An Open Letter to Stuart Lee

Dear Stuart.

Oh dear, Stuart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

By Ben Pensant

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1. We can both go fuck ourselves.

Top Ten Things What Are Worst Than the Talibans

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

By Ben Pensant

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don’t believe me? Read on.

Top Ten Things What Are Worse Than the Talibans.

10. TERFS.

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

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

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


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

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


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

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

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


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

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


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

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

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


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

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

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


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

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

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


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

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

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


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


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

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

Fallen Angels

Handy and Nigel share a joke with an air stewardess, 9/11/ 2001.

By Ben Pensant

Few days in history are as ingrained into the collective consciousness as November the 9th 2001. Indeed, for those of us with a deep interest in geopolitics the events of that day are never far from any discussion about war, terrorism, or western foreign policy, lurking at the edges of the frame like a psychotic photo-bomber caked in blood.

But all too often the political repercussions of that terrible morning have taken precedence over the real story: the innocent victims who perished in New York, Washington, and a cowfield in Transylvania. And I’m as guilty as anyone, having debated the ramifications of 9/11 and the War on Terrors more than I care to remember, often so enraged at the needless loss of life that I’ve forgotten those lives lost had names, faces, hopes, and dreams.

So for this 20th anniversary, I’ve decided to break with tradition, dispense with the polemics, and honour the people senselessly killed on that savage day. Unlike every other blog I’ve written this will contain zero partisan posturing or political point-scoring: there is a time and a place for that but for one blog only that place is not ShameShameShameShame. Instead I intend this piece to serve as a sincere yet bittersweet celebration of the lives of the people who really matter, the people who lost everything that day, the people whose memories live on in the hearts of everyone who loved them. So buckle in, pour yourself a mung bean smoothie, and join me as I toast the 19 courageous Islamists murdered by the American government twenty years ago today…

Predictably, there are some who still maintain that they murdered themselves, as it was their decision to hijack and crash those planes in the first place. But ‘some’ also say that men can’t have babies so forgive me for telling ‘some’ to go fuck themselves. As anyone with even a passing interest in Critical Race Theory knows, none of those marginalised young men would have hijacked the planes at all if it wasn’t for the west.

And I’m not just talking about our penchant for invading Muslim countries and forcing their leaders to hang gays and stone women to death, though that alone would be justification enough for murdering thousands of dumb yanks. No, I’m talking about the west’s insistence on shoving its sordid anti-Islamic culture down the throats of oppressed Muslims, who two decades ago were forced to live in a world in which the Spice Slags were allowed to flaunt around in Union jack knickers, leaving a harmless gang of peace-loving Muslims with no choice but to spend three years planning to obliterate an entire city. Imagine how it felt to be a young Saudi in 2001, knowing that not only is your government in bed with the US, but all over the world teenage girls are spitting in Muhammud’s face by dancing to Britney Speers videos? And you wonder why they hate us?

Still, I vowed to keep this non-political so instead of wallowing in how the west drove – or rather, flew – these softly-spoken young men to their deaths, let’s take the narrative back and focus instead on what inspired them, what made them laugh, what sparked in them the desire to see thousands of men and women go to work on a Tuesday morning and be choked, incinerated, or thrown 900 feet to their deaths before their first coffee break. Because the true victims of 9/11 have been dismissed as ‘murderers’ for far too long. I hope and pray these brief sketches of the hijackers whose names I could be bothered to look up might one day result in this hellhole of a country recognising them for the poets, artists, and heroes they truly were. And few were as heroic as…

Muhammad Atta. The affable Persian, 30 was the pilot of Flight 12, the first plane to ‘crash’ into the World Trades Centre, and is regarded by many as the brains behind the whole bonkers idea. What is less known about Mu’ – affectionately referred to in jihadist circles as ‘Atta Boy’ – was that he was a huge fan of beloved British sitcom The High Lives, the light hearted air steward romp about the pitfalls of being gay and ginger, which both sparked Atta’s determination to stick up for the oppressed and kickstarted his lifelong passion for aviation. Some monster, eh?

Satam ‘Satan’ al-Salami. Before western foreign policy forced Satam to become a mass murderer, Atta Boy’s co-pilot had a promising second career as a Bollywood stuntman, a job that earnt him his nickname after forgetting to get changed after a long day on set and accidentally heading to Terrorist School still dressed as the devil (!). While this path was ultimately snuffed out by Islamophobia and imperialism, reports suggest the 26-year-old’s unique skill set came in handy when grappling the racist brutes on Flight 12 who objected to him tenderly slashing their wives’ throats.

‘Starvin’ Marvin al-Shehhi. As well as successfully steering a passenger jet into a skyscraper, Marv’, 23, utilised another talent on the morning of 9/11 when the former teenage ice skating champion rescued a family of terrified squirrels trapped on a frozen pond in Boston, much to the delight of onlookers who had an impromptu whip round for the shy hero. Sadly, the notorious snacker would be senselessly killed three hours later, though not before spending the funds from his animal welfare exploits on a Space Raiders multipack, several hunks of which were said to be lodged in his cheek at the precise moment he slammed Flight 175 into the Southpaw Tower.

Fayiz ‘Bananaman’ Banihammud. The joker in the pack, Wacky Fayiz never failed to crack up his teammates with his hilarious party pieces, many of which he deployed aboard Flight 175 to keep up the spirits of the soon-to-be-burnt-alive infidels recently informed that their pilot had been stabbed to death with a box-cutter. The 24-year-old’s well-rehearsed routines were inevitably wasted on the brash New Yorkers quivering in their Kelvins, but few Al-Queda nights out were complete without the sight of Fayiz moving his ears without touching them, giving the illusion of going down an escalator by slowly kneeling behind a settee, or explaining how he got his nickname to unsuspecting women by placing his bendy, misshapen penis on a barstool and asking if they’d like to peel it.

Handy ‘Hand-Job’ Hanjour. Fresh-faced Hanjour, 26, earnt his place in progressive hearts as the avenging angel who calmly slammed Flight 67 into Washington’s funny-shaped Ministry of Warmongering, temporarily putting a stop to every single US war ever in the blink of 129 eyes. What few people know, however, is that he was also the first LGBTQED+A- jihadist, regularly using the techniques he learnt as a hustler on the streets of Cabul to offer manual relief to stressed-out fundamentalists. Rumour has it in times of high tension Bin Ladle himself would summon the outgoing Handy to his cave for a spot of light masturbation, following which Mr Osama would forgo the standard punishment for performing sex acts with other men and kindly let Handy off with 500 lashes. And the alt-right still say Islam is homophobic. Cretins.

Majed ‘Nigel’ Moped. A target of much mockery by jihadist pals ever since he missed a haircut appointment, causing his usually close-cropped barnet to stretch to neck-length and make him look like Neil the hippy rabbit out of Bottom. Luckily, the 26-year-old was a good sport, actively enjoying being the butt of jokes from his Islamic brothers. And none more so than on 9/11 when having just sliced a female passenger’s neck from ear to ear, he sat down in his seat only to let out a massive, guttural fart. Red-faced and confused, he turned around and spotted the bright red whoopee cushion slyly placed on his chair moments earlier. It brought much-needed light relief to passengers and jihadists alike, with one flustered gentleman in a Yankees baseball cap even laughing hysterically and slapping Nige on the back, a moment of connection which took the edge off the decision to slash the jabbering yank’s throat ten minutes later.

Ziad Jarra. Primarily known as the steely freedom fighter who remained stoic during the infamous unprovoked attack by unruly drinks trolley-wielding passengers, what is less documented about Jarra, 27, is that he was a keen student of British social history, so moved by the plight of the unemployed workers who marched from Newcastle to London in 1935 that he named himself after the town of Jarrow where the journey commenced, adopting the pronunciation favoured by brick-thick Geordies for added authenticity. Rumour has it he even patiently called on his knowledge of UK resistance movements to explain the jihad to uncooperative passengers before demonstrating his dedication to worker’s rights by crashing Flight 92 into a farmers’ field. Needless to say, his efforts were wasted, the privileged mob ending up dead as a direct result of refusing to let Zia educate them on the significance of the Poplar Rates Rebellion of 1922.

Saeed ‘Candy’ al-Gandhi. Sweet-toothed Saeed was the courageous Egyptian who tricked the passengers of Flight 92 into thinking he had a bomb, a ruse he would have got away with were it not for those pesky yanks and their ‘let’s rock!’ horseshit. What few people know though, is that Candy 25, was also a talented trumpeter, a skill he combined with his passion for sugary treats to help those onboard, making their transition from living breathing humans to godless dead infidels as painless as possible. This act of compassion ultimately failed thanks to the joyless passengers opting to storm the cockpit instead of joining in with the fun, but reports suggest his fellow Islamists were delighted that their last moments on earth were accompanied by a raucous rendition of ‘Trebor Mints Are a Minty Bit Stronger (Stick Them Up Jews’ Bums and They Last a Bit Longer)‘.


As sad as it is to revisit that awful day, there were of course some good things to come out of it, and I don’t just mean all the dead Americans. Because the best thing about 9/11 was the way it revolutionised the liberal establishment, completely changing the way journalists and politicians talk about Islam and Islamic terrorism for good. Because make no mistake, decent progressives may argue that the reason they use terms like ‘religion of peace’, ‘nothing to do with Islam’, and ‘How many people get killed in Leviticus, eh?’ is to avoid demonising people and fuelling racism, but we all know they do it because they’re terrified of getting beheaded by some crazy A-rab.

And so they should be. I certainly am. Because clearly most progressive way to show your respect to Muslims is to assume that all of them want to murder you. Luckily the aforementioned shake up of the language around Islam meant that some time in the early naughties, as the Wars on Terror raged on and the west gleefully sunk it’s grubby fangs into Iraq, it was decided that Muslims are never to blame for anything, ever. And not just when it comes to terrorism and extremism either. No, the west copped for the lot. So by the mid-noughties you could write a Guardian column claiming that George ‘Double-U’ Dubya’s secret police had doctored every copy of the Kerrang in the US to add all the stuff about killing Jews and ex-Mulsims and the average cardigan-clad leftist would have it emailed or posted onto a message board* before you could say ‘Seumus Milne Ate My Hamster’.

(*This is what cardigan-clad leftists had to do in the dark days before cardigan-clad leftists had Twitter. It truly was the best and worst of times.)

And from progressives suggesting the Charlie Hebdon staff incited their own murders by drawing racist cartoons, to claims that Muslim grooming gangs were ‘radicalised’ by the British working classes into plying children with Blu WkD and fucking them in kebab shops, the free pass handed out by the liberal media to anyone who believes in flying cows is going nowhere. Indeed, one only needs to look at the way the majestic Talibans takeover of Afganisthan has been applauded as a stunning rebuke to twenty years of imperialism to see that if you’re a brown-skinned Muslim there will always be a reason why you killed someone that had nothing to do with you. Unless you’re a Tory Muslim, a centrist Muslim, or a whatever-the-fuck-that-Magic-Nawaz-is Muslim, in which case you might as well be Keith bloody Starmer.

Thankfully, none of the authentically Islamic angels who this column is dedicated to fall into any of those categories. In fact, none of them fall into the terrorist category either, as despite everything I’ve just written there remains a hell of a lot of evidence to suggest these young men weren’t even on the planes. Indeed, having looked at hours and hours of damning evidence on YouTubes, it’s blatantly obvious these lads were nothing more than pasties: the attacks were orchestrated by Bush and Israel using empty aircraft, the passengers were kidnapped and taken to an Island in the middle of Bikini Kill, and one of the planes wasn’t even a plane but a big scary missile with a head shaped like a shark that had the power to crash into the Pentagram completely undetected and fool everyone who witnessed it into thinking they’d seen an aeroplane. The fact that the sheer scale of the effort involved in framing a bunch of religious lunatics for hijacking and crashing several planes would require significantly more planning than simply hijacking and crashing several planes just shows how determined they were to cover their grubby tracks.

Still, perhaps those 19 lads are having the last laugh, wherever they are, in this life or the next, not growing old as we grow old, age not wearying them, nor the years condemning. By the going down of the sun, we will remember them.

Allahoy Akbar!

The Sanderson Tapes #4 (AUDIO)

A diverse young crowd laugh themselves silly at the Cumberland Arms, Byker, 1994.

By Ben Pensant

As anyone unlucky enough to have watched the recent special by transphobic US ‘funnyman’ Dave Chapel knows, stand-up comics are the most evil people on earth, especially self-hating black ones. From their fascistic belief that free speech means standing on a stage saying what the hell they like to their refusal to accept the scientific fact that jokes can kill, comedians have swiftly become one of the most toxic species on earth, alongside TERFS, white supremacists, and Jews.

But it wasn’t always this way. Indeed, there was once a time when the comedy scene was synonymous with social justice, dominated by decent left-wingers who attended CNN marches and adopted gay refugees instead of commentating on wrestling and demanding blow-jobs from teenagers. And it was during this halcyon period that legendary Tyneside-based socialist Bob Sanderson staged one of his most memorable nights ever: the Newcastle Branch of International Socialist’s 1994 open mic comedy night.

As with all of Bob’s ventures, the evening was beset with difficulties, faced with hostility from the same sinister forces that sabotaged earlier events such as the ill-fated 1987 garden party celebrating the Iranian Revolution’s ten-year anniversary, abandoned after it became apparent that right-wing agitators had infiltrated the festivities and kidnapped Bob’s special guest the Ayatollah Khomeany, replacing him with a crudely disguised waiter from the Star of Bengal. (Needless to say, rumours immediately circulated suggesting it was actually Bob who’d hired this ringer to impersonate the Leader Supreme, an idiotic allegation as everyone knows Bob refused to associate with the Indian community due to their enabling of the British Empire and insistence on stocking their myriad newsagents with multiple copies of The Scum and The Daily Heil.)

However, despite working overtime to combat such resistance, Bob stuck to his guns and pulled it off, a monumental feat considering his enemies had contrived to ensure none of the household names he’d booked to perform turned up. Not that that bothered those of us who witnessed the magical night, rewarded as we were for our patience and loyalty with stellar last-minute sets from Tufty off The Word and that Mac Fleetwood lookalike who used to chase crisp packets around Haymarket bus station.

Sadly, no recording of the show exists, denying us the chance to relive that dramatic moment when the audience learnt Mark Steele would not be appearing after being forced to exit his train at Doncaster to tend to an injured pigeon, only to see their disappointment evaporate as Bob gallantly jumped onstage to deliver an impromptu masterclass, wringing every last drop of comic potential from a thirty-minute lecture on the zany antics of the Canary Islands Independence Movement.

What we do have is the speech below which features his announcement of the line-up, a timeless relic made all the more poignant due to the fact that none of the comedians mentioned actually played. In many ways this spellbinding recording is almost as jaw-dropping as the night itself, not least because it shows Bob at his defiant best, taking no nonsense from the gaggle of self-hating, sozzled women in the audience who objected to the line-up’s perceived lack of female representation. Unfortunately, while he defeated these obnoxious harridans with his trademark wit, it was disputes such as this that led to the the oft-repeated accusation that Bob was a misogynist. Which, as those of us who knew the man will confirm, was utter nonsense. Bob didn’t hate women: he simply disliked women who thought they were cleverer than him. Which is perfectly understandable, considering his brain was roughly the size of Bolivia, and almost twice as beautiful.

Still, Bob had the last laugh, as you will too when you listen to this hilarious monologue, a dry run for his painfully hilarious, totally improvised set a week later. So press play, pour yourself a tofu smoothie, and transport yourself back to a rainswept summer night in 1994. A comedy assassin is about to load his fun gun and one of the bullets might just have your name on it…

Let England Quake

By Ben Pensant

As every well-adjusted Twitter addict knows, division is everywhere. And as every well adjusted left-wing Twitter addict knows, it’s all the right’s fault. However, every now and then there comes a time when principled progressives find themselves singing from the same song sheet as filthy fascists, and the red lines separating Good People from Bad Bastards temporarily vanish. Which is why the last month has seen leftists and Nazis hold their noses, put down their bike chains, and suspend hostilities to rally around a common cause: we both desperately want the England soccerball team to lose.

Granted, we’ve been praying for England’s exit for vastly different reasons: us because we’re compassionate, educated liberals appalled by nationalism and xenophobia; them because they’re racist Covidiots who can’t read. But motives are irrelevant, all that matters is we remain united in our mutual desire to obsess over stuff we don’t like and suck the fun out of absolutely everything.

Because one thing we can all agree on is that now is NOT the time for people to ‘come together’, ‘get behind the team’, and ‘take their minds off’ the horror of modern Britain. No. We need to focus on that horror 24/7, and anyone who doesn’t is a traitor, a collaborator, and a nasty pasty freedom hater. So with this in mind, I’ve once again invited my stalker-cum-guest columnist Graham Reaper to spew his evil right-wing rhetoric all over my pristine blog, primarily to make me look good but also to remind my army of seven readers that the popular socialist axiom “the enemy of my enemy is the friend of my friend or something” – coined by cuddly eyeless tanky Gorgeous ‘George’ Galloway – is as apt now as it was when St Jezza had afternoon tea with that nice bearded fella who thinks Jews eat biscuits made out of babies’ faces.

And there’s no better time to bridge the divide than now, as both sides of the isle teem with battle-hardened culture warriors loudly pontificating about football despite knowing as much about the sport as I do about the history of thimbles. Once England are beaten by the delightful Italians and their charming non-racist fans we can get back to taunting each other with memes and death threats but until then it’s full steam head. Because it’s clear from the England team’s nervous demeanour and poorly coiffured locks that they’re absolutely RATTLED by the knowledge that a handful of mentally ill hall monitors on the internet want them to lose. So let’s keep applying the pressure and hope all the effort we’ve put into abusing strangers and liking tweets by Otto European and Laurence ‘Lozenge’ Fox culminates in the team’s spectacular failure on the biggest stage of all.

In the meantime, sit back, pour yourself a whale-spunk smoothie, and allow Graham and I to explain our contrasting but equally self-righteous reasons for refusing to support England, most of which revolve around such pertinent issues as Covid 18, Black Life Matters, and several other hot button topics utterly irrelevant to 24 men kicking a ball around and doing Hitler salutes when they score a touchdown. And yes, when I say ‘other hot button topics’ I bloody well do mean Brexit. How could I not? After all, football fans voted for it, the Coronovirus was caused by it, and George Floyd was murdered by it. I hope it was worth it, Nigel.

Now sit tight and read what this Tory arsewipe has to say.

GRAHAM: Sheeple wearing muzzles because they’ve got better things to do than get into arguments with shelf-stackers in Liddle is bad enough. Braindead drones queuing up in carparks to have pipe cleaners shoved up their noses just so they can go on a holiday they spent all year saving up for is even worse. And chicken-shit collaborators willingly injecting themselves with deadly poison so deadly it’s barely killed anyone is frankly unforgivable. But of all the examples of Covid-inspired madness that I’m literally forced to sift through, obsess over, and weep buckets about every bastard day, the most heinous by far is the way people are determined to temporarily FORGET about The Worst Thing That Has Ever Happened, Like, Ever and instead focus their attention on something that makes then happy, in this case a bunch of wealthy snowflakes with foreignish names prancing around in silly shorts and kissing each other. On the lips. This is why the terrorists hate us.

And why the hell are these so-called ‘fans’ indulging the Euros anyway? I expect Gary Southgate and his squad of woke posers to buy into this libtard nonsense but not their supporters, the so-called British Bulldogs who once spent football tournaments ransacking pleasure beaches and throwing marbles at snooty French police horses but now seem content to sip coffee, clap politely, and belt out godawful singalongs by Jewish hippy Neil Simon. And as we’re not in Europe anymore, can anyone tell me why we’re still playing in the EUROPEAN Cup? I’ll wait. Dunno if you heard, ladies, but five summers ago there was a high-profile grudge match and Metropolitan Elite Utd lost 52-48, with no extra time, penalties, or replays necessary.

Even worse, in a move that would have Thatcherite hero Bexy out of Green Street shitting in his grave, some of these pinko ponces even applauded taking the knee. Which brings me to the question that has been causing shockwaves all the way from Twitter to Facebook: Kneel or no kneel? Well, brace yourselves for the shock of the century because despite my loathing of all things militant I’m firmly in the ‘kneel’ camp. Yes, you heard that right. And I’m not just in favour of it on the grounds that everyone should have the right to do whatever they like with their leg joints, even pseudo-English turncoats. Because if it were up to me I’d happily BAN taking the knee as revenge for all the things outlawed by the left, such as sombreros, wolf-whistling, and Donald the Trump. No, I’m 100% behind them bending the knee for one very simple reason: how else are we going to spot the Marxists? Especially the millionaire ones?

Apologists suggest these brainless ball-kickers wouldn’t know Karl Marx from Richard Marx and probably think Das Krapital is a posh toilet invented by the Krauts. But they’re dead wrong. Which is why we need the England team to carry on kneeling FOREVER, so that when a proper right wing government eventually seize power they know exactly who to drown in the Thames for high treason. Don’t like the sound of that? Tough titty, comrades. These are your rules, not ours. (Actually they’re our rules too but you started it so you can bloody lump it.)

As for Southgate’s piss-weak “its not political!”, “we’re supporting the message, not the group!” poppycock…please. EVERYTHING’s political. Especially young sportsmen kneeling on grass. If bitter, talentless bastards like me and Ben can devote our lives to politicising everything and going blue in our sad faces about stuff we don’t like then why should hugely successful young athletes at the top of their game be any different?

Intent is EVERYTHING. And their intent is clearly to promote BLM’s crank-left agenda. (Some of these young clowns even have dreadlocks for Maggie’s sake!). It couldn’t possibly be that they’re simply kneeling to protest racism, know nothing about BLM or what the stand for, and have more important stuff to think about such as winning football matches at the highest level while lonely keyboard wafflers who’ve achieved bugger all scold them for not being culture war experts.

Thank god for the REAL lions who’ve stuck it to the England team by booing their SJW antics. Because in 2021 you can’t simply say you disagree with something. No, you have to hiss at it like a fat toddler at a pantomime. And let’s not forget the celebrity grifters who’ve point blank refused to support England, like Lord Lozza and a handful of nondescript Tory MPs. That the team STILL somehow fashioned good results without the backing of a former actor-turned-shite singer and some politicians whose own parents haven’t even heard of them just shows how the whole tournament has been fixed by the left-wing establishment. Anyone who gets behind this pitiful bunch is a stone cold quisling and anyone who offers their full-blooded allegiance to the anti-England cause is a hero. Apart from the scotch. They can shove their boos up their ginger kilts.

Come on you Eye-Ties!

BEN: Like most sensible leftists, I was horrified by the news that Brexit Britain would not only be hosting this year’s World Cup but forcing people to risk their lives by standing in the vicinity of thousands of other humans as they watch 20 rapists kick each other and pretend to fall over for two hours. Wow. Cheers Boris. Sending dumb football fans to their deaths to boost your precious economy is sooo 2021. Unsurprisingly, since the tournament started there’s been a mysterious absence of footage showing fans vomiting, hyperventilating, and choking to death because they stood next to a bloke who may have been on the same tube as a woman who had to self-isolate last week because her son was possibly in Tesco at the same time as a three-year-old girl who had a dicky tummy a fortnight ago. How convenient.

Not that the footage they have let us see is any less disturbing. The sight of players hugging, body-slamming and breathing the same air as each other has been terrorising FBPE Twitter for weeks now. The fact that none of them are ill and have been tested regularly is utterly irrelevant. You think something as deadly as Covid cares if you’ve tested negative? Don’t make me laugh. It wants them to think they’re safe so they’ll pass it on to the nearest teammate, preferably one with brown skin.

Still, it’s no less than they deserve. Because white footballers are revolting enough, but at least the can argue they were duped into playing for their evil country by the right-wing press and imperialist grandparents. Black players, on the other hand, have no excuse for selling out their community to wrap themselves in the flag of their oppressors. If they were truly committed to anti-racism they’d insist on playing for whatever proud African nation their refugee parents escaped from instead of spitting in their ancestors’ faces by having the nerve to represent the country they were born and raised in.

It’s thanks to this sort of stuff that people like myself and scores of other Twitter liberals who know nothing about football or history have decided we simply cannot support England this evening. Because how any intelligent person can be aware of England’s far-right, fascist past and still want them to win is beyond me. Which is why supporting Italy instead is both a brave stand against racism and the very definition of a no-brainer.

But if the spectre of imperialism isn’t enough to put you off the four lions – all of whom were actually born in a TURKISH zoo – you only have to take one look at their vile racist fanbase to know that they don’t deserve your support for a second. As every brave liberal who only just discovered the concept of booing other teams’ national anthems knows fine well, this sort of behaviour is exclusive to English fans and has been for centuries. You’ll hear much guff from supposed ‘experts’ – ie: working class morons ie: EDL scum – about how other countries have far worse problems with football hooliganism than England. Don’t believe a word of it. While these apologist goons are very adept at backing up their racist theories with news reports, video footage, and first hand accounts, they tend to run a mile when you ask for some actual evidence such as a Twitter thread started by someone with a blue flag next to their name. Cowards.

As ever, the best way to counter their pathetic ‘facts’ is to simply ignore, block, report, and enjoy the last laugh tonight by offering full-blooded support to the Italians, safe in the knowledge that their fans would never dream of booing national anthems, chanting racist slogans, abusing black players, giving fascist salutes, pelting opposing fans with lighters, or riding their scooters into crowds of tourists armed with swords, nunchucks and severed horses’ heads.

And they sure as hell wouldn’t object to bending the knee either, just as long as you lied and told them it was actually a tribute to Derek Chauvin. Not that taking the knee for a total of five seconds is anything to brag about. Five seconds? Come back to me when when you’ve knelt for 90 minutes to atone for all the beastly stuff the English have done over the years. Then we’ll talk. Oh and as for your snaggle-toothed manager – a secret Tory if I ever saw one – tell him it’s all good and well making middle-class housewives swoon by banging on about diversity and rocking fabulous cottonwear but he undid all that good work the second he publicly disassociated his team from BLM. Let’s hope Slippery Southgate remembers this error in a few hours time when he’s collecting his losers’ medal from Prince Slaphead.

GRAHAM/BEN: Arriva Derci Gary!

The Sanderson Tapes #3 (AUDIO)

Newcastle, 1992. Young Marxists await the imminent arrival of local agit-pop poet Brian Cleave.

By Ben Pensant

It may come as a surprise to younger leftists, but there was a time when socialism and fun went hand in hand. Yes, really. Indeed, as anyone lucky enough to have been part of the burgeoning activist scene of early ’90s Newcastle will recall, a commitment to fairness, equality, and mass subordination wasn’t always synonymous with having a face liked a slapped arse.

Of course, these days progressives have no choice but to be as miserable as sin, as the relentless onslaught of right-wing nastiness leaves little room for bonhomie. And it wasn’t a hell of a lot better thirty years ago but at least we had people like Bob Sanderson around, bringing hope, warmth, and unabashed joy to action-packed speeches on the New England Shoemakers’ strike of 1760.

But it wasn’t just Bob’s natural charm and ready wit that brought happiness to the eager young militants who hung in his every word. He also had a deep affinity with youth culture, having been a key figure in the punk movement until he was excommunicated from the scene after an unfortunate tour bus misunderstanding involving Slits vocalist Viv Libertine. Sadly, such false accusations would follow Bob throughout his career, but it would take more than right-wing hawks planting jars of Rohypnol in his dungarees to curb Bob’s passion for music and politics.

Luckily for us, he brought that passion with him when he made the journey north and launched one of his most brilliant creations: the annual NBIS Socialist Jamboree, a mind-bending fusion of pop, culture, pop culture, and politics. And as heard in the seminal speech below, on a balmy summer night in 1992 he unveiled exciting plans for the biggest and most ambitious jamboree yet. It was also my very first one, and if you listen very carefully you can hear audible moans of teenage excitement as Bob announces the line-up.

It was a night few will forget, not least the hundred-odd attendees who demanded refunds after none of the bands they’d paid to see turned up. Indeed, there was inevitable disappointment among music fans who’d arrived expecting to see energetic agit-pop sensations Sensor tear through a set of lively rap-metal bangers but were instead treated to local drone rock trio Cowfuck playing the same bum-note on a variety of broken power tools for two hours straight. (Cowfuck would split up straight after this show following a drug-fuelled argument over creative differences and stolen pillows, which made this seminal set all the more special for the four of us who managed to stay awake long enough to hear the spontaneous key change in the 118th minute.)

Alas, the smattering of no-shows were due to issues beyond Bob’s control, such as weather, transport, and his failure to book any actual bands. But it was also clear that with the hated criminal justice bill looming, sinister forces were attempting to sabotage the jamboree, the same sinister forces that would later blame Bob for pocketing the takings when it was obvious to everyone who read his fifteen page newsletter that the money was eaten up by the administrative costs incurred printing off thousands of flyers for bands who had more chance of playing on Mars than a lentil-stained stage in Byker.

But the jamboree was never just about the music, despite being advertised as exactly that. Indeed, much like the moon landing hoax or that time Zionists in fake beards crashed those jets into the Twin Trade Centre, everyone remembers where they were when they heard that incendiary fraggle-rockers Senseless Thing would not be appearing but local performance artist Sylvia Platt had kindly agreed to fill in with an avant garde interpretation of the collected works of Andrea Dawkins performed in total silence using sign language. On stilts. And no-one will forget what they were doing when Sylvia fell headfirst off the stilts, not least the elderly labrador who broke her fall.

Luckily, such bad luck failed to ruin the night, and it ended on a high note when popular UK hip-hop crew The Credit to the Nations became the first and last of the advertised acts to actually appear. Their set thrilled at least a third of the remaining twenty audience members, though the part-timers who’d left early missed a treat, as The Credits delivered a spellbinding show of experimental new material, none of which had been previously performed. Or, apparently, rehearsed.

Needless to say, despite the open mouthed awe and shock of those who witnessed the gig, it didn’t take long for a scurrilous rumour to spread: The Credits hadn’t actually played, the band providing the industrial beats were two pissed former members of Cowfuck wearing clown trousers, and the hyperactive frontman rapping, body popping, and generally owning the stage like a pro was not Credits MC Little Credits Bloke but Bob himself crudely daubed in makeshift blackface. Vile.

As you’d expect, this depressingly inevitable lie was backed up with ridiculous circumstantial evidence such as his inability to rap, the fact that he was three feet taller than Little Credits Bloke, and the way excessive perspiration caused by some over-exuberant breakdancing had caused boot polish to melt all over his microphone. Such laughably bad faith attempts to smear Bob weren’t worth entertaining, and neither was the cynical claim that the real Credits were playing a packed show in Brixton that night. The ’90s right would do anything to fit up decent men trying to make a difference. Sound familiar?

But those of us who were actually there know the truth, no matter how much the naysayers whined about Little Credits Bloke’s bold artistic choice to infuse every track with lyrics from Hello John Got a New Motor? and My Uncle Billy Had a Ten Foot Willy. And as you’ll hear in the clip below, the palpable sense of excitement generated by Bob’s passion and enthusiasm had little to do with the musical superstars he promised would appear but didn’t. It was Bob’s very essence which made the jamboree so special, not dreadlocked greboes or disc-spinning Islamists. And if you don’t believe me, why not press ‘play’, pour yourself a glass of warm cider, and spend a little time in that long gone era when putting a smile on a young person’s face was just as important as beating them up if they voted Tory.

If Marxism be the food of love, play on…

Recorded and edited by John Egdell.

Snitch Perfect

A Corbynite grass basks in the warm glow of accountability.

By Ben Pensant

Life changes fast these days. Indeed, as Matthew Roderick said in The Breakfast Club, “If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could end up missing someone getting dogpiled on Twitter”. Granted, that iconic piece of dialogue should be quoted with caution as it was written by an evil Republican. In fact, I’d have no complaints if you reported me to the nearest rainbow truncheon-wielding police officer simply for repeating it. However, as all students of ’70s cinema know, Ted Hughes was a notorious plagiariser, so it’s a safe bet he stole that line from a superior left-wing filmmaker like Ken Roach or Sly ‘Sylvester’ Stallone. Which explains why it popped into my head just now.

Either way, if you close your eyes and pretend it was scripted by a progressive rather than a dead right-winger with appalling taste in shirts it’s a deeply positive sentiment full of wisdom and vimto. And it’s one that’s ever-present in the minds of modern leftists terrified of missing the memo informing them that a viewpoint considered perfectly acceptable on Monday has morphed into the most dangerous idea since Hitler split the atom by the weekend. No-one wants to be the last New Statesmxn reader to find out it’s mandatory to capitalise the word ‘BLACK’ or that it’s deeply transphobic for lesbians to hold hands with other lesbians.

Thankfully, the most dedicated progressives – me, Jeremy Corbyn, that Canadish transwoman who took a beautician to court for refusing to wax her arsecrack – have no trouble keeping up with the latest developments. And we’re equally comfortable educating and lambasting reactionary bozos who refuse to get with the frickin’ pogrom. So a quick primer:

  • While free speech may have been a principle dear to leftists’ hearts back in the ’90s, in 2021 it’s a tedious, problematic inconvenience that only matters to right-wing comics furious that they don’t get to make fun of ‘pakis’ and ‘woofters’ anymore.
  • While ten years ago it was generally agreed that men had penises and women had v*****s, to even suggest such a thing nowadays makes you a bigot, a conversion therapist, and a genocidal maniac who wants to eradicate the planet’s transwomen population by banning them from pissing in front of ten-year-old girls.
  • While liberals have long agreed that harassing and assaulting people on the streets because they’re Jewish is Not On, in this day and age the only people who still think that are Zionist shills, anti-Corbyn Nazis, and dumb female music hacks with names that sound a bit like ‘fart’.

Approach every interaction with these bullet points in mind and you can’t go wrong. And if you still go wrong then belt up and take the abusive DMs like a (trans)man. Fortunately, while keeping up with the OJ Joneses is paramount, it’s worth remembering that change isn’t everything. Because some things never change. And one such thing is the glorious fact that no matter where you are or what time it is, there will always be a gang of hard leftists trying to get someone sacked for taking the piss out of them.

True, in recent years there’s often a gang of hard rightists trying to get someone sacked for taking the piss out of them too. But they’re nowhere near as good at it and their targets are rubbish. Frankie Boil? Katie Brand? Charlie State and Naga Mingemunchy? One is a racist scotch bastard, the other’s a pretend feminist who regularly fat-shames herself, and the last two work for the Brexit Broadcasting Corporation. You can cancel the lot of them for all I care.

No, it’s on the left where you find the people who really excel at this stuff, the uber-grasses who take their hatred of jokes they don’t like to fantastical extremes. For them, snitching isn’t just a fun hobby: it’s their catnip, their lifeblood, their reason to get out of bed in the afternoon. Which is why the Cult of Corbyn continue to protect their hero, even though thanks to the racist British electorate he’s about as relevant as a cutting edge gag about Noel Gallacher’s eyebrows.

Indeed, Kool Aid Corbynites are like those Vietcong snipers who’ve been hiding in the jungle for the past fifty years patiently waiting for the next US offensive. Because as all leftists know, no war is ever truly over. Which is why we were primed for combat when evil centrist Gary Newbon took a potshot at our lord and saviour last week, unleashing a torrent of tankie fury not seen since that time Ken Starmer pumped in the House of Commons and blamed it on Jezza.

For anyone living under a rock, Newbon is the fake academic who recently felt our wrath after tweeting a photo purporting to show Corbyn reading The Fourth Protocol of the Elders of Zio to a group of schoolchildren. And to add insult to injury, the book which had been crudely photoshopped to resemble The Fourth Protocol… was actually The Bear Who Came to Tea by popular children’s author and time-served Corbyn cultist Martin Rosen.

So not only did Newbon mock a beloved book that has brought joy to millions, he also disrespected a harmless childrens’ story about bears. Sickening. Luckily we had Rosen and Jezza’s backs, immediately inundating both Twitter and Newbon’s employers with angry complaints demanding punishment. Particularly vociferous was former sci-fi author Simon Magann, whose brave, passionate, and feverishly obsessive response to Newbon’s foul tweet was to spend all day reporting and re-reporting him to Northumberland University, the corrupt higher education institution which inexplicably employs ‘Doctor’ Newbon, presumably because the government’s lopsided diversity quotas require all colleges to give at least one job to a far-right fascist who smells of shit. Our grounds for his dismissal hinged on a brilliantly disingenuous attempt to turn the tables and accuse Newbon of antisemitism, despite the fact that the photo-shopped picture he posted was clearly attacking antisemitism. Because it’s not just jokes we don’t like that get our goat, what really annoys us are jokes we don’t understand.

All of which was no less than Newbon deserved. Because his vile accusations would have been revolting enough at any time, but to pounce when the far-left are already under attack due to the diabolical situation in Israel takes some nerve. Yep, this pretend professor is so tone deaf he decided to unveil his dirty little meme just as leftists are literally fighting for their lives and defending progressive values by attacking Jews on the streets of London and New York. But he didn’t just offend the frontline warriors: he also dished out a huge kick in the teeth to their media allies who’ve been fearlessly ignoring those leftists fighting for their lives and defending progressive values by attacking Jews on the streets of London and New York. A decent person would stay in their lane at such a sensitive time but not Newbon. No, he thinks this is the perfect time to launch an unprovoked cyber attack on a kind jam-maker who’s spent his life opposing all forms of racism and a gentle kiddies’ poet who just happens to be one of the only non-shifty Jews on Twitter. Shameful.

Luckily, those of us dobbing him in either didn’t know this or didn’t care, and within hours both the tweet and Newbon’s account had been deleted. At present his whereabouts are unknown and the investigation by Northumberland Uni is ongoing, though a few days ago his four-eyed mug was plastered all over The Spacktator, which ran a vile, fawning piece by self-hating homo-jock Stephen Paisley. Needless to say, Newbon dug himself an even deeper hole by appearing in that Nazi fanzine, a fanzine so full of Nazism I’ve still never read it. All things considered, it’s fair to say Newbon won’t be presenting Match of the Day again any time soon.

See, this is what happens when you mess with the masters. Everyone and his weird militant uncle knows The Fourth Protocol… isn’t really antisemitic, it simply posits the demonstrably sane idea that Jews are behind every bad thing ever. Which in case you forgot, is a perfectly agreeable view shared by people the former Labour leader has spent his career defending and supporting. Which means it couldn’t possible be racist because Jezza isn’t racist. Kapeesh? The fact that we’re still making this point six years since he burst onto the scene is outrageous but I guess this is what happens when people are too wrapped up in their grubby ideology to think straight.

But it’s their loss. Personally, I’d be be over the moon if Corbyn sat me on his knee and read me that iconic tome. And I’ve no doubt he’d be happy to whisper sweet blood libels into my ear too. Luckily, the Angel of Islington is an old hand at this game, and he responded on Twitter – where else?! – with a cheeky post expressing how ‘saddened’ he was that anyone might suggest he would share this ‘antisemitic falsehood’. Ha. He might have about as much influence on world events as the Romanian orphan who irons Pritti Patel’s scanties but he’s still an absolute boy when it comes to trolling the fash’.

And he was utterly correct too. Corbyn would never share antisemitic falsehoods. Why bother when he can write forewords for books that promote them, invite ‘honoured citizens’ who spread them for tea and sandwiches, or refer to murderous terrorists whose entire ideology is informed by them as ‘friends’ who are ‘dedicated to peace and social justice’?

The sad thing is, Newbon could have been one of us if he’d just wound his bloody neck in. Because much like Rachel O’Riley and Tracey Ann Doberman, Newbon has a decent pedigree for reacting to mild disagreements on the internet in the same petulant manner as we do. And as demonstrated by a brief Twitter exchange he had with a witty, handsome young man last year, Newbon is just as incapable of understanding how satire works as the proud leftists calling for his head.

Because during this breathtaking chat Newbon played the role of decent liberal to a tee, passionately arguing that Boris Johnston’s infamous column about picaninnies with watermelon smileswas deeply racist. And when his witty, handsome opponent pathetically argued that the piece was actually critiquing racism by using imperialist language to mock Tony Bliar’s white saviour complex, Newbon responded like so many leftists before him and blocked the witty, handsome young man immediately. Take that pretty boy!

So you’d think Newbon of all people would understand what Rosen and his army of snitches mean when they say his crude tweet was antisemitic even though it clearly wasn’t, because it’s the same argument he made when throwing a strop with his funnier, better looking adversary. But no, clearly Newbon opted to take the Zionist dollar instead. Well, he’s made his bed, and if Northumberland Uni have an ounce of decency they’ll tie him to it, beat him with bars of soap, stick a pillow over his smug four-eyed face, and set fire to the bastard before firing him out of a rocket into the nearest synagogue.

Anyway, if you’ll excuse me, all this talk of telling on people has reminded me that there’s a vile Faceberk account I need to report immediately for saying Angela Raynor is “alright looking for a ginge”. But not before I’ve finished knocking up this hilarious meme of Boris the Butcher reading Mine Kampf to a cage filled with Yiddish toddlers.

If you’re reading Gary, that’s how you do satire.

The Sanderson Tapes #2 (AUDIO)

Crowds gather for a candlelit vigil in solidarity with Emil Habib (Gateshead, 1992)

By Ben Pensant

What makes murderers kill? It’s a question that’s perplexed psychologists, intellectuals, and duffel-coat clad militants for aeons, none more so than South African socialist and honorary Geordie Bob Sanderson, who took a break from fighting fascism and sexual harassment charges to search for the answer on a crisp summer night in 1992. And it was on that day, from the cider-sodden function room of the Cumberland Arms, Byker, that this darling of the north-east Marxist scene succeeded where so many academics had failed. Tellingly, the answers he found remain as pertinent today as they were back then: Western imperialism. Patriarchy. The Jews. Always the Jews.

It was quite a night. Little did we know when we entered the venue and handed over our twelve pound subs that we were about to embark on a mission to save a damaged young Muslim whose path in life had taken him from the mean streets of Gaza, to the glitz and glamour of Wall Street, to the unremitting horror of San Chris Quentin. Sadly, Emil Habib would soon become another victim of systemic racism: executed for supposedly unspeakable crimes and smeared as a ‘serial killer’ by bigoted hacks simply because he kidnapped, murdered, and barbecued several people. All of which was a huge kick in the teeth to Bob, who spent weeks planning a candlelit vigil for unlucky Emil, fighting tooth and nail to influence the American judicial system from a rain-lashed car-park in Bensham.

See, it wasn’t just murderers in berets or balaclavas who received Bob’s full-blooded support. No, he stood up for oppressed maniacs of all colours, creeds, and cannibalistic perversions. And as you’ll hear, he was well ahead of the game when it came to blaming Islamophobia for turning peaceful immigrants into depraved mass murderers.

So as Israel once again flexes its genocidal muscles, what better time to wind back the clock and listen to a principled leftist speak with great authority about a country he’s never been to and a conflict he knows sod all about. This seminal speech also serves as a timely reminder of what can be achieved by true progressives when they put their enormous heads together, a stark contrast with the Labour Party’s dismal showing in last week’s local elections, which grimly demonstrated how low the party has sunk since binning the kind, gentle socialist who steered them to two defeats in a row.

For my part this marks something of a return to my passion project, having only recently resumed the mammoth task of curating the Sanderson archive after spending the last six months evading Covid by hiding under my bed. Thankfully, I was able to once again dive into the treasure trove of cassette recordings stored in my childhood home after my mother kindly agreed to carry her 15-stone frame up a flimsy ladder to deep-clean the loft. That she did so while battling cancer only emphasised her dedication to preserving Bob’s remarkable memory. (Though if you’re reading, mam, perhaps next time when you finish you could take your snotty, blood-stained hankies with you? Dunno if you’ve noticed but we’re in the middle of a pandemic. Just sayin’.)

So put your feet up, pour yourself a mung bean smoothie, and step back in time to the brutal wasteland of Major’s Britain. I hear there’s a man of principle trying to save a young Muslim’s life. And by pressing ‘play’ he might just save yours too.

Recorded and edited by John Egdell and Michael Atkinson.

The Words That Maketh Racists

By Ben Pensant

There’s been much heated discussion recently about what constitutes racism, most of it conducted by racists. And like all heated discussions about racism conduced by racists, they reinforced the racism coursing through racist Britain like a racist plague. You think Covid-18 is deadly? Imagine if it was racist too. Oh hang on, it is. Cheers for peppering your killing spree with racism, Boris. You blonde racist.

As anyone with half a Critical Racism Theory degree knows, the question is not “What constitutes racism?” but “What doesn’t?”. And the answer is: Nothing. Nada. Knackers. Because literally everything constitutes racism, and if someone says something is racist then it is, unless that someone is a Tory or Jewish. Unsurprisingly, despite the racially charged events of 2021, grasping this simple rule is too much for the right-wing planks of Ingrate Britain.

So it’s down to muggins to dish out some cold, hard truth for the dozy racists at the back. Sadly, the following five examples of what constitutes racism are but a tiny fraction of the racism that regularly sends shockwaves all the way from Political Twitter to Race Bait Twitter (stopping off to cause a stir at Cancel Everyone Twitter and Clueless UK Comedian Twitter). One of them was even an actual major news story involving a trial and that, though just because something is covered by the lying MSM doesn’t make it any more topical than a sitcom star telling an anecdote about the Queen five years ago. So for the umpteenth time, here are this month’s top five things that make you a racist:

5. If you think racism isn’t as bad as it used to be you’re a racist.

Sewell salutes Boris after delivering his report.

Fact. You might be able to convince Scum-readers that racism is nowhere near as widespread as leftists want it to be but you can’t fool me, no matter how many government-funded studies conclude that racism doesn’t exist and anyone who disagrees can jump on the next ship back to Kingston Park. We see you.

Yep, I’m talking about the Sewell Report, the vile ‘investigation’ into institutional racism that offended everyone who read it, as well as several thousand who hadn’t. I won’t regurgitate the report’s fascistic findings, partly because they’re too offensive to repeat but mainly because I’ve no idea what they are. All you need to know is that it claims there is no racism in the UK whatsoever. The fact that it doesn’t is irrelevant, and if you’re tempted to examine Sewell’s findings with your own eyes before voicing an opinion that makes you a racist too.

It was also a kick in the teeth of privileged leftists who’ve spent years empowering minorities by massively exaggerating the scale of UK racism. Which is understandable because otherwise they’d have to admit it’s actually class disparities that are behind most western inequality, the very same class disparities that privileged leftists benefit generously from.

So ignore it, condemn it, call it the most racist screed this side of that Rod Lidl column about the black savagery of Welsh Muslims, but whatever you do, don’t read it. It’s not worth it. And anyway, what kind of government gives an important job like investigating systemic racism to an obnoxious art critic who died in 2015?

2. If you think it’s okay to cast black actors as anything other than boxers, drug-dealers, or pirate radio DJs then you’re a racist.

Idris Elbow as Marlo ‘Stringer’ Stanfield.

End of. You can moan all you like about perpetuating stereotypes and limiting black people to roles deemed significantly ethnic by middle-class liberals but I’ve ignored it all before.

Yes, I’m talking about BBC Diversity Guru Miranda Leyland, who recently made the alt-right cry with some so-2021-they-hurt criticisms of Idris Elbow’s deeply problematic cop show Luther Blissett, a cop show so deeply problematic I still haven’t watched it.

Needless to say Miranda’s bravery enraged Tory Twitter, where her complaint that Luther wasn’t authentic enough because he doesn’t have any black friends or eat Caribbean food went down like a bucket of Caribbean food. Yes, evil conservatives and gun-toting Republicans still think an actor’s skin colour is less important than his acting ability. Unreal.

Predictably, she was smeared and abused right, right, and centre, but it’s clear the actual problem was that she didn’t go far enough. Because casting black people in roles in which their skin colour is irrelevant is a huge slap in the face to modern progressives, especially educated white ones. Perhaps if more black people had voted Labour and allowed St. Jezza to unlock their talents it might be okay for them to play detectives and doctors. As it is, until we achieve total equality they should only ever be cast as slaves and cannibals.

No doubt this will rattle walking Bounty Bar Idris but he’s always been a bad ‘un. In fact, the only vaguely authentic black man he’s ever played was drug baron Stringer Stanfield in The Shield, and even he was considerably more privileged than most due to his marriage to white pop singer Lisa. Since then it’s been one sell-out after another: touting himself as the new James Bond, advertising Rupert Maxwell’s evil Skynet channel, playing a sodding viking in Thor: Hammer of the Gods. Rumour has it Elbow is such an establishment stooge he was even invited to Prince Edinburgh’s funeral but refused after the BBC Diversity Department politely asked him to turn up wearing a rastacap with a huge ghetto blaster on his shoulder.

Internalised racism. Plain and simple. I bet his cock’s tiny too.

3. If you see or hear anything simian-related and don’t automatically think about black people then you’re a racist.

Peckham, 1993. Racist Jason swindles vulnerable Jevon.

Case closed. You can pretend it’s the other way round, that instantly associating black people with words like ‘monkey’ is waaay more racist, but you’re wasting your time because it’s not: you are.

Yep, inbetween the Sewell outrage and Elbagate a horrific video re-surfaced showing frog-faced actor Del Boy Jason telling a story about the Queen mistaking a foreign ambassador for a ‘gorilla’, shining a light on systemic racism in 2021 like only a thirty-second clip from five years ago can. Needless to say, it was immediately shared and condemned by hordes of self-righteous liberals, some of whom had even watched it.

The charge was led by Corbynite poet laureate Kerry Ann Mendoza, taking a well-earned break from penning the most moving pieces of prose since Yum, Yum, Bubblegum, Stick it Up the Teacher’s Bum. And her witch-hunt against an ageing white actor for saying something beastly in a video she didn’t know existed ten minutes earlier proved hugely popular, particularly with third-tier British comics annoyed at vile Jason for making more people laugh by falling over a bar than they have in their entire careers. Comedians get plenty of stick these days, but it’s refreshing to know there’s a burgeoning army of UK comics who refuse to take the right-wing dollar, demonstrate an ounce of self-awareness, or spend five seconds researching something before mouthing off about it on the internet.

All of which should have been the end of it: Job done. Career ruined. Twitter mob sated. But the gaslighting right couldn’t help themselves, downplaying Jason’s racism by claiming the ambassador in question was white. Which apparently he was. But as those of us who understand racist tropes know, the fact that he wasn’t black is irrelevant: so irrelevant I refuse to explain why. Deflect your way out of that one, racists.

Luckily, what followed sorted the true leftists from the charlatans. So the previously-brave comedians frantically back-peddled, either quietly deleting their tweets or conceding that the Queen’s comment wasn’t bigoted but maintaining that Jason had ‘made it racist’, presumably because they’re terrified to accept that an old white bloke off the telly is less weirded-out by black people than they are.

But genuine progressive values were exemplified by Kerry Anne and her warrior cult: the mentally ill activists and Kool-Aid Corbynites who point-blank refused to admit their mistake. Instead they doubled down, insisting that the real racists were Jason, the Queen, Kirstie Young, Will I Peas, the camera crew, the BBC, everyone who watched it, everyone who didn’t watch it, Boycie, Triggers, Mr Ed, Crappy Doo, and every single right-wing fruitcake who thinks there’s something wrong with assuming when someone says the word ‘gorilla’ they’re talking about a black person.

Clearly these loons learnt nothing from Roseanne Connor. Or Danny Barker. Or Alastair Stuart. Shameful.

4. If you think a cop being found guilty of killing an unarmed black man by kneeling on his head for 9 minutes is a good thing then you’re a racist.

Derek Thauvin’s prison cell (San Quentin, yesterday.)

Period. The Derek Thauvin verdict may have delighted liberals but true progressives know there’s no greater sign that we live in a racist society than locking up white cops for clicks. And that’s exactly what the racist jury did when they sent evil Thauvin and his errant knee to chokey to live a life of luxury in a cushy cell surrounded by pet mice, hookers, and copious tins of pineapple chunks.

Indeed, all the verdict did was reassure right-wingers that they’d eradicated racism and police brutality by imprisoning one cop, when everyone knows the only way to achieve that is to defund the police and imprison them all. (And yes, when I say ‘defund’ I bloody well do mean ‘abolish’.) That the black communities being methodically genocided by these bastards-in-blue would suffer even more if there were no police officers around is irrelevant. Take it up with the Republicans who created this mess when they invented slavery. Any unfortunate consequences that arise from allowing criminals to do what the hell they like is on them.

Thauvin’s conviction also sent out the white supremacist lie that racism isn’t as bad as it was in 1930, a lie made all the more vile because it’s 100% true. But even worse was the way it disenfranchised millions, denying poor blacks and middle class whites – but mainly middle-class whites – the opportunity to fight racism by smashing windows and chinning old ladies. What kind of society snatches away the right to set fire to electronics stores in black communities from the most marginalised trust fund recipients on earth? I’ll tell you what kind of society: this one, and it’s getting more racist by the second.

5. If you think it’s a white cop’s job to stop a black child being stabbed to death then you’re a racist.

Ma’Khia Oliver’s killer stalks his prey.

No ifs, no buts, no coconuts. Because as the recent footage of a white cop fatally unloading on a harmless knife-wielding teenager demonstrated, there’s nothing more racist than saving a black girl’s life. And while we’re here, since when was black people not dying part of the plan? How the hell is that going to help us eradicate bigotry, destroy capitalism, and convince gullible celebrities that systemic racism is everywhere, cops kill black children for kicks, and the only way to stop it is by kneeling in solidarity with a crank-left street movement who want to abolish prisons and fill the streets with rapists and murderers? We need more dead black people, not less.

Thankfully, the media were onboard, instantly drawing parallels between Keith Floyd and the heartbreaking death of some black girl whose name I can’t be bothered to look up, disseminating the principled lie that the racist cop simply showed up and sprayed bullets everywhere as opposed to intervening in a knife-fight which was about to turn fatal.

Yes, that’s right: a knife-fight, that age old rite-of-passage for African-Americans everywhere. Or rather, it was, until whitey decided it was his job to stick his oar in and issue deadly lectures to vulnerable black youths with blades in their hands. Sickening. The sooner these imperialists get back in their lanes the better. And while they’re at it, would it be too much trouble to learn how to wound crazed knife-attackers rather than murderlise them? If Twitter SJWs can become firearms experts overnight then it shouldn’t be too much to expect a redneck with a badge to be able to shoot straight.

Luckily, the left-wing commentary on the sad death of Ma’Khia Whatserface was sublime. Because as all liberals know, the correct way to respond to incidents of the police shooting black people is to compare them to incidents of the police not shooting white people, such as racist mass shooter Dylan Ruth.

Like most left-wing arguments, it’s utterly foolproof. That the two incidents were wildly different and the police would have shot Ruth too if he were about to kill someone when they found him is irrelevant, as are the hundreds of white people shot by police every year. Equally irrelevant are the black Americans regularly apprehended without being shot.

Because all that matters is conflating two disparate high profile incidents by drawing inane comparisons disguised as incisive gotcha!s, while completely ignoring the sheer volume of narrative-upsetting incidents deemed unworthy of mention because they weren’t filmed and posted on Twitter. And if you think you can counter such brilliantly flawed logic by quoting tiresome crime statistics and arguing against allowing black teenagers to murder each other in the name of diversity then I’m afraid that makes you a…well, do I really need to say it?

The saddest thing is these five example are merely the tip of the racism iceberg, which is kind of like a normal iceberg except it looks even more like a Klan hat. Other things that make you a racist include: voting Tory, reading The Daily Fail, watching Lines of Duty, shopping at Liddle, and being white. But if you’ve got to the end of this frankly bloated blog and still don’t know what constitutes racism then don’t worry, it doesn’t mean you’re stupid. It just means you’re a racist.

Now if you’ll excuse me, all this talk of racism has reminded me there are a handful of shifty Zios on Facebook I need to send some polite death threats to before lunchtime. No rest for the woke-ed!