By Ben Pensant

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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