culture does exist but it’s a good thing as only bad people ever get cancelled.

Often theses two contradictory statement were uttered in the same sentence, a timely reminder of the enduring popularity of left-wing cognitive dissonance. Indeed, the left’s approach to cancel culture is ram-packed with cog-dis: witness the glorious spectacle of people who claim to hate tabloid muckraking celebrating lives being ruined by tabloid muckraking. And why not, if it gifts us a chance to air our virtue, score a point against someone we don’t like, or catch a bit of blue-haired feminist pussy?

Cognitive dissonance also informs the popular Kray Twin Defence – ‘We never cancelled no-one who din’t deserve it guv’nor!’ – advanced by legendary cockney shitehawk Bobby Bragg, who declared on Twitter that he was fine with people losing their jobs if their opinions “deligitimised the rights of minorities”. Of course, neither Bragg nor his followers could explain how former Radio 2 DJ Danny Barker deligitimised the rights of minorities by tweeting a photo of a chimp. Which is handy as any references to left-wingers being cancelled – such as nonce-joke director James Gun or Trump-decapitating funny lady Cathy Griffin – are to be avoided at all costs, as they upset the narrative that it only happens to ghastly right-wingers. Instead, he argued that people getting sacked for wrongthink were simply being “held to account” by the public, ie Twitter Bottom Inspectors. (Not the actual public, they do enough damage at the ballot box, thank you very much.)

Unsurprisingly, he was abused by alt-right trolls, who put it to Bragg that by this logic his beloved St. Jezza should be sacked immediately for deligitmising the rights of a minority by declaring that a terrorist group who call Jews ‘bacteria’ and want to wipe them off the face of the earth were “dedicated to peace and social justice”. Thankfully, Bragg’s an old hand and simply ignored the question, like Kool-Aid Corbynites always do when faced with evidence of their principled hypocrisy. Good lad.

He was ably backed up by OJ Jones, who cheekily suggested cancel culture isn’t a thing, despite the fact that it’s very much his thing. Indeed, OJ saying cancel culture doesn’t exist is like Iain Watkins claiming there’s no such thing as child abuse. OJ then brilliantly contradicted himself by stating that the only people who need worry about cancel culture are rich, powerful, and right-wing, despite the fact that cancel culture isn’t a thing. Which will come as a huge surprise to all the non-rich, un-powerful, left-wing people who’ve been targeted by online mobs but, well, the least said about them the better.

Because they can protest all they like, but every one of those people must have done, said, or – urgh – thought something terrible. And it illustrates how the modern left have evolved that celebrity socialists like Bragg, OJ, and former Word presenter Terry Christmas are intensely relaxed about the management class peddling workers because of their beliefs. And people say us leftists are stuck in the ’70s. Ha.

Luckily, to reinforce the point that only right-wing nasties who thoroughly deserve it ever get cancelled, on the same day the Harker’s letter landed Twitter trained its sights on privileged British actress Josie Comer after it was revealed that the dumb yank she’s been fornicating with is a Trump supporter. And not just any Trump supporter, but a Trump supporter who assaulted someone.

Of course, there’s zero evidence that he assaulted anyone, or that Comer’s been fornicating with him. But evidence is just sooo last century, and within hours the internet was teeming with brave leftists and crusading lesbos calling Comer everything from a “two-faced bitch” to a “Nazi lover”. And rightly so. Because in 2020, simply being suspected of letting a Republican stick his knob inside you is enough to erase you from the public sphere. The fact that allowing people to sleep with who the hell they like is supposed to be a cornerstone of liberal ideology is utterly irrelevant.

Suffice to say, the cancel-worthy little madam STILL hasn’t issued an apology or dumped her Trump-supporter-boyfriend-who-probably-isn’t-a-Trump-supporter-anyway. Sickening. Such selfish behaviour makes you wonder if her Killing Zoe co-stars also harbour racist secrets. Don’t be surprised to find out that the Jap girl’s a Nazi too.

Thankfully the left are experts at spotting who deserves it and who doesn’t. So while celebrating cancel culture as a Good Thing that only happens to Bad People, we still expressed anger that the women who removed her name from the Hairpin’s letter was being targeted for cancellation by anti-cancel culture cancellers. Ditto left-wing ladies man Sam Criss, sweary Sheffield Harem MP Jared O’Hara, and that vulnerable NSPCCC worker who got sacked for filming himself masturbating at work in fetish gear and posting the footage on Grindxr.

These instances were clearly bad cancel culture, demonstrating how in the wrong hands it’s a destructive force, despite the fact that we’ve spent two weeks saying it doesn’t exist and everyone who gets cancelled had it coming. So the writer who removed her name was hounded by alt-right trolls; the activist who got handsy on a date was the victim of right-wing smears; the Labour MP who wrote dodgy stuff on Facebook was young and daft and deserves a second chance; and the children’s charity employee who broadcast his kinky hobby to the internet was victimised by homophobes too bigoted to accept that wanking in the bogs at work while wearing a rubber vest is just something gay men do.

But some will never get it. Compare the howls of right-wing outrage at the above incident with the reaction to the justified sacking of newsreader Alastair Burnett: yep, in 2020 some people genuinely believe that having a sly tug at work is more deserving of the sack than quoting a Shakespeare Stevens poem to a black person. Which is why I’m honoured to have incited that letter and tricked the bozos who signed it into revealing their true selves. You’re welcome.

Still, despite our best efforts some people simply refuse to be cancelled. But they can’t hide forever and the day will eventually come when no-one is safe from cancellation. Not even Peoples of Colour, a disturbing minority of whom seem to believe they’re allowed to think for themselves and even disagree with liberals. For shame.

In the meantime, we’ll continue fighting fascism and sticking up for working folk by silencing people and trying to get them sacked. But in this post-#MeTwo moment we have to be one step ahead. Which is why it’s vital when defending cancel culture, pretending it doesn’t exist, or performing some weird contortion that incorporates both, any discussion of men wrongly accused or found innocent of indecent behaviour must be shut down immediately. Red flags to studiously ignore include Harley Proctor, Leon Britain, Ken Roach, Michael Le Webster, Jimmy Tarbrush, Paul Wella, Mike Hucknall, Woody Alan, Jonny Depp, Ryan Seacrust, and Michael ‘Spacko’ Jacko, though if you’re cornered simply remind your opponent that they must be rapists as most of them are Tories. Then block, report, and run away.

But the most important thing to remember is never, ever, under any circumstances, research the scores of normal, non-famous, un-powerful, not-bigoted people who’ve been punished for saying things Twitter people don’t like, such as Justine Sacco, Tim Hunt, Angelos Sofocleous, Chelsea Russell, Ned Lebow, Mary Beth Maxwell, James Damore, Lindsay Shepherd, Nick Buckley, Harald Uhlig, William A.Jacobson, the mystery copper who used the phrase ‘white than white’, and anyone else whose experiences with woke inquisitors and online morality mobs pisses all over the notion that cancellation only happens to rich racists and celebrity sex-pests.

So get to work, my pretties – these cretins won’t cancel themselves. And remember, unlike winning the lottery, being sexually assaulted, or abducted by Mossad, if you’re a Good Person cancellation literally can’t happen to you.

Unless it does in which case it serves you right.




Soldiers of Orange



Tomorrow’s leftists today: Young Conservatives protest Channel 5’s plans to reboot Desmond’s.

By Ben Pensant

Like most hyper-sensitive leftists with male sex organs and milky skin (sorry!), I reacted to the recent fury over Ash Starkers’ Islamist oranges with anger, astonishment, and intense arousal. It was vulgar enough of right-wingers to accuse Ash of celebrating the jihadist murder of three white people in Swindon, but to then suggest the killing was a bad thing was beyond contempt. Indeed, I was so incensed by the suggestion that a left-winger supported violence I spent the whole weekend fantasising about garotting Sun-readers.

But then, like that other metropolitan wordsmith with a love of shoes and a taste for cock, I got to thinking. Was this alt-right smear job really such a bad thing? Sure, Nazis spreading lies, accusing leftists of racism, and exploiting the fresh corpses of murder victims is undoubtedly terrible. But let’s be honest, the only thing these bozos got wrong was the target: their tactics were spot on. And we leftists should know, because they’re our tactics too.

For you sad bastards who missed it, two weeks ago luminous Ash posted a photo which showed her eating an ice lolly in a park, accompanied by a tweet featuring three ‘orange’ emojicons. Like most people, my immediate reactions were “Hmm. I hope that lolly is organic” and “Wow! Ash doesn’t just fuck like a champion, she sucks like one too!”, followed by a non-threatening bout of sex-positive self-love, the details of which are private but suffice to say, the eco-friendliness of Ash’s sugary treat made the two minutes spent imagining her inserting it it into my anus even more special.

Unfortunately, on the same day in a different park in a different city, the presence of three privileged white people offended a marginalised Muslim so much he had no choice but to stab them to death. So naturally, people who don’t like Ash decided with no evidence whatsoever that the oranges symbolised the trio of slain Islamophobes, despite the fact that the photo was taken several hours prior to the murder and the picture posted before any details about the killer had emerged.

No matter, the right smelt a theocratic rat and within hours Islamic fundamentalist Ash – so fundamentally Islamic that she drinks, flashes her legs, and fornicates with non-Muslims – was officially a supporter of terrorism. The fact that Ash is a savvy media operator with zero form for openly lauding vulnerable jihadists was entirely irrelevant to the mob, who ploughed on with their deranged fantasy, impervious to facts, logic, or the world outside their ridiculous partisan bubble. Sound familiar?

You bet. Because it’s exactly what we do. Indeed, swap Ash for Julia Hartley Brexit and the method is nigh-on identical, from the inane accusations of racism to the bitchy critiques of Ash’s hair, make-up, and sexual appetite. Equally indistinguishable were the breathtaking mental gymnastics deployed to explain how the oranges represented the murder victims, a complex series of contortions incorporating everything from time travel to Martin Scorsese’s The Godfather. It was all so evidence-free and utterly batshit I almost wished I’d thought of it.

Of course, it was entirely unoriginal, stealing from such greatest hits of left-wing hysteria as Otto European convincing his adoring followers that the Brexshit Party turning their back on the EU was a Nazi dog-whistle, and the Novaru Groovy Gang accusing the BB(astard)C of airbrushing St.Jezza’s hat to make him look like a Russian nonce.

But more than anything it recalled the left’s long-running campaign against Boris Johnston’s foul government, from our anger at the blonde butcher for promoting imperialism by using the word ‘surrender’, to losing our minds over henchman Dominic Radge saying his boss had ‘fought’ Covid 18, implying that everyone killed by the virus didn’t fight, and putting a rich buffoon with the sniffles into the same category as actual fighters, like the courageous perverts who bravely combat transphobia by sending death threats to JK Roland.

It’s clear that with a little tweak here, some reprogramming there, even the most rabid right-wingers – scratch that, especially the most rabid right-wingers – could be valuable assets. Lord Corbyn may have been perfect in every way but ultimately he was just too nice. And there’s no better example of this too-niceness than his attempts to appeal to normal people instead of targeting the lunatics. It pains me to say it, but as thrilling as it was abusing people on the internet for four years, I now realise instead of blocking and despising Tories we should’ve been moulding and converting them.

Because most alt-right fruitcakes are halfway there already, and a far better fit on the Corbynite left than the boring centrists Labour wasted years courting. Conservative loons may be evil but at least their evil can be put to good use. The same can’t be said for those tiresome non-partisan types who think they’re special because they don’t blindly support anyone, value ‘consistency’ and ‘universal values’ (yawn), and judge arguments based on merit rather than who’s making them and how they vote.

No, we should be raiding the BNP for new recruits, not the Lib Dems. Because as we know, most online politics bores are less concerned with ideology than they are with belonging to a group who hate another group. And as your average right-wing nut is as hopelessly obsessed with identity politics as any blue-haired progressive they’re already on the right path. And they have been for some time.

Take the recent furore over Steve Bellend’s Pritti Patel cartoon, which saw the sinister Auntie Tom depicted as a bovine beast, inspiring hordes of fascist ideologues to declare the sketch misogynist and suddenly decide that, actually, mocking certain religions is racist after all, and a Guardianista of all people should know how offensive it is to caricature a Sikh as a cow. Naturally, the fact that she was supposed to be a bull – because the cartoon was about bullying – was studiously ignored, as was the inclusion of Bull Number 2: Boris Johnston, who as far as I can tell is neither a Sikh nor possesses a pair of tits.

A similar storm greeted The Nude European’s infamous cartoon showing Sajiid Javiiid musing about deporting himself on his first day as Chancellor: a blatantly obvious dig at predecessor Amber Ruddy and the Windthrush scandal. Sure enough, hordes of right-wing hall monitors angrily protested that the cartoonist was being racist towards Javiiiid because…well…because that’s what a left-wing hall monitor would do.

Both examples demonstrate how the Twitter right is brimming with joyless literalist ideologues, desperate to see racism in everything the other side does and utterly incapable of understanding how jokes work. In other words: fresh blood.

Because with the culture war heating up, we urgently need reinforcements to make up for all the transwomen, unarmed black men, and middle-class protesters murdered daily by the right-wing establishment. Who better to fill those gaps than people who regularly chastise the left for speech policing despite demanding Katy Brand was fired and arrested for making a joke about throwing acid at Nigel Farrage? The angry right-wing ideologues who last December declared all Labour voters antisemites, conveniently forgetting they’ve spent years attacking angry left-wing ideologues for calling Leave voters racists? The self-righteous prudes who threw a Whitehouse-sized strop when Corbynite rapper Stormzee read a passage from the Bible on the BBC last Christmas, polluting the airwaves and poisoning young minds with his shirtless urban swagger and foul-mouthed lyrics about smoking LSD? Or the dedicated puritans who photographed Diane Abbots sipping a can of gin on a train, accused her of being an alcoholic, reported her to the police, demanded she lost her job, and went blue in their outraged faces about the ‘terrible’ example she was setting by doing something that normal people in the real world do all the time?

Frankly it’s an embarrassment of riches, chockfull of left-wing soldiers-in-waiting. And I’ve no doubt Ash would agree as she’s been endorsing these tactics for years, as demonstrated by her joyous reaction to the sacking of evil eugenicist Roger Cruton after crusading liberal George Eton cynically misquoted him. Because Ash is literally a communist (you idiot!), so she understands that equality means white male righties are as legitimate smear-targets as sexy brown leftists. Luckily, smearing sexy brown leftists will be illegal once Jezza re-seizes Labour from Ken Starmer and cruises to Number Ten. But until then she’ll deal: kicking against the pricks and dreamily anticipating the glorious day when all wrong-think is outlawed and there are no right-wingers left to lie about.

In the meantime she can simply bask in the warm glow of victory, pleased as vegan punch that her latest ordeal gifted her what the modern left always desire: sympathy, victimhood, and crucially, oodles of airtime: the one thing in our gender-neutral locker that the enemy can only dream of. Because unlike the right-wing version, left-wing demagoguery has gatecrashed the mainstream, with virtually every actor/pop star/presenter/thick-as-a-brick footballer now buying wholesale into the grubby Marxism espoused by the likes of Ash, the Extinction Rebels, and everyone’s favourite progressive separatists, Black Life Matters.

Indeed, the fear of being cancelled has seen support for the modern left swell to almost Corbynmania proportions. Sure, the right have the Murdoch press but their pernicious influence only infects actual voters and – urgh – normal people. In the beautiful funhouse mirror of online politics, left-wing ideals are king, with the media, tech, and entertainment industries given no choice but to watch their step and french-kiss our non-binary arseholes. Even evil capitalists like Len & Jerry are going for woke, a wise move considering people who espouse progressive ideas invariably have plenty of disposable cash. All of which means the wonky ideology espoused by Novaru et al may not be in everyone’s living rooms but it’s all over their devices.

Meanwhile, the oppostion make do with fringe racists like David Vancey, with barely a sniff of the mainstream acceptance afforded to their left-wing counterparts. But imagine the wonders Vancey could work on the left? He spreads lies, posts craftily edited videos, and thinks nothing of exploiting dead people to score cheap points on Twitter. Imagine the good he could do if he were on our side? He’s already got a penchant for promoting antisemitic cranks so he’s practically one of us.

Vancey and others like him could become modern day progressive heroes if they utilised their skills fighting fascism instead of piling-on hot Muslim pundits with a thing for frozen confectionary. And DV’s dedication to bullshit is second to none, demonstrated by his devotion to the barefaced lie that Mayor of London Larry Khan once said “Terrorism is part and parcel of living in a big city”, a misrepresentation so blatant, easy-to-disprove, and mystfyingly ubiquitous it’s currently tied with “Toby Jung called disabled kids illiterate troglodytes” in my ever increasing list of Things That Never Happened But Mentalists On Twitter Are Convinced Did. (Good mentalists in the case of the Toby one, obvs.)

Needless to say, Vancey’s opportunistic fury about the triple-homicide was palpable, though unfortunately for him that far-left influence struck once again as the story quietly disappeared from the news cycle once it was revealed that the murderer was an Albanian immigrant and the killing motivated by homophobia. Much like the outrage over Ash’s oranges, which two weeks on have been largely forgotten by everyone but sexually frustrated progressive male bloggers desperate to catch some feminist pussy before their cocks falls off.

Sadly, this failure to keep Ash’s ordeal trending shows they still have much to learn about ideological warfare. If I were right-wing – URGH! – I’d have hammered her for months. And I’d have been all over the tweet she sent a few days later, which featured three pointy hand emojis clearly intended to signal her joy about the trio of girls from Scunthorpe-or-somewhere who were fingered by an Asian – yes, ASIAN – grooming gang in that thing on ITV. Ditto her sweet message to Geordie firebrand Laura Pigcock, in which Ash pissed all over the graves of terror victims by including three kisses to symbolise the 3,000-minus-3 infidels who died on 9/11.

Still, the next time she says something the right don’t like it won’t take long for some fascist footsoldier to recall that time Ash Starkers celebrated white people getting stabbed to death with cyber-fruit. At which point thousands of people who don’t recall it will gleefully retweet it anyway, while thousands who know for a fact it’s not true but are too hopelessly embedded to admit it will do the same. Again. And again. And again.

So I hereby urge my liberal brethrens to stop castigating right-wingers and start brainwashing them. Because if they keep beating us at our own game we might all have to join them. And much as I share their passion for lying and abusing strangers I’ll never be seen dead in a crew-cut and braces. Though having just spent a few seconds reading some of the Ash-related threads on brand new Nazi echo chamber Parlez it sounds like alt-right hipsters are having even filthier wanks about her than I am. Hmm. Perhaps it’s time for a change.

Now where did I leave that tiki torch?



Queer Lie for the Straight Guy

Bridget Jones's Baby - World Premiere - London
Jameela’s Pat Butcher earrings fooled no-one.

By Ben Pensant

It goes without saying the progressive left were overjoyed when brown-skinned 33-year-old TV personality Jameela Jamelia recently came out as a bender. Her story had everything: victimhood, diversity, and the kind of craven kowtowing to internet lynch mobs guaranteed to delight Bottom Inspectors everywhere. Indeed, Jamelia’s decision to tell the world that she likes fannies as much as cocks – prompted by the justified outrage that greeted the announcement of her new job presenting a talent show for gays or something – was veritable catnip to the modern left.

Jameela, of course, is everyone’s favourite brown-skinned 33-year-old presenter-cum-actress-cum-joyless campaigner for human rights, in particular the human rights of brown-skinned 33-year-olds called Jameela. As a result she finds every aspect of the Trumpian Brexity wasteland of 2020 grossly offensive; her dedication to rooting out problematic behaviour so thorough she not only wakes up outraged but is permanently offended in her sleep, as the binman she reported last week for calling her a ‘stroppy cunt’ during a dream knows all too well.

For the last few years courageous Jameela has been electrifying social media with her unique blend of constant finger-wagging and principled narcissism. In other words: scolding women she doesn’t like for not doing feminism properly and reminding everyone how awful it is to be a beautiful brown-skinned 33-year-old in a middle-aged white man’s world.

She also enjoys impressing faceless online language monitors by haranguing people for using terms she only found out were offensive yesterday. Her most recent attempt at policing words came when she objected to the hyper-problematic phrase ‘blind spot’, having learnt hours earlier that it was deeply triggering to people who cant see, acne-ridden teenagers, and vulnerable Dalmatians (especially trans ones). Word on the woke grapevine is that the brown-skinned 33-year old has spent the last twelve minutes sticking up for both the hearing impaired and the sub-Saharan wild cat community by urging her Twitter followers to boycott Barnsley rockers Def Leopard.

For such acts of bravery – combined with her sterling work fighting for the poor and the ugly by reminding them how pretty and privileged she is – Jameela has become something of a woke figurehead: the Lena Durham it’s okay to have a wank over. So if ever a celebrity deserved to be showered with victim points for coming out as non-binary, it was our Jameela. I mean, just look at her: she’s brown, 33, hates JK Rowland, and spends her life gleefully promoting the same banal platitudes promoted by Lena before she was deservedly cancelled for defending a man accused of rape and stuffing one too many pebbles up her infant sister’s arsehole.

All in all, Jameela’s announcement had the progressive world in a frenzy, and rightly so as there’s nothing we love more than knowing there’s one less straight person in the world. However, it pains me to say this but it seems my fellow leftists have got this one spectacularly wrong. Because as much as I want it to be true I just can’t believe that the brown-skinned 33-year old is genuinely lesbonic. Something smells fishy, and it isn’t Jameela’s fingers.

Why don’t I believe her? How long have you got? First off, she showed a complete lack of respect for SJW ethics when she bowed to the mob. Not the bowing itself, obviously – that’s to be applauded. No, it was the way she sullied the glorious tradition of caving in to social media outrage by following it up with a big-boned lie. All the brown-skinned 33-year-old had to do was issue an insincere apology, promise never to be naughty again, and agree to Do Better by attending seminars on gender, race, and Doing Better After Acting Like An Alt-Right Tit. Job done.

But no, Jameela had to spoil herself by falsely claiming to be a lezza sex-dyke, offending true liberals everywhere with her brazen cultural appropriation of lezza sex- dykery. “How do you know it’s false?” I hear you cry. Glad you asked. Shame you need someone to do your homework but what the hell – how amazing it must be to be so privileged you’re completely unaware of the cast-iron evidence proving conclusively that Jameela is about as gay as ISIS. Because to understand why she is lying you need only look to the brown-skinned 33-year-old’s choice of co-star in vile pro-Christian Amazon ‘drama’ The Good Life. Yes, I’m talking about syrup-wearing barman and serial rapist Charles Danson.

This monster needs no introduction but let’s just say his friendship with the Clintons does nothing to mask his career-long quest to spread vile right-wing propaganda through the medium of television ‘comedy’. Having spent the ’70s and ’80s molesting Shelly Winters as happy-go-lucky serial rapist Sam Maloney in Taxi, he moved on to his most vile creation yet: playing an even more revolting version of himself in fellow baldy Larry Davidson’s Islamophobic shitcom Seinfeld.

Even worse, white Danson was once in a mentally abusive relationship with African-American Whoopi Goldblum, the bigoted slaphead mocking his poor girlfriend at the notorious Friar Tuck’s Roast when he blacked up to humiliate the marginalised Ghostbusters star for the amusement of his toxic male buddies. Yet now we’re expected to accept that a card-carrying queer woman would choose to not only work but be friends with such an animal? Seriously? Clearly Jameela was a right-wing wolf in intersectional clothing all along. I bet she isn’t even brown. Or 33.

I don’t believe her for a second, and neither should any other self-respecting progressive. For these are dangerous, divisive times and we need fascist provocateurs masquerading as brown-skinned 33-year-old lesbians like we need more white men nominated for Oscars. Having said that, I’m nothing if not open-minded. So in the interests of fairness, I’ll happily believe Jameela’s a queer if she can provide me with a video of Kirsten Bell squirting in her face.

Over to you, JJ.

Sadly, she’s not the only celebrity to make headlines this month for stepping out of their lane and pretending to be something they’re not. Indeed, it’s becoming somewhat fashionable to mock the oppressed by jumping on their bandwagon to curry favour with the woke world, a disgraceful trend which must be stopped. Because impersonating a minority without direct experience of the hardships they’ve endured is about as insulting as you can get, almost as insulting as telling a transwoman she isn’t a real lady.


Schofield desperately practices his gay face.

So forgive me for not joining in with the bonhomie around ageing Loose Women presenter Paul Schofield ‘bravely’ coming out as a gay last week. Don’t get me wrong, this frank admission by married father-of-two Schofield should be a cause for celebration, as nothing excites modern libs more than knowing there’s one less nuclear family in the world. But the manner in which the silver-maned star told the world he’s gay – and more importantly, his disgraceful behaviour last December – strongly suggests that all is not as it seems. Something’s a bit ‘funny’ about Schofield, and it’s not the way he stirs his tea.

Because in keeping some key details to himself the effeminate presenter committed one of the great cardinal sins of the 22nd century: he didn’t give the full story to people on the internet. Y’know, the folk who actually matter. It speaks volumes about his white male entitlement that he thinks it’s acceptable to publicly declare his homosexuality without satisfying every nosey bastard on Twitter by answering personal questions like: How long his wife has known? Does he have a boyfriend? Is he a top or a bottom? How many policeman has he rimmed on Hampstead Heath?

As if this wasn’t egregious enough, when you look back at decrepid Schofield’s behaviour before December’s rigged election it’s clear to anyone with half a Gender Studies degree that he left out those intimate details because its all one big lie: he isn’t gay and anyone who thinks he is hasn’t been paying attention. Because nice, liberal, homosexual Schofe is a Tory. And as every principled left-winger knows, there’s no such thing as a gay Tory.

Sure, there are right-wing bumboys everywhere, such as hateful posh racist Douglas Murryfield and his partner in grime, rubbish satirist Andrew Doylem. But a cursory glance at their problematic output reveals that these two numpties are nothing more than a pair of cute pencil cases: pink and warm on the outside but cold and blue within. Indeed, it’s highly unlikely these two are same-sex aroused at all, their love of gay romps fuelled not by attraction to men but because it gifts them a free pass to degrade poor black rentboys and flaunt their privilege by stuffing crumpled fivers up the unlucky hustlers’ arseholes.

And in case any right-wing trolls are wondering how exactly I know that Schofield is a Tory: he took a selfie with Boris Johnston. A selfie. You don’t engage in such worryingly chummy behaviour with a politician unless you’re intending to vote for him. As anyone who’s been paying attention knows, Jeremy Corbyn is the only politician with the moral fibre and all round decency to have his photo taken with unsavoury characters despite not liking them, agreeing with them, or having the slightest clue who they are.

And speaking of the Angel of Islington, if anyone’s still in any doubt that Schofield is as blue as they come, I suggest taking a look at the disgraceful interview he conducted with the Greatest Prime Minister Britain Never Had back in December. Only a full-blown Tory would refuse to kiss St Jezza’s arse in such a shocking, disrespectful manner. Schofield doesn’t know how lucky he is – if Labour had won the election he’d have been bundled on to the first plane to Iran and swinging from a crane before his rainbow crocs hit the tarmac. Let’s see how many homophobic Tories want their picture taken with the duplicitous 77-year-old when he’s lying in a hospital broom cupboard dying of AIDS. It’s all fun and games impersonating a gay until their signature disease strikes you down too.

Still, in the interests of fairness and equality, I’m more than happy to be proven wrong if presented with conclusive proof of Schofield’s gayness. In fact, I’ll gladly accept it if someone shows me a video of Rylan Clarke-Neil spunking on Phil’s hair.

Bring it on, lads.



The Reel Thing: The Irishmen


By Ben Pensant

There are many people to blame for Labour’s electoral defeat: the Russians, Laura Kuntsberg, stuck-up working-class northerners who think the right to vote means the right to vote differently to Paul Maison. I could spend all day listing the bastards responsible, and indeed that’s what I did the morning after Jezza’s humiliation before putting the past behind me and focussing on the future. As soon as I’d written another list of all the gammony-melts I forgot to put in the first one, such as Tracey-Ann Doberman and the bassist out of Pulp who smells like cheese.

But during this period of self-reflection I realised there was a group of traitors more at fault than anyone, whose unchecked power and diabolical influence even surpasses the combined might of Rupert Maxwell and that evil blonde clever-clogs off Fifteen To One. Yes, I’m talking about Hollywood. And to see the full extent to which the movie industry uses right wing propaganda to defame jam-making vegetarians from Islington, look no further than the recently released slice of gangster porn from one of tinseltown’s most distastefully bearded directors.

Marvin Scorsese has made a fortune out of offending people. For fifty years he’s terrorised audiences with his abhorrent blend of racist sloganeering and blood-splattered exploitation, safe in the knowledge that his status as white Hollywood royalty insulates him from the consequences of his crimes.

From The Godfather to The Wolf Of Wallsend, Scorsese’s films are crude celebrations of toxic masculinity, with an unhealthy dollop of eye-popping Italian stereotypes thrown in for good measure. His determination to offend liberals is so pathological he even made a film about Jesus, gleefully erasing superior religions more deserving of a silver screen tribute, such as Islam, Radical Islam, and that nice, peaceful, progressive version of Islam that only exists in Walford-on-Twitter.

Needless to say, Scorsese loves sticking two fingers up at the Muslim community, stubbornly refusing to adapt the Kerrang or make a biopic of Osama Ben Laden. Yep, ‘tough guy’ Marvy is happy to point his camera at greasy-haired clichés eating pasta, shooting each other in the face, and yelling “wadda mistaka to maka!” but when it comes to depicting good violence inflicted upon people who deserve it – Israeli children, British soldiers, adulterous women – this Hollywood ‘hard man’ runs a mile.

Pathetically, he even tried to rectify this in the noughties by making a film about the Dele Alli Lama. Luckily, leftists saw through his vulgar attempt to claw back liberal cred and Kung Fu was a box-office flop. Indeed, it illustrates how out-of-touch Scorsese is that he arrogantly believed he could make up for years of far-right propaganda by eulogising Lama, a notorious anti-communist with a penchant for objectifying women and telling immigrants to fuck off back to where they came from.

The rest of his career is equally problematic: a six-decade spectacle of bigotry and incitement. From smearing immigrants as murderers and thieves because society forced them to murder people and thieve stuff, to directing incel guidebooks masquerading as sitcoms like Taxi and The King Of Queens, Scorsese has long been regarded as the Republican it’s okay to like. Needless to say, his ‘unique’ filmmaking style was a huge influence on The Joker, the River Phoenix hatefest which last month left a trail of destruction so widespread panicky studio bosses hired Mossad to erase all traces of the gang rapes and mass shootings that accompanied every screening. I guess this is what being ‘influential’ is all about.

All in all, you’d think at the age of 87 he’d be retiring the reactionary rhetoric, hanging up his white hood, and shopping for coffins. Think again. Because from Lewis CK to Harvey Wankstain, the entitled white male just can’t help himself. No guilt, no shame, no insincere apology. And with Scorsese’s latest Amazon Prime cash-in The Irishmen traumatising decent liberals and delighting racist arseholes, it seems Marvy has sunk even lower.

I’ve long boycotted Amazon as a result of their fascistic policy of making people pay for films and albums, so when the time came to endure Scorsese’s latest disgrace I was left with no option but to sneak into my neighbour’s flat and watch it on her laptop while she enjoyed her afternoon nap. Unfortunately on this particular day the over-worked single mother had eschewed spending the morning in her goonie drinking White Grenache in favour of taking her infant son to the park, putting my plans into jeopardy with her brazen selfishness. Thankfully, plan B arrived in the shape of a not-quite-past-its-expiry-date Rohypnol I’d been saving for next year’s Labour conference. So after entering her home and depositing the ground-up pill into an open box of wine, I hid under her settee and waited, like a left-wing Chuck Morris. Sure enough, within seconds of getting home she’d downed the last dregs from the carton and was sparked out on the kitchen floor, leaving me free to be offended by Scorsese’s vile movie in peace.

And trust me, there’s a hell of a lot to be offended by. Indeed, the sheer outrage I felt was so intense it drowned out the constant crying from my neighbour’s white male rugrat. First off, despite the film’s title there isn’t a single Irishman in the film. That’s right, vile ‘auteur’ Scorsese is so sophisticated he thinks the best way to offset accusations of racism is to make a film about paddies played by wops. Genius.

So in a foul insult to the good people of Derry, Swansea, and Brigadoon, Scorsese trolls Irish audiences by casting swarthy Latin muse Al Pacino as Gaelic hitman Frank Shearer, caking the grumpy actor’s face in computer generated latex to make him look less Italian rather than giving the role to an authentic, preferably trans Irisher.

7adSesLmtr4xSuch rank erasure is sickening, and a kick in the teeth to Irish actors such as Chris O’Donnelly, Euan McGregor, and the old bag out of Mrs. Brown’s Boyos. On this form don’t be surprised if Scorsese’s next movie is a Blade remake starring Nicholas ‘Trigger’ Lyndhurst. All in all, I’ve never been so offended on behalf of a minority since that time able-bodied Brian Cranston played a spacka. Needless to say, this disrespectable attitude to the green valleys consumes the film, with nary a shamrock, leprechaun, balaclava, or dead race horse in sight. And the film’s 6-and-a-half hours long!

Predictably, Scorsese tries to keep audiences happy by inserting a few well-known Irish traditions, but it’ll take more than cars being bombed or blokes getting gunned down on street corners to make up for such a shocking lack of representation. But amazingly, the anti-Irish racism isn’t the film’s most offensive feature. Because in a gross distortion of socialist history, Scorsese then has the brass neck to depict Teemster legend Johnny Hoffa as a criminal. That’s right, not content with offending the entire population of Boston, Scorsese decides to smear one of the most beloved left-wing figures of the 21st century. And it’s as clear as the blood on Marvy’s hands that the purpose of this betrayal was to defame Jeremy Corbyn and secure victory for Boris ‘Bastard’ Johnston.

MV5BNjRkZjY2NGItMzQxYi00NzIxLTk3YTYtZWQ4MzY0ODFkYTVhXkEyXkFqcGdeQXVyMjk3NTUyOTc@._V1_For the uninitiated, union boss Hoffa was a proud firebrand slandered by the press, targeted by the establishment, and repeatedly attacked for being friends with unsavoury, often murderous characters. Sound familiar? Wrongly convicted of fraud, after his release he was hounded by both the government and the organised crime figures he’d spent years fighting to protect his members’ pensions. Needless to say, such principles made Hoffa a marked man and in 1985, after standing up to the bullies one time too many, he mysteriously disappeared.

Predictably, The Irishmen misrepresents all of this. Scorsese’s Hoffa – played by regular collaborator Robert De Niro under layers of ropey anti-ageing make-up – is depicted as a corrupt con-man with a sweet tooth and shit haircut, happy to steal from his comrades by furnishing the Bambino crime family with loans while sharing the profits of their illegal endeavours. Even worse, the left-wing tradition of paying for houses and holidays by dipping into union funds – as practiced by everyone from Arthur Scarsgill to Ian Laivery – is bizarrely presented as a bad thing, Scorsese’s delight at fermenting hatred of Corbyn’s Labour all too apparent.

As you’d expect, the film gleefully depicts Hoffa’s murder, stretching out the tragic rabble-rouser’s final minutes to wring every last drop of joy from seeing a socialist slain in broad daylight. In an act of jaw-dropping chutzpah, Scorsese then has the nerve to expect us to feel sorry for Hoffa’s killer, the pretend paddy played by aforementioned screen legend-turned-jobbing hack Pacino. Well done Marvy – as well as Irish erasure and anti-leftist messaging you’ve squeezed in victim-blaming and hitman-sympathising too. Bravo! Why not go the whole hog and add homophobia too? Oh wait, you already did that by referring to misunderstood Kennedy killer David Ferrybridge as a ‘fairy’. You’re really hitting out of the park here, aren’t you?

JFK_397PyxurzAdd loud-mouthed Republican Joe Pesky as the grinning mob boss who ordered Hoffa’s execution – replete with appalling CGI wig – and it’s not hard to see how much Scorsese is enjoying himself. But most disturbing is the chilling glimpse of what’s in store for Jezza if he doesn’t keep his mouth shut. That this movie was released weeks before the election is no coincidence, and the lies and misrepresentations it promotes were reflected in the way the British media spent weeks spreading bullshit about the Dear Leader.

And the Tory establishment couldn’t have picked a better bullshitter than Scorsese, a man with so few morals he spent his entire career brown-nosing Italians only to then accuse them of killing Hoffa. The fact that it was actually carried out by the IDS at the behest of crooked Ronald Raygun was apparently lost on an ‘educated’ director too wrapped up in impressing Boris Johnston to read some history.

But ignorance is Scorsese’s forte, illustrated by his disregard for all the people who’ll be inspired by his film to go out and shoot left-wingers. And don’t be surprised if the security detail provided for Jezza conveniently disappears in the coming weeks and months. Because as we know, Italians and Irishers need no excuse to kill people. Thank god there are barely any blacks in the film – who knows what violent depravity it could unleash in those crazy bastards.

There are plenty of Jewish characters though, clearly put there to convince impressionable Zionists to become mob lawyers and put an even bigger target on the Labour leader’s head. But they fucked with the wrong messiah this time. Because Scorsese can recreate the deaths of celebrity socialists all day long, but it’s not so easy to snuff out a living, breathing legend. So don’t be surprised if when Jezza finally becomes PM in 2024 he immediately passes a law stating that no Scorsese film will ever see the inside of a British cinema again. In fact, I’d be happy for no movie not made by Ken Loach to ever see the inside of a British cinema again. Apart from the Dear Leader’s private home screenings of course, which will be exempt from the ban and showcase such Corbyn favourites as A Serbian Film, Thundercats: The Movie, and that 1972 public information film about the dangers of incorrectly sealed manhole covers.

With likeable penny-pincher Ian Laivery adapting to his new role as Jezza’s number two – feeding the PM a steady stream of kale popcorn, organic custard creams, and veggy sausage rolls imported from Gaza – these events will serve as both a warning to dumb Labour voters who defected to the Tories and a stunning rebuke to dark Hollywood forces determined to smear proud leftists as crooks simply because they like borrowing money from union coffers without paying it back.

With his career in tatters, Scorsese will be left with no option but to atone for his cinematic sins by filming Jezza’s long-gestating script on the life of misunderstood extremist Shakey Aamer, The Rage Of Innocence. Records will be broken, awards will be won, and a b-list director will be shown undeserved leniency and allowed to end his days stitching berets on the Thames floating gulag, reflecting on the people he offended and the lives he destroyed.

Now that’s an offer you can’t refuse.