Vag Of Dishonour

 

Vag6
Some micro-aggressive vaginas, yesterday.

By Ben Pensant

Modern progressives have a hard time dealing with creative types. Which is hardly surprising given how often creative types get it catastrophically wrong. Indeed, despite the arts providing some of the wokiest thrills this side of Novaro Media’s Winterval knees-up there’s always the threat of something deeply problematic lurking in the background.

So for every Lilly Allen there’s a Liam Gallacher. For every The H8 U Gave there’s a Huckleberry Flynn. For every satirical portrait of Nigel Farrage with his cock out there’s a racist doll-house featuring marginalised ISIS fighters played by the cast of Bigpuss. And for every PC moneyspinner like Hamilton! that strikes a blow for diversity by discriminating against white actors there’s a Vagina Monobrows sticking two fingers up at an oppressed minority by entertaining the hateful concept of women with fannies.

Not that this is news. As the movie industry demonstrates, while so-called artists are happy to seek Twitter cred by dipping their toes into social justice waters, they’ll happily ditch their beliefs and produce the most objectionable material imaginable if there’s a hefty paycheck involved.

And actors are the absolute worst when it comes to selling out in search of the right-wing dollar. Take lantern-jawed weirdo Mick Shannon, who took the lead role in this year’s nautical masterpiece The Shape Of Fishface. As well as providing meaty roles for a gay, a deaf and a coloured, Benicio del Toro’s Emmy-winning tear-jerker refused to shy away from one of the most pertinent questions liberal women have been asking for years: can you retain your independence while enjoying a sex-positive relationship with someone who bites the heads of furry animals and has a bell-end that smells like Grimsby docks? (A quandary Sharon Osborne struggled with for decades.)

Every actor who performed in this movie deserves a BIFTA just for being there, especially the queer, black and handicapped ones. Sadly, there’s always someone who can’t resist showing their true colours, and it will shock no-one to learn that in this case that someone was a white male. Imagine that.

Because despite donning rubber gills every morning to charm his way into a mute girl’s drawers by eating egg shells and flooding her flat, by night he was kicking off his flippers and sneaking off to Telly Viv to play an Israeli spook with a sexually aggressive moustache in BBC3’s Zio-prop hate-fest The Little Princess.

This is what they do. And it doesn’t stop there. Because it’s naïve to expect actors who work in theatre to be any less venal than their Hollywood counterparts. Which is why now more than ever it’s vital we leftists keep our eyes trained on the thespian community and show them that the days of taking whatever roles they like without getting publicly shamed by an army of zeros on social media are OVER.

So naturally I was delighted to read about the Women’s Respite Centre of East Minnesota Uni and their brave decision to no longer host productions of Eve Angel’s The Vagina Chronicles, the aforementioned crudely offensive play that has been inciting violence and delighting self-hating menstruaters for 34 years.

Their ballsy statement was issued following a survey of students and a workshop entitled ‘Not All Woman Have Vaginas’, a necessary if blindingly obvious position to defend in 2018 when women without vaginas have become such a potent demographic force they could comfortably fill the front stalls of the Liechtenstein People’s Theatre. Their understandable objections were that the play “centres on cisgender women”, its version of feminism “excludes some women”, and it “lacks diversity and inclusion”.

Needless to say, the TERF community were furious, belittling both the decision and the workshop: “Even if it were true that not all women have vaginas, why shouldn’t there be a play about the ones who do?” they bleated, as if making up 50% of the population somehow entitles biological females to have their stories told, regardless of how much they offend men in eyeliner.

Predictably, the right-wing trolls piped up: “People who find the play offensive could always not watch it!” they whined, as if this magically cancels out its hyper-dangerous content. Yep, in 2018 there are still people who don’t realise that the very existence of works of art which don’t represent every minority is problematic. (Unless the minority are Jews or lesbians, obvs.) But it’s hardly surprising. How can we expect tone-deaf dipshits to pick up on the dangerous mood music of filth like The Vagina Monolifts when they don’t even realise the very existence of women is problematic in itself?

As the EMU WRC put it, concerns about the play’s relevance to modern audiences “created a need to ask the question: do we still need The Vagina Monologues?”. Because as we know, to decide if a work of art is still needed we should ask not the millions of people who still flock to see it but the tiny percentage of blue-haired authoritarians who think an innocuous play featuring ladies talking about their private parts is as troublesome as a musical version of Mine Kampf.

Sadly, some of the survey respondents had clearly been brainwashed by the far-right, suggesting that the play should not be shelved but “modified or accompanied by a series of workshops addressing the diversity and inclusion it is lacking”. Jesus H.Corbyn. Look, in a perfect world I’d happily edit every offensive play ever written to suit modern audiences, like George Lucozade did with the Star Trek trilogy. But it ain’t gonna happen, people. These transphobes are nothing if not law-savvy, tying up their obnoxious opus in enough legal red tape to stop anyone with a conscience changing so much as a syllable.

“It is important to note that due to copyright laws we are unable to change the script” was the EMU’s terse response, leaving them with no option but to go for the most obvious course of action. And who could blame them? You made your bed, Evie. You don’t want people rewriting your stupid little play, swapping every female character for a 50 year-old bus-driver called Suzy with hands like shovels and a penchant for hiding under piles of knickers in TopShop? Fine, just don’t complain when people decide enough’s enough.

Which is exactly what the EMU WRC did, cutting through the ‘free expression’ nonsense and devising a simple solution to the thorny issue of reactionary plays that offend a miniscule percentage of an already-miniscule percentage of the population: BAN THEM. As soon as writers, directors and actors get the message that their hateful tales will not be seen by anyone they’ll sharp stop making them. And please, don’t bother bringing up the irrelevant fact that most trans folk couldn’t care less about The Vagina Chocolatelogs and have no desire to ban it. Since when have leftists given a flying fuck what the majority think?

Luckily, US colleges have been on the right page with regards to this foul production for some time. Indeed, it was previously re-booted by the American University’s Women’s Institute, who chose to stage a rival production called The Breaking New Ground Monologues. The idea behind this was to “broaden the focus from specifically female genitalia to multiple identities and bodies”, which they essentially achieved by taking a play about vaginas and removing the vaginas.

This intersectional approach was naturally attacked by TERF trolls, who sunk even lower than usual by suggesting that if the multiple identities and bodies were so bothered about representation they could always write a new play instead of butchering an existing one. A ridiculous argument which only exists in some alt-right dream world where the end goal is everyone being able to create what they like rather than what leftists allow them to. Still, as applaud-worthy as the WI’s actions were, they clearly didn’t go far enough. Here’s hoping in future they re-cast any revivals with first-wave transwomen and pay tribute to the early recipients of reconstructive surgery by renaming it The Split Bag Of Mince Monologues.

Because only strident steps like this will allow the theatre to regain its rightful position as the wokiest artform around. Fingers crossed this leads to Fifth Avenue and the East End getting with the program, saying ‘enough’s enough!’ and banning anything that makes more than a dozen Teen Cosmo readers cry.

The first show on my hit list would be Andrew Lloyd Webster’s Kats. Sure, it has great songs and fabulous costumes but it’s always bothered me that it excludes those of us who can’t lick our own arseholes.

Next up would be Confessions Of A Salesman by Norman Mailer. Again, a heartbreaking meditation on guilt and failure but has anyone ever considered how much a play about a working stiff being swallowed by the American Dream alienates people who’ve never done a day’s graft in their lives?

And don’t get me started on bloody Shakespeare. From penning a lighthearted romp about teen suicide to blacking up Orson Olivier for a laugh there’s no place for his ultra-offensive gibberish in 2018. The sooner the so-called Beard and his offensive cross-dressing antics are booted into the same memory hole as Mr Twankie, Mother Hen and Bobby Davros throwing Smarties at feral children the better.

Sadly, there is still work to be done, as only yesterday The Scum – who else? – gleefully reported on a vile ad campaign launched by Bodyshop, purposely created to offend women without vaginas. Taking the form of a grim 3 minute video, it purports to “celebrate the diversity of women’s genitalia”, which it does by ignoring the genitalia of women who don’t have women’s genitalia. Instead it features a parade of privileged females flaunting their femininity, micro-aggressively singing along to Praise Me by Beats International, and rubbing their biological motts in the faces of men who don’t have them.

In a bid to prove that “each vulva is unique” the film brazenly attacks the trans community by giving a rundown of the various different vagina types, forcing the terrified viewer to look at pictures of everything from The Cupcake and The Conch Shell to The Silk Purse and The Papaya. Needless to say neither The Clanger’s Nose nor The Hairy Yorkshire Pudding get a look in.

All of which shows that for all the sterling efforts of the EMU WRC we still have a long way to go. Hopefully the brave steps taken by those courageous US colleges, combined with the outrage generated by Bodypop’s foul video, may go some way to fulfilling the trans-activist community’s dream of full rights, complete acceptance, and world domination. And maybe – just maybe – edge us towards a beautiful, inclusive world in which the word ‘woman’ has been consigned to the dustbin of history: an obscene throwback to less enlightened times, something decent people are afraid to say in polite society, like the N-word or ‘Lord Valderama’.

Stick that in your vagina and smoke it.

Advertisements

Guilty Of Being Right

 

 

MV5BM2VjNjU1MzMtYjU3OS00MWE4LWEyYTItYzczN2Q2N2Y1NjNkXkEyXkFqcGdeQXVyMjUyNDk2ODc@._V1_
James listens in horror as another braindead Brexiter whines about bendy bananas.

By Ben Pensant

There are many rubbish books I’ve never read. Take God Is Gay, in which alcoholic racist Peter Hitchens rants about Islam like a racist alcoholic. Of all the rubbish books I’ve never read GIG is by far the most rubbish. And believe me, I’ve not read a lot. Seriously, if you can name a high-profile pundit who’s not read as many books as me I’m all ears.

Another rubbish book I’ve not read is Sam Harrison’s The End Is Nigh, a hateful attempt by the celebrity atheist to smear Islam as stupid and murderous by describing how stupid and murderous it is. It was so hateful I threw up the second I glanced at the blurb on the back and stopped not reading immediately.

And don’t get me started on Shellfish, Wine And Monkeys, right-wing ruffian Rob Liddle’s attack on liberal sensibilities: the sickest cookbook I’ve ever not read. I dread to think what horrors it inflicted upon racist housewives nationwide, forced at gunpoint to slave over the xenophobic recipes within.

Frankly I don’t now where I find the time to not read all this stuff. But someone has to. And it’ll take more than the sheer volume of rubbish books I’ve not read to stop me not reading them. Luckily, for every rubbish right-wing book to not read there are a ton of awesome left-wing ones. And trust me, I’ve not read ’em all.

But how do I know these left-wing books are awesome? The same reason I know the right-wing ones are rubbish, silly. A glance at the author’s views on Brexit, Trump, and the female penis tells you everything you need to know. Which is why I’m utterly certain that How 2 B Right (In A World Gone To Shight) by gossip columnist-turned-voice of Waitrose Britain James O’Brian is the most awesome book I won’t read this year.

Check out the gushing praise on the book’s jacket from a diverse range of white, Oxo-educated media personalities who look and sound exactly like James. Just picturing Richard Heron and him out of Creepshow nodding and guffawing while James lectures people less middle-class than him tells me this could well be the bestest book I’ve ever not read.

And the title couldn’t be more apt. For James is right about everything. Which is why instead of reading H2BR I just need to gaze adoringly at his picture on the cover: sweating and exasperated after ‘debating’ yet another uneducated dipshit so dim you’d think someone was screening calls to make James look even more right by only letting through people who don’t know their arse from their elbow. Because an intellectual giant like James doesn’t need to engage with people who might know more than him. That’s how to be right. And to see how utterly correct he always is look no further than his principled, passionate, and baldly opportunistic response to the killing of Arkadiusz Jozwik.

Jossstick was the Polish immigrant who died during a racist attack in Hartlepool, an early victim of the hate crime wave that flooded Britain as a result of 17 million cretins voting to leave the EU. Despite scant details of the murder being made initially available, a host of Remain campaigners, Labour politicians and left-wing commentators immediately pinned the blame on The Scum, Neville Farage, and everyone who put a cross in the wrong box two months earlier.

Best of the bunch was James, who issued a heartfelt 15-minute monologue on his NBC show, highlighting a Bill Graham-esque knack for getting into the heads of criminals. Despite knowing very little about the crime or the killer, James utilised his skill for being right about everything to magically ascertain the killer’s beliefs, motivations, hair colour and shoesize . While the police dithered, expressing faux concern that the media were framing it as a hate crime, James showed no such reluctance and ploughed on in the name of rightness.

“You would have hoped that the kind of hate and vitriol they employed in the campaign had disappeared. But it hasn’t, it hasn’t gone anywhere” he lamented, bemoaning the clear equivalence between a few dodgy billboards and a man being punched to death.

“We’re being turned against each other on a scale not seen since the 1950s” he warned, with all the self-awareness you’d expect from a man who’s spent two years telling millions of people how stupid and racist they are.

“Does a politician like Farage know that talking about people speaking ‘foreign’ on trains leads inexorably to young people thinking they have the right to object to people speaking foreign in public?” he enquired, alerting listeners to that subculture of teenagers who take their cues on how to behave from ridiculous middle-aged gobshites rather than irritating pop stars and YouTube vloggers.

He was ably backed up by the media, with over 300 news pieces published following the killing pinning the blame on a politician most teenagers haven’t heard of and the 17 million nuggets he conned into voting Leave. Which is roughly 280 more than were printed after last year’s trial when it turned out the killing had bugger all to do with Brexit.

I’ve never felt more proud of the leftist establishment than I did when the full details emerged and everyone who had previously dined on the story – the Guardian, the BBC, David Lamming, Yvonne Cooper – suddenly forgot about it. Naturally James was at the forefront of this mass blackout, stubbornly ignoring the sad truth that the killing was a dumb street fight totally unconnected to Brexit which according to witnesses started after Josimar racially abused a friend of the boy who laid the fatal punch.

Because Mr O’Brian is far too principled to admit he’s wrong. Especially when he is. And a transwoman on a flying cow could see that Joselu only racially abused that teenager because of Brexit’s hate-filled mood music. That’s right, in Broken Britain even the immigrants are turning into vicious bigots. Shameful.

But no explanations were necessary. Because as we know, everything James says is right. Even 15-minute monologues in which everything he says is wrong. Similarly, when roly-poly Labour henchman Tim Watson publicly accused dead Tory Leon Brittas of being a paedophile, James was the first to defend him.

“What the hell do we want our MPs to use their positions for, if not to ensure that allegations of child abuse undertaken by people at the top of the parliamentary ladder are properly investigated?” railed James, deliberately ignoring the fact that when Watson made his speech police had already investigated and dropped the allegations upon realising they were about as robust as Watson’s weight loss regime.

Not that such minor details mattered to James, who along with Watson had become enchanted by ‘Nick’, the well-balanced young man who said Brittas was part of a Westminster paedophile gang who kidnapped, raped and tortured young boys in an Elm Street penthouse dressed as dolphins. He even claimed he’d witnessed creepy Conservative Harley Proctor murder two children, an accusation treated with the utmost seriousness by the Met, ensuring two years of agony, uncertainty, and financial ruin for beastly Proc. (If only he could’ve died with the accusations hanging over him like Brittas did. Maybe next time, Nick.)

Unsurprisingly, the right-wing press refused to believe their beloved Tory establishment might be partial to a bit of VIP kiddy-fiddling, slamming Watson for smearing an ‘innocent’ man. James had no time for such blind devotion to due process, calling The Daily Fail‘s demand that Watson apologise to the Brittas family “ever so slightly sleazy”. And James and Tom sure know how to spot ‘sleazy’, having apparently taken most of their cues from Exaro News, the now defunct truth-seeking website which originally promoted Nick’s story. A story which came to a cruel and premature end when it emerged that everything he said was utter horse-shit.

Needless to say, when the allegations were exposed as the ramblings of a serial fantasist, James shut up shop and pretended the whole thing never happened. Which just shows how right he was. Because much like James’ unswerving belief that Arkadiusz Jossysgiants was killed because of Brexit, his willingness to be taken in by a slander-happy conspiracy blog and their mentally ill poster-boy only adds to his charm.

Because this is what Good People do: locate the moral angle then exploit it for political capital while stuffing those awkward ‘fact’ things into the nearest memory hole. And nobody is more selective with facts than James. Indeed, as someone who regularly condemns fake news and incitement, I’m sure he had an ironic chuckle to himself about the possibility that his dissemination of fake news incited people into believing Brittass, Proctor, and countless other innocent men enjoyed fucking and murdering children.

As James noted last year after the right-wing press ignored unsubstantiated rumours about former PM Ed Heath in favour of persecuting vulnerable Muslim men provoked into raping teenage girls: “Isn’t it odd how so many people who dedicate their lives on social media to Pakistani grooming gangs are on the same side of the argument when it comes to Heath as the people who don’t listen to the victims?”.

Indeed, there’s nothing more odd than several hundred convicted child rapists generating more attention than one dead politician who to date has been found guilty of nothing more than possibly being a gay Tory (the very worst kind).

“What could possibly be a reason why a brown-skinned person demands derision and disgust, but a white-skinned person accused of identical crimes shouldn’t even be investigated?”.

Good question, James. The logical answer is that they hate brown people and refuse to believe their Tory paymasters could be child molesters. But the right don’t ‘do’ logical. No, these brazen apologists would have us believe the brown-skinned person(s) in question demands derision and disgust because it’s been legally proven they committed thousands of crimes up and down the country. Meanwhile the white-skinned person was let off the hook because the entirely uncorroborated accusations against him came from a deranged lunatic, involved everything from satanism to snuff movies, and were so fantastical and evidence-free that Oliver Stones is rumoured to be making a film about them.

They think we were born yesterday, don’t they? Well we weren’t: we were born today.

Luckily, with Theresa May breaking Brexshitter hearts by striking a deal to leave the EU without actually leaving the EU, James has spent the last few days being even more right than usual. In fact this past week has probably given him enough material to write a dozen new books for me to not read.

First he demanded Brexit mouthpiece Andrew Neal get sacked for calling mad cat lady Carol Cadfael a ‘mad cat lady’, accusing Neal of “compromising his ability to fairly report the most important stories of our time”. Damning words indeed from a man whose reporting of the killing of Arkadiusz Jocasta was about as fair as that time he introduced Muslim reformer Astra Nomani as a Breitbart writer despite having never penned a single syllable for them.

Even better was the tearful 52%-er who melted Remainer hearts by telling James how sorry he was for voting Leave. James assured the mysterious ‘Bill’ he shouldn’t just blame himself but also the evil politicians who brainwashed him into doing their bidding, showing once again the warmth, respect, and shameless condescension Islington’s number one shock jock regularly extends to stupid people he disagrees with. It’s a measure of James’ empathy that a genuinely remorseful Brexiter felt the best person to confess his genuine Brexit remorse to was a man who wanks himself silly thinking about patronising genuinely remorseful Brexiters.

Because being right is what James does, whether it’s comparing adult Grid Girls to 10-year-old chimney sweeps, raging at the inhumanity of Trump’s separation policy despite saying bugger all when it was going on under Obama, or shouting at women who dare to suggest they’d rather their teenage daughters didn’t have to share a changing room with middle-aged men stuffing their hairy nutsacks into ill-fitting tights.

It’s a relief to know someone like James O’Brian is dealing with this stuff so we don’t have to. Who knows how he puts up with it but thank Allah he does. As the great man himself said in the startling book (which I intend to not read just as soon as I’ve not read that Owain Jones one with the bowler hat on the front) : “I love my work. But the bullshit takes its toll”

It certainly does, James. It certainly does.

 

 

The Reel Thing: First Mxn

 

Jimmy-Nail-in-Morons-from-Outer-Space-Premium-Photograph-and-Poster-1009703__77913.1432421520.220.290
Dan Gosling takes a small leap for man.

By Ben Pensant

No-one loves a bit of fantasy more than me. My first childhood crush was Jennifer Connery in Legend. I watched the Lord Of The Flies quadrilogy six times before it dawned in me the entire cast were whiter than Marvin’s ghost. And as the small group of people who bothered to read my seminal 2017 column A Play For Today know, I was such a huge fan of George RR Hartley’s A Song Of Tits & Dragons I adapted the first chapter into an experimental audio installation which shat all over the rubbish TV show.

But some flights of fantasy go too far. And new Lance Armstrong biopic First Mxn is the most flighty, fantastical flight of fantasy to hit the cinema since Stephen Soderberg convinced audiences that not only did Auschwitz exist but after it was liberated David Attenborough turned it into a holiday camp full of giant lizards. One suspects this dangerous piece of propaganda will fit in snugly on top of the wardrobe in the Oval office where Donald Trump hides his Chuck Morris and Howdy Doody videos.

But its greatest sin isn’t the brazenly nativist chest-beating, the most egregious example of which – the planting of the Confederate flag – was mercifully cut at the eleventh hour, cleverly averting the Twitter backlash which would’ve rightly greeted such rampant jingoism. (Though it’s frankly staggering that no-one thought to keep the scene but simply replace that vile symbol of bigotry with the Palestinian tricolor.) No, its worst crime is the way it recreates the moon landing in painstaking detail as if it really happened. I bet Stanley Kubichek’s spinning in his grave, wherever that is. (Area 54, probably.)

To be honest, the alarm bells were ringing long before I stole a tenner from my mam’s purse to buy a ticket and a packet of Fruity Bon Bons. Or should I say ‘three packets’ as I trebled my bullet allowance by sneaking in without paying while a distracted usher explained the plot to some dispshit with a tartan shopping trolley who thought he was going to see an ’80s caveman romp with Pauly Short rather than a cynical piece of military propaganda. Winning.

In fact, the nakedly misogynist title alone had me bristling. Still, at least the first person to pretend to set foot on the moon wasn’t a menstruater: in trans-inclusive 2018 there’s no excuse for a film called First W***n. To be honest, there’s no excuse for one called First Man either, which is why I’ve referred to it above using the commonly accepted intxrsxctixnxl varixtixn. We get it, Armstrong was male. Put his head on stamp if you must. But considering he never actually went to the moon – if he existed at all – I see no reason why we should pander to the TERF lobby by pretending this spaceperson was a cis when for all we know he was hiding two imaginary tits and a fanny under his helmet.

Needless to say, Kubichek and the terrified film crew who faked the original moon landing in Antarctica don’t get a look-in, erased from history by sinister puppet master Damien Chappelle. Chappelle, of course, is the privileged Lululand ‘auteur’ who literally tried to steal the best picture Oscar from glorious homo-ethnic tear-jerker Moonlight Mile. He’s got form. So it’s no surprise to see him playing the white man once again.

And boy does he go to town, deploying every trick in the book to appeal to brain-dead Trumpers who think the moon is made of cheese when anyone who’s read a book knows it’s made of pixels. The shallowness of the whole sorry production can be seen in the way he expects us to feel sorry for Armstrong just because his young daughter carks it. Yes, that’s right, a white male director demands we sympathise with a father who lost his toddler to leukemia 60 years ago when as we speak ICE-T agents are kidnapping Mexican infants in their sleep and drop-kicking them over The Wall for YouTube lolz. Unbelievable.

Not only that, he cynically tugs at the heartstrings by repeatedly reminding us how many of Armstrong’s fellow pretend cosmotrons perished while learning how to fly pretend spaceships to visit a pretend lump of chalk in the pretend sky. Diddums. Let’s just ignore the fact that anyone with an internet connection knows full well they were torn from their families and locked up in the same secret government location that houses Bigfoot, United 94, Kennedy’s brain and that alien who killed PJ and Duncan.

But the worst bit is Chappelle’s depiction of the landing itself, and not just because it pushes the ludicrous notion that Armstrong suddenly developed the power to bounce around on a distant planet without falling off it. Shamefully, it also ignores the well-documented fact that Armstrong’s oblivious co-pilot Buzz Aldridge spent most of his visit sitting in the rocket crying because Mr Giant Step told him there was a monster sleeping in the Lake of Tranquility who would eat them up if they made too much noise playing cricket. ‘Balls bigger than King Kong’ my arse. Poor Buzz. They may have only been on an old set borrowed from 2000AD: A Jazz Odyssey but either way, that must have fucking burnt.

Still, one thing Chappelle gets spot-on is his painstakingly accurate staging of Armstrong’s first steps. And sure enough, the scene looks every bit as fake as the one broadcast to the world in 1979, when sleight of hand and state-of-the-art special effects conned millions into believing they were watching someone walking on the moon rather than a bouncy castle under a bedsheet.

Don’t believe me? Have a look at this infamous picture of Armstrong taking his iconic stroll on the gravity-defying craggy rock:

851512-resize-56a48d825f9b58b7d0d7828a

Impressive, huh? Looks pretty real, doesn’t it? Now take a peak at what the original photo looks like minus the CGI and digital trickery added in post-production:

spoon

And this was 60 years ago: Christ knows what they could pull off today. Though perhaps Bibi and Donald should have stumped up an extra few quid to breathe digital life into a fleet of Star Trek figures, as the bloke above has more life in his arms than the predictably wooden cast. Token wife Claire Fox tries her best, spending the whole film ironing and looking scared, but it’s obvious she’s merely counting down the days until the shoot is over and she can be reunited with her kidnapped family hanging on meat-hooks in Hangar 17.

The repercussions of breaking her contract were clearly too dreadful to contemplate, and this must have bugged Dan Gosling too, who somehow manages to imbue his Armstrong with both deep arrogance and shifty awkwardness, like a Wall Street banker struggling to hold in a particularly gravelly shit.

The supporting players do what they can with the pie-in-the-sky subject matter, though the combined talents of the RAC would struggle to sell material this cartoonish. Still, as poor as they were at least they did a better job than the bumbling am-dram bell-ends who mugged and bobbed around like inflatable sex dolls back in ’68.

Or even worse, those charlatans ‘up’ in the International Space Wagon pathetically trying to convince us they’re hovering a million of miles above earth by performing lame tricks with floating pencils, when anyone familiar with the work of Jackie Ventura knows fine well they’re in a zero gravity caravan on a beach in Telly Viv.

Still, despite the movie’s inherent ridiculousness, I strongly recommend it as a damning indictment of the insane lengths went to by the Wrathchilds and their military industrial complex cronies to preserve the neo-con narrative. Luckily, the film has been on general release for almost a month now so you should be free to see it in a Zionist-free environment. I myself waited several weeks just to be completely sure that the population of Gateshead had already been.

But please, approach with caution. Don’t forget, this movie depicts what was until 9/11 Israel’s crowning glory, so you can imagine their minions wanting to repeatedly bask in how successfully they pulled the wool over the world’s ears. I’m pretty sure I got away with it but you can never be certain. In fact, I’m fairly convinced there was one at my screening hiding in the back row. That hotdog bun looked suspiciously like a bagel.

And if I’m not mistaken I heard a distinctly Hebrew-sounding guffaw during the sequence when an excited Buzz (below) is eventually allowed to exit the spaceship to play soccerball with Armstrong, only to find himself alone while his supposed friend sneaks off to fashion some souvenir ‘moon rocks’ from the lump of petrified wood that just happens to be hidden under a bush in the Apollo Creed Basin.

We are not alone…

hqdefault
In space, no-one can hear you cry.

 

United By Hate

wilderpryor_big
Stevie Wonder and Paul McCartney find common ground while shooting the seminal ‘Ebony and Avery’ video

By Ben Pensant

Perhaps it’s the unusually warm weather. It could be my upcoming date with a hot female plumber called Barry. Or maybe it’s the jar of Ambien I’ve been ploughing through like a bumper bag of Skittles. Whatever the reason, recently I’ve become consumed with an uncontrollable urge to…find the good in people. And yes, that includes right-wing people too.

Okay, technically they aren’t people. They’re barely animals. To be honest I’ve as much chance of finding decency in their souls as Rachael-Not-John Swinton has of finding a job that doesn’t interfere with her daily routine of lying about Jews and asking strangers to help buy her son a new Xbox.

But as The Beatles sang in 1972, ‘We all know that people are the same wherever we go/There is good and bad in everyone’. And what separates the left from the right is our willingness to treat them with respect. Even if they are evil fascist bastards. So I decided to play the bigger man and reshape my approach to discourse by focusing on what unites us. Two hours in and it was going terrible, as I swiftly learned that every right-winger on the telly or the internet is so reprehensible it’s impossible to view them as anything other than awkward, unflushable turds.

I was all set to give up and go back to spending my afternoons sending death threats to Esther McVile when something glorious happened: a magical event which reignited my desire to focus on the things we have in common rather than the stuff that makes us better than them. Yep, I’m talking about the minor kerfuffle that occurred in Pittsburgh, Transylvania the weekend before last. Because nothing gets the left and right singing from the same hymn-sheet like politically charged mass murder.

Which isn’t to say we hit the same notes. Far from it: progressives spent the week after the synagogue massacre cooing in harmony like a choir of classically trained angels, while conservatives grunted and growled with all the grace of a fat pitbull wet-farting the theme tune to Love My Neighbour. But while the arguments themselves differed, when it comes to innocent people being shot dead there’s one basic truth upon which Us and Them are in complete agreement: the person who pulled the trigger is NEVER to blame.

Once that’s established the details can be tailored to suit. So the left blamed Trump and Gab, the right blamed migrants and CNN, and we both blamed Israel and The Jews. Because as we know, there is NO despicable act on earth that can’t be linked to Benjamin Netanyahoo. And as anyone who’s spent five minutes reading Buzzkill or Squeakbox is well aware, ALL acts of terrorism can be traced back to the Kingdom of Apartheid. Especially when the victims are Jews.

Which is why the aftermath of Pittsburgh saw the principled elements of the left agreeing with the mentalist elements of the right that the shooting had less to do with the shooter than the religion of the people who got shot. Across the internet the various motives of the killer were quickly established by scores of amateur sleuths who apparently made the selfless choice to forego careers as FBI profilers in favour of spending 12 hours a day winning arguments by tweeting hilarious memes of Jennifer Laurence rolling her eyes.

So the cries of “Trump incited this!’ and “Ban right-wing social media!” were countered with “Illegal immigrants!” and “What about Farrakhan?!”. Now clearly the first two comments make perfect sense while the other two are horse-shit. But at least they’re not blaming the killer, unlike those weird libertarians obsessed with ‘personal responsibility’ who crazily believe humans are capable of making their own choices without the influence of an orange-haired douchebag with a mouth like a balloon knot.

Luckily, while the ‘too many guns!’ verses ‘not enough guns!’ debate bored everyone to tears, two unlikely allies got down to brass tacks and courageously blamed the one group who were undeniably responsible: the people who got killed. Dame Jenny Tongue got in there first, posting this pertinent question while the eleven corpses were still twitching:

“Absolutely appalling and despicable act but does it ever occur to Bibi and the present Israeli government that its actions against Palestinians may be reigniting antisemitism?”

Bravo, Baroness. In one sentence she tapped in to the truth the ZMSM don’t want you to hear. And Jenny’s comment – coming after it had been confirmed the killer was a white supremacist – also shone important light on that troubling vein of far-right bigots who commit murder and risk the death penalty because they care so much about brown-skinned Arabs.

But for further proof that Pittsburgh would never have happened if it weren’t for Israel Jewry or something, look no further than the response of evil troll Katie Hopkirk. KH, of course, is 100% wrong 99% of the time. But even the very worst people occasionally get it right when all evidence points to the hand of Telly Viv:

“Watching pin-the-blame on the donkey after Pittsburgh synagogue: Gab. Trump. White supremacists. The Media. Muslims. Look to the Chief Rabbi and his support for mass migration across the Med. There you will find your truths”

Naturally there is much wrong here, not least the suggestion that Trump, Gab, white supremacists and the (right-wing) media might not be to blame. And while it’s unclear which Rabbi she was referring to, her implication that this mystery cleric is responsible because of his support for migration is completely off: anyone with half a brain knows the Rabbi is responsible because he’s Jewish.

But while Katie fired the wrong arrows she sure as hell hit the right target. And targets are all that matters in this blametastic corner of the left, a place where a professional clickbait gobshite whose entire career is based on deliberately saying stuff to upset Guardian-readers is just as welcome as an ageing bedsit militant who combines a love of socialism with a seat in the House of Lords and a meaningless title that makes her sound like a buxom villain from Dick Whittington.

But this is merely the most recent example of left and right coming together to blame a common enemy for something that had fuck all to do with them. And it doesn’t always have to be the Jews. Take the recent case of the racist who abused an elderly black passenger on an aeroplane. The professionally outraged barely had time to boycott Ryanjet before left and right came together to pinpoint the true perpetrator: the government.

Again, the right’s angle couldn’t have been more fuckwitted but no matter: as long as they’re putting the responsibility for bad behaviour on anyone but the person doing it they’re serving a purpose. So while we blamed the government’s hostile immigration policies and anti-immigrant rhetoric for emboldening the Ryanjet racist, the rightists blamed the government’s lax immigration policies and pro-immigrant rhetoric for turning him into a massive cunt. Again, they couldn’t have got it more wrong if they’d claimed the Tories forced his hand by giving a top job to a Pakistani slaphead but who cares? As long as Theresa May gets it in the neck and the person responsible is absolved it’s all gravy.

Predictably, the massive cunt was afforded airtime on Richard & Judy to deny he is a racist, though thankfully he refrained from pleading: ‘It wasn’t my fault, the Tories made me do it!’. Which was fortunate as we would’ve had no choice but to agree with him thus making ourselves look like total bell-ends. Phew.

Still, once again it was nice to know the left and right were sharing the same airspace: that tiny, upside-down world where 70-year-old men need the government’s permission to be nasty bigots and concern about open borders justifies refusing to sit next to black people on cut-price airlines. And my new outlook looks set gain even more traction with yesterday’s exciting news that a gang of working-class morons burnt an effigy of Granville Tower on Halloween.

So far the left have adopted a straightforward approach: it’s a hate crime, the perpetrators must be prosecuted, and if circulating the video all over the internet results in their windows being smashed or kids getting beaten up at school then tough titty. At the very least they and everyone present should lose their jobs and if you disagree you’re clearly a racist who thinks people burning to death is funny and deserve to be arrested too.

The right went for the predictable line that no crime was committed, what people do in their garden is up to them, and arresting people for being offensive is far more offensive than making a sick joke about a burning building. Add sly references to London’s knife crime epidemic and how hunting down a bunch of pricks for having a naughty bonfire probably isn’t the best use of police resources and it’s as reassuringly wrong as you’d expect.

But look beyond the hyperbole and you’ll see the real narrative. Indeed, as we speak Twitter is awash with people correctly putting the effigy stunt down to Brexit and the wave of hate crime it unleashed; a wave of hate crime so hateful, criminal and wavey that while reports have risen convictions have dropped. Which clearly means hate criminals are walking free willy-nilly and is nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that a lot of things being logged as hate crimes are about as hateful as writing ‘bum’ on a lamp-post.

Similarly, soon enough our opposite numbers on the right will incorrectly declare that the effigy-burning only happened because of all those people who swindled hundreds of thousands of pounds intended to relocate Grenfell Tower residents despite never having set foot in the building. They’ll argue that, coupled with disillusion over the government’s handling of illegal immigration, it’s no surprise the palpable anger of these unthinking fools manifested itself in such grotesque fashion. Which is obviously nonsense but at least it’s logical nonsense.

And it highlights the most useful thing about social media righties: they’re easily swayed. Indeed, for every leftist who’s had their brain rinsed by the right’s evil mind games and turned to the dark side (laughably referred to as ‘growing up’) there are more than enough right-wing loons just as susceptible to being mesmerised by the woke-left and becoming fully paid up SJWs. It’s almost as if most political Twitterers don’t have any ideological convictions at all and just like being part of a group that hates another group.

But if we get to them before the Russians there’s hope yet. And as difficult as it is for decent progressives to entertain the idea, the only way to do this is to reach out to them with empathy and tolerance. It’s not that hard – they’re pretty thick.

As a wise little man said, the fight against murderous white supremacists wasn’t won by sitting around singing Kumbaya. But it wasn’t won by marching the streets singing ‘FUCK THE TORIES!’ either, as beautiful as that sentiment is. So fingers crossed I’ll feel the same in a week from now when it’s bastard freezing, the Ambien’s ran out, and I’ve cooled on Barry due to her lack of breasts, shovel-like hands, and insistence on spending our second date in Dorothy Perkins pretending to be mannequins.

In the immortal words of West Country grunge legends Supergrass:

You’ve got to tolerate all the people that you hate…

IWantMyITV

 

000d52e2-870
Next week on ‘Butterflies’: Maxine and her non-binary pals strike a blow for diversity by taking over the girls’ football team.

By Ben Pensant

Despite appearances to the contrary, television drama is the last place you’d look to find turbo-wokeness. Sure, the BBC tries, but even their best efforts are hamstrung by the same deference to the alt-right that sours their news coverage, with its refusal to report that the Leave campaign still aren’t being investigated by the police, and its habit of airbrushing photos of Jeremy Corbyn in cargo shorts to make it look like he’s got a tiny tiddler. (Nice try Maitlis, but I assure you, it’s like a fat toddler’s leg.)

Take recent newspaper series The Press, which on the surface hit all the right buttons: female lead, multicultural cast, and a clear message that the left-wing broadsheet depicted in the show represented everything good about the media while the right-wing tabloid was run by cunts. Indeed, from the bike-riding gay reporter in twat-specs to the Asian female editor and her deaf assistant who talks funny, the fictional liberal publication couldn’t have been more progressive if it came with a free tutorial on how to speak street-jive to brown folk.

Sadly, the Beeb couldn’t resist placating their Westminster paymasters by slowly revealing the paper to be a well-intentioned but chaotic melting pot of empty virtue, struggling to reconcile its decency with the fact that no-one was buying it and its stories were rubbish. As if cruelly firing a brave Jim Pilger-esque foreign correspondent for fabricating stories wasn’t shameful enough, they then had the nerve to suggest that free speech is a principle the liberal left should passionately uphold rather than throw under a big red bus along with due process, democracy and basic biology.

Meanwhile the loathsome editor of the Tory rag was gradually depicted as a flawed human being rather than an evil hate peddler. They even tried to convince us that a black bloke would ever work for a right-wing red-top. Please. Anyone with half a brain knows Peoples Of Colour aren’t even allowed to clean the toilets at publications like The Scum, never mind sit in on editorial meetings with boss whitey or share the same coffee cups as his milky-skinned lackies.

Needless to say, come the climax the writers blew it big time, neglecting to send a warning to the gutter press that their golden age of racist fearmongering will soon come to a Jezza-inflicted end, instead creating a dated but enjoyable potboiler in which story and character were ultimately placed above scoring bland ideological points against the evil empire.

Which sums up everything wrong with modern TV. The BBC can curry favour with decent liberals by forcing ‘straight allies’ to wear badges all they like but any idiot can see this tokenistic sloganeering doesn’t go far enough. You can raise concerns about gay men being ‘the most visible members of the LGBTQandNotU community at the company’ all you like but it’s meaningless until you’re willing to go the extra mile and address heteronormativityness by sacking all the benders. Apart from the ones who wear frocks, obvs.

Which brings us to ITV, who amazingly appear to have a better grasp on the really important issues than their supposedly progressive rival. Yes, that’s right, the channel famous for making ’80s pop stars in red cagoules drink hippo’s fanny batter is now officially more clued up on intersectionality than a corporation whose recruitment policy actively discriminates against whites. Strange times.

But here we are, and it gives me no pleasure to report that the once-great Beeb is floundering, struggling to make sense of its own insignificance. Because with one game-changing drama the channel which makes its money conning brain-dead Brexiters into voting for which Karaoke singer they’d most like to help boost Simon Cadell’s bank balance has left its failing rival for dead.

Yes, I’m talking about Butterflies, the superb transgender-themed mini-series which launched last week and proved that it’s not just Auntie who has the monopoly on bare-faced propaganda. I won’t spoil the surprise for anyone yet to view this heartwarming masterpiece, though frankly if you still haven’t seen it you should turn yourself into your local constabulary immediately and insist they charge you with every hate crime under the sun before you become a TERF and kill someone.

What I will say is that, unlike the BBC’s piss-weak attempts at ideologically-driven drama, it gets eveything right. And by that I mean it stubbornly refuses to entertain ‘nuance’ (urgh), that pernicious value that has infected telly ever since some coke-addled yank decided it was acceptable to make a series about an Italian stereotype in a dressing gown killing other Italian stereotypes without constantly reminding viewers that he was a bad man just in case they didn’t realised robbing people, fucking strippers behind your wife’s back and calling black people ‘moulin rouges’ were shitty things to do.

No, what Butterflies did was eschew any attempt to offer a balanced view of children with gender identity issues, helped in no small part by the involvement of compassionate support network Little Mermaids. It did this by wisely ignoring the fact that the vast majority of boys who show signs of dysphoria either grow out of it or end up being normal lads who aren’t keen on cars and football. Instead, it issued a clear, concise and hysterical warning that if you have a young son who likes wearing dresses and don’t feed her hormone blockers or arrange to have her cock cut off there’s a very good chance she’ll slash her wrists.

Predictably, a whole host of right-wing hatemongers and NHS lickspittles lined up to accuse the show of ‘inflating’ the threat of 11-year-old transgirls committing suicide. Yawn. Watch the show and you’ll see the only thing that’s been inflated is Beth Freil’s lips. Indeed, the casting of Freil provides neat symmetry, as she knows all about struggling with sexuality from her days as a teenage lesbian on Emmerdale. Thankfully, we live in more enlightened times now: she may have overcome her own adolescent trauma and grew up to be a well-balanced same-sexer but imagine how much easier things might have been if she’d had fat Sinbad whispering in her ear and telling her to mutilate her own vagina?

In the meantime let’s hope Butterflies maintains its awesomeness and continues to explore the realities of the trans activist experience. I look forward to the scene in which young Maxine blossoms into a fully-fledged transwoman by going TERF-hunting on Hyde Park, sending death threats to Pam Greer and having a wank in Dorothy Perkins.

And let’s also hope the impact on the public is as positive as it has been on me. Because watching episode one has inspired me to get with the programme and re-evaluate my own gender identity. So thanks to the show I’ve decided to spend the next week identifying as a woman. And as a caring, selfless liberal I intend to share the experience with as many people as possible. So in the spirit of collectivism, if any bi-curious girls aged between 18-19 are reading, I’m more than happy to help you out with your first lesbian experience. And you needn’t be put off by the fact that I lack the requisite lady parts to lick or finger as luckily for you my arsehole identifies as a fanny. So jump on in, girls. I’m here all week.

But that’s the future. And while thanks to this brave programme that looks a lot brighter, when it comes to TV it’s the past that really needs working on. Because as we’ve seen with noble stateside attempts to airbrush history by toppling statues and vandilising Huck Flynn, there’s nothing the modern left love more than castigating the olden days for not being woke as fuck.

As the recent shaming of Bert & Bernie creator Frank Foz demonstrated, it’s kids TV which is the most fertile ground when it comes to warping impressionable minds by redefining the past to appease a handful of lunatics on Twitter.

Foz displayed the kind of white male privilege you’d expect from the director of Dirty Rotten Bastards when he took to the internet to insist that his two most famous Pigeon Street creations were simply ‘roommates’ rather than a gay couple. Yep, Frank’s sense of entitlement is so great he arrogantly believes that because he created, voiced and animated these characters he has the right to decide whether they’re hot for each other or not.

Cue a thoroughly justified avalanche of abuse, which Foz made ten times worse by politely engaging with the outraged psychopaths who spent all day accusing him of being ‘repulsed’ by homosexuality because he wouldn’t pretend every time two felt puppets were put back in the sock drawer they immediately started rimming each other. Still, we should be thankful as his bigotry granted us the glorious sight of a Hollywood legend responsible for some of the most iconic and beloved characters in film and TV history being lectured on his own creations by the biggest no-marks on earth.

Fingers crossed this starts a trend. While the world may have wept at the passing of Rainbow legend Jeffrey Outofrainbow last month, we leftists were lamenting the fact that he never confirmed the gender status of George and Zeppo, the clearly non-binary fuck-buddies designed to teach children it’s perfectly fine to be a girl, it’s sometimes fine to be a boy, and it’s positively beautimous to demand your parents assemble a team of plastic surgeons and Icelandic haberdashers to transform you into a talking brown cushion or a weird hippo-thing in eyeliner that speaks like a 100-year-old nonce.

And there are countless more intersectional thrills to reconfigure in the history of puppet-based kids’ shows. Take the obviously polyannanamorous relationship depicted in Sooty, Soo, and Sweep Too: a glorious sex-positive union between man, dog, bear and wand, which is so downright progressive it almost makes up for the fact that the lead character’s name is massively racist.

Then there’s loveable budgie Orville, whose owner Steve Harris’s death meant his green companion’s religion remained a mystery. At least, it did to idiots. To the rest of us it was blatantly obvious Orville was a practicing Muslim. Can you think of another reason why he wore a nappy like Ghandhi and spent most of his career fantasising about flying like a horse? I’ll wait.

And speaking of our feathered friends, if anyone still hasn’t cottoned on to the fact that hyper-violent ostrich Emu was a die-hard Remainer then god help you: he’s called EmU for fuck’s sake. EMU. (Shall I draw you a picture?). Those of a certain vintage will also recall that Emu’s trainer Rod Huddersfield died while fixing his TV aerial during the 1998 UEFA Cup final. Can you think of anything more pro-European? And even more beautifully, he plunged to his death at half-time while Man City were losing meaning he died without knowing a ghastly English team had won the trophy. Lucky sod.

Who knows how far back we can go in the name of progress but I personally won’t rest until every last copy of Cinderella has been re-written and updated. In this day and age there’s simply no excuse for making the two most unlikeable characters in a kids’ book women with penises then shaming them for having big feet. It has to stop.

Much like transphobia in general. Which is why we should applaud ITV from the heavens for making the world that little bit safer for girly boys, girly men, and blokes in suspenders who’ve had enough of cisgender hags thinking they know everything about womanhood just because they bleed once a month and shit out the odd rugrat.

Take note, BBC. We’re coming for you.

An Open Letter To Graham Glinnerhan

image
The Glinner prepares for a night on the town hunting transwomen.

By Ben Pensant

Dear Graham.

Oh dear, Graham.

What the hell happened?

As Samuel L. Fishbone said to Al Pacino in Jackie Burns before shooting him in the chest: “You used to be beautiful…”. And I don’t just mean beautiful beautiful, like Noam Chomsky in a tutu kicking a Zionist’s shin. I mean really beautiful, like an ethically sourced whale-spunk omelette washed down with a shot of Jezza’s bum-sweat.

Your sterling work in social media activism long ago surpassed your comedy output, not least because it is completely devoid of that dangerous commodity that is like kryptonite to the modern left: humour. Indeed, you should be proud that despite penning some of the warmest comedy in British history you’re also one of the most joyless people on Twitter.

Because as your 672,000 devoted followers know all too well, there’s nothing funny about Internet Glinner. From applauding the shooting of Republican Stephen Scalia by tweeting ‘Chickens. Roost. Etc’ to refusing to condemn antisemitic murderers Hamas on the grounds that it is ‘complex’, your commitment to stony-faced idealism is second to none.

You wowed liberal Twitter with your regular dismissals of Brexit and Trump voters as thick racists. You melted regressive hearts after winning an argument with a student by rummaging around his Facebook page and tweeting a photo of his mother. You made leftists swoon with your support for punching Nazis and belief that anyone who disagreed with you was a Nazi too. And no true progressive will ever forget your principled admiration for the socialist paradise of Venezuela. Well, apart from you that is, as you seem to have developed an acute form of amnesia now that the country has fell off a cliff and its only growth industry is cannibalism.

But your greatest contribution has been your tireless crusade against people saying whatever the hell they like: a particularly selfless venture considering you earn your living saying whatever the hell you like. Your greatest hits include demanding right-wing accounts are banned from Twitter and applauding the Stumpy Monroe libel action against horse-faced racist Katie Hopkirk: a cheeky position to take for someone who has repeatedly accused President Pussy-Grab of raping his wife. Indeed, it’s fortunate your enemies don’t share your enthusiasm for libel bearing in mind the shit you’ve accused them of.

Which brings us to your hysterical celebration of Scottish super villain CUNT Dankula’s conviction for gross offensiveness. As you’ll recall, after initially castigating Dankula for making jokes about Nazis you swiftly realised this didn’t fly as you yourself have written several jokes about Nazis, so instead you adopted the angle favoured by history-loving supply teacher Mike Dooshberry and decided Dankula was an actual National Socialist. Gotcha!

The Doosh, of course, is the mega-brained internet sensation who never lets his love of regressive left activism get in the way of his lucrative career as a dinner lady. You’ve gleefully retweeted him on numerous occasions and it’s not hard to see why. Like you, The Doosh combines a love of libel laws with a penchant for breaking them, regularly saying libellous stuff about people he disagrees with, such as Professor of Lobsters Jordan B. Henderson who he has repeatedly called alt-right despite the fact that he isn’t.

When asked, The Doosh wisely refuses to provide evidence that Peterson is a white supremacist or an ethno-nationalist, which is understandable as there isn’t any. Besides, he doesn’t have time to placate social media sea-lions: he’s too busy doing dead important history stuff and begging people to employ him so he can get paid to do dead important history stuff. And as a man of integrity I’m certain that once the culture war is over he’ll report himself to the police for defamation.

But few could fail to be impressed by the way you and Mike pushed the evidence-free narrative that teaching a dog to do a Hitler salute was not merely a tasteless joke but actually part of a sinister plan to infect gullible minds with Nazism via the powerful medium of cute canines.

And you fought your corner with aplomb during a Twitter spat with ‘liberal’ satirist and supposed Corbynite – yeah, right – Jonathan Cake, ending in entirely unpredictable fashion with you calling the free speech faker a Nazi apologist. Cake immediately set his attack dogs on you, though they were curiously silent when you were vindicated by Dankula’s appearance at the Day For Freedom, proving conclusively to you, Mike and everyone else who really wanted Cunt to be a Nazi that he was indeed a Nazi. In fact your only misstep was not arranging a left-wing Day For Freedom, during which you and The Doosh could have dazzled the crowds with a sensational live debate: who is the coolest censor – Mary Whitecastle or Topper Gore?

Sadly, it seems that may never come to pass. Because all your years of service were recently destroyed in one fell swoop when you outed yourself as a filthy TERF. Or to give you your proper name – because some of us care about using correct labels – a Trans Exclusionary Right-Wing Fuckstick.

I won’t regurgitate the gory details of your transphobic behaviour, but let’s just say if you insist on spreading hate by dead-naming women with penises then don’t act surprised when one of them tweets personal information about your wife. What the hell did you expect? You think just because you’ve deployed these tactics yourself no-one will use them on you? Please. You might be left-wing but you’re still a white male. You’re practically the definition of fair game, no matter how many Trump supporters you call ‘toilets’.

Worst of all, in getting yourself investigated by the police because of something you said you’ve gained the support of the very alt-right fascists you’ve spent years attacking. I guess the only crumb of comfort we can take is that – like Judy Bindel, Bahar Rastafa, Kate Papasmurthwaite and every other brave progressive nicked, no-platformed, or bitten on the arse by their own ideology – it’s a courtesy you wouldn’t dream of extending to them.

And as for this self-pitiful nonsense: “Once people start censoring views they start thinking they can get away with anything”. Christ. This is no different to the hate speech peddled by the likes of Rod Aldi and Julia Hartley Brexit, the type of brutes who think free speech is under threat and political correctness is a bad thing. Listen up, Graham: political correctness hasn’t ‘gone mad’ – it’s perfectly fine as it is. Stuart Lee said so, and he’s not some thick northern comic: he writes for The Observer and went to Cambridge and everything.

As former Doctor Strange star Paul McGann put it on Twitter: “The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was to convince the world that the civic application of human kindness was in fact a vice known as political correctness”. Well said. I for one still marvel at the human kindness displayed by those councils who ignored child abuse because they didn’t want to be accused of racism.

But you were the last famous person off the telly I expected to fall for the alt-right lie that people aren’t free to say what they like. (Despite the fact that they do, everywhere, all the time. Apart from in Saudi Arabia, obvs, but you can blame the West for that). Nobody is being stopped from saying stuff: they’re just being punished afterwards for saying it. Is that so hard to grasp?

So no-one stopped Durham student Angelos Sofocleous writing ‘women don’t have penises’. They simply sacked him for it.

No-one stopped teenager Chelsea Russell posting the lyrics to a Snoopy Dogg song on Instagram. They simply charged her with a hate crime and gave her a community order.

No-one stopped Professor Ned Lebow making a lame joke about lingeries in an elevator. They simply reported him and ordered him to apologise.

No-one stopped the Human Rights Campaign Foundation’s Mary Beth Maxwell using the word ‘n****r’ when describing a racist incident that involved someone saying the word ‘nigger’. They simply suspended her and forced her to resign.

No-one stopped student Jonaya English writing that the perpetrators of most terrorist attacks were Muslims. They simply reported her to a local bobby who sent her a friendly email threatening to get her kicked out of Uni.

No-one stopped a Metropolitian Police detective superintendent from using the phrase ‘whiter than white’ during a briefing. They simply lodged a complaint and launched an internal investigation for gross misconduct.

No-one stopped Katie Hopkirk tweeting that we needed a ‘final solution’ to Jihadism after a terrorist attack. They simply accused her of being antisemitic and successfully campaigned to get her fired.

No-one stopped foul Tory Toby Jones making jokes about tits and writing a snooty article thirty years ago. They simply caused such uproar that he was left with no choice but to resign from a job he hadn’t even started yet.

No-one stopped Kevin Mackenzie comparing Chelsea Rovers striker Ross Barker to an orangutan. They simply generated enough outrage to get him fired for racism, despite the fact that neither McKenzie nor most football fans had a clue Barker had Nigerian grandparents.

No-one stopped Roxanne Barr saying Valerie Whatserface looked like a character from Monkey Planet. They simply pretended they knew Valerie was mixed-race and pressured CBS to cancel Barr’s sitcom.

No-one stopped Mike Duplass saying sinister Republican Ben Shakiri was a nice guy. They simply shamed him on social media until he apologised, deleted the tweet and assured everyone he actually thinks Ben’s a knob.

No-one stopped James Gunn making dumb jokes about paedophiles. They simply dug them up, accused him of being a child abuser, and got him fired from Galaxy Quest 2: a rare instance of the mob getting it completely wrong and a shameless example of the right using our tactics against us, like they did when Cathy Griffiths made a joke about cutting Trump’s knackers off.

And no-one – repeat no-one – stopped you writing transphobic hate on Twitter. They simply tweeted your wife’s address, reported you to the police, and caused you to receive a harassment warning. In case you hadn’t noticed, Graham, this is what the left do. You’ve been on board with these tactics for years so why the sudden change of heart?

 

Sadly, it’s become increasingly hard to work out what goes on in that huge head of yours. Maybe this whole episode will make you repent and vow to Do Better, like when you publicly agreed with JK Rowlands about how wrong it is to call female politicians gendered insults on the internet despite having recently called Theresa May a cunt.

Back then your “what the hell was I thinking!” response was welcome, despite the fact it was completely uneccessary as every good leftist knows you can call Tories whatever the hell you like. But your intersectional heart was clearly in the right place, as it was when you overcompensated a few weeks later by attacking someone as a vile sexist for calling a woman ‘shrill’. This time, however, I fear you may not be able to bounce back. As I wrote in my recent review of BlcKKKlnsmn, we’ve already lost African-American auteur Mike Lee to the far-right – it’s not hard to imagine a known transphobe succumbing to their seductive charms too.

So it appears we’ve reached the end of the line. It’s been a blast but you’ve let us down more than a new series of The Welshes or Count Arthur Mullard ever could. The only possible way of clawing it back would be to issue a full apology, promise never to speak out of turn again, and pledge to cut off your own genitals in solidarity with the zisterhood.

The balls are in your court.

Yours,

The human race.

 

 

The Reel Thing: BlcKKKlnsmn

 

14790482471851
Ron Shuttleworth tells the Klan where they can stick their white hood.

By Ben Pensant

I’ve had many disappointing cinema visits: My mam completely ruined Disney classic A Lion’s Tale by buying me salty popcorn instead of sweet. Paddington and the Honey Pot was thoroughly marred when our furry hero got stuck in a window and I realised he wasn’t a real bear because he didn’t have a hole in his bum. And most heinously, I was ejected from a birthday trip to see Revenge of the Jedi as Princess Lyla mooched around Shabba’s yacht in gold knickers after a tell-tale in legwarmers reported me to an usher because my “willy was sticking up like a shuttle”. (For the record, Katie, it was actually a packet of Toffos but thanks for destroying my 21st all the same, snitch.)

But none were as soul-destroying as my recent outing to see Mike Lee’s Bla***lansman, a film which I expected to love. Indeed, from incendiary debut Boyz In Da Hood to riveting biopic Martin X, Lee is the director of choice for people who love to appear woke but struggle to name three of his movies. This was set to be my most joyous cinema trip of 2018, and not just because I sneaked in without paying by distracting the cashier at my local arthouse with a fake report of a fat TERF hogging the cubicle in the ladies’ and forcing a bearded woman to crap in the Tampax bin. (A trans-exclusionary invention designed to offend men without fannies. Congratulations, Tyneside Cinema, you just lost another non-paying customer.)

I even waited until the film had been out for a month to give People of Colour first dibs. The north-east may not boast the largest black community but I’d never forgive my privileged white self for jumping the queue ahead of Newcastle Athletic’s Christian Katsu or the slaphead out of The Lightning Family.

Sadly, this virtuous effort was completely in vain. Because despite being showered with praise from people who would’ve voted Obama for a third term if they could, the movie is a disaster. And as someone whose most favouritest film EVER was January’s DC smash Black Panda, it gives me no pleasure to report that Lee has made a movie tacitly supporting the very white supremacy he claims to be attacking. It’s no wonder his mother Rusty wants nowt to do with him.

Because the second the KKK appear the movie loses all credibility, their entire presence a problematic rain-cloud which never clears. See, it’s one thing to mock the white-hooded racists who terrorised the south for centuries; it’s quite another to promote the Tory smear that their leader was once harmless Corbynite Duke Davis.

Indeed, Lee’s decision to depict principled Duke as a racist is the most egregious cinematic lie since Stephen Soderbergh portrayed the 1962 Munich bombers as Arab terrorists rather than Jews in fake beards and sandals.

Needless to say, much like the right-wing press misrepresent Hamas as antisemites just because of their fondness for killing Jews, so Lee accuses one of Jezza’s most famous US supporter of forming the Knights of the Klu Klux Klan in the ’70s based on nothing more than the fact that he founded the Knights of the Klu Klux Klan in the ’70s.

Lee joining The Daily Fail in painting Corbyn supporters as extremists is sickening but sadly unsurprising; the alarm bells start ringing in the opening scene in which a ranting bigot records a racist infomercial and issues dire warnings about ‘Jewish Supreme Court puppets’. All good and well but something’s off: the part is played by handsome Friday Night Live star Mike Baldwin. Who, in case you hadn’t noticed, is as white as milk. Yes, that’s right – Lee invented a fictional prejudiced bigot then gave the role to a white actor instead of doing the decent thing and asking Lewis Farrakhan to play himself. When even high-profile progressives like Lee are giving rich black men’s job to rich white men you know we’re in trouble. And it’s not like he would have had to look far to find a high-profile black racist or antisemite – Anita Franklin’s funeral was teeming with them:

DmA4VY9W4AEmNQP
So a racist and a crook walk into a bar and bump into two fanny-rats…

Tragically, these aren’t Lee’s only transgressions. Because as well as smearing Duke the film is ram-packed with white people using the N-word. Out loud. That’s right, Lee has decided it’s now acceptable for caucasians to repeat a term with their mouths that they shouldn’t even be allowed to think. Scene after scene, chalky thespians are granted permission to get their white freak-on saying a word that is clearly on their lips 24/7. And all so a 60-year-old filmmaker can put an apple on the desks of his white paymasters by giving his cast the freedom to unleash their inner Hitler.

Well, two can play at that game. Next time a worried black liberal tells me he wants to see your new movie but is concerned that it features loads of N-words I will simply reply: “Actually, you’re mistaken: it features loads of ‘niggers'”. I’m sure they’ll welcome such refreshing honesty. ‘Cos apparently that’s okay now. Context, amirite? How dare I expect a tiny bit of speech-policing from America’s leading black auteur. In future I’ll stick to pulling myself off over Chris Tarantino flicks.

Still, we can learn much from Lee’s pathological desire to let white people say the one word they’re not allowed to. (Apart from ‘cunt’, ‘fag’ and ‘retard’ but no-one’s allowed to say those except for cunts, fags and retards.) Just as we can learn much from BlAcKkLaNsMaN’s tone-deaf depiction of the police as generally decent people instead of racist death squads prowling the streets looking for unarmed black men to hunt down and execute.

That only ONE cop in the movie is racist just shows Lee’s willingness to sacrifice realism in order to pacify whitey. His plan backfires however, as in doing so he inadvertently highlights the dangers of radicalisation. Not from the Klan, you understand. And certainly not from the black power group protagonist Ron Shuttleworth infiltrates, who couldn’t be more wholesome if they spent the whole film baking fairycakes. No, the real radicalisation occurs when Ron’s afro is turned by the power of the badge, shamefully stepping out of his lane to persecute his own community like a slave allowed in the big house for Easter.

Needless to say, the other black characters are given short shrift throughout, with only Hollywood veteran Sidney Poitier registering as some old bloke who relays a harrowing tale of a brutal lynching, clearly added as an afterthought to keep Oprah Wimpy happy while Lee was busy swooning over the immaculate blue uniforms. As for the sisters, Ron’s love interest is so underwritten she might as well be an extra. Indeed, as the camera pulls away every time she’s about to say something interesting it becomes clear she was only shoehorned in so Lee’s good friend Al De Niro could have a hot black chick to leer over at the premiere.

But none of this should surprise us. Lee has a long history of selling out minorities, from making films with white leads such as I Am Sam and The 25th Protocol to erroneously implying Malcom K was killed by the Nation Of Islam just because he was. And to get the measure of this charlatan one only has to consider his bootlicking GMTV appearance last month, when he desperately tried to curry favour with nationalist Brexiteers by doing the interview dressed as Reg Butler out of Carry On The Buses:

 

DlWfTCVW4AAqG0H
‘I’ll get you, Blakey! You ruddy racist!’

Still, at least Lee pulls it back at the end. Sort of. The film’s (anti) climax sees Ron forced to rely on his white colleagues – qu’il surprise – to foil a terrorist attack and punish the racist cop who harassed his girlfriend. Lee clearly realised this was about as acceptable to modern progressives as a transwoman played by Scarlett Johandjob, so cleverly follows it with footage of last summer’s notorious Unite The Whites Tonight, Right! march in Charlottesfield to remind the audience the far right are rising despite having spent the last two hours depicting them as a tiny fringe of thick-as-shit cretins who can’t even plant a bomb without blowing themselves up. But that was then: white supremacists are a far more dangerous proposition now than fifty years ago, even if there are considerably less of them.

Wisely, despite being attached to a film about extremists in masks, the footage ignores the extremists in masks in Charlottesfield that fateful day. Because as everyone knows, it was the other fascist pricks who ploughed a car into the crowd killing an innocent woman therefore Antifa are the good guys. Even when they invade college talks, assault female academics, attack innocent people with bike chains and generally behave as illiberally as their cunty counterparts. Indeed, it shows how fundamentally decent Antifa are that the nicest thing anyone ever says about them is “yeah well, at least they didn’t run anyone over!”

But overall it’s best to turn a blind eye to Antifa’s charming ‘peace-through-hitting people’ tactics. Which is exactly what Lee does in this bravura sequence, achieving the double whammy of airbrushing the far-left’s role in the violence and inflating the threat posed by the far-right: a threat so enormous that the recent Charlottesfield anniversary march organised by white nationalist ringleader Frank Spencer attracted a crowd of around thirty. (Presumably the rest of the alt-right were at home washing their crew-cuts after getting grounded for writing ‘BERNIE SUCKS BLACK DICK’ in spunk on their mam’s bathroom mirror.)

Thankfully, the identity politics-obsessed lunatics of the hard right have a far less cosy relationship with the media than the identity politics-obsessed lunatics of the hard left. Indeed, apart from pie-faced anarchist Steve Banner’s cynical dog-whistles and cack-handed dumb statements about ‘fine people on all sides’ from President Pussy-Grab, there’s barely a media or political figure left with anything remotely favourable to say about white supremacists.

Contrast that with the acres of gushing column inches everyone from The Guardian to Teen Cosmo have devoted to the brave zoys and zirls of Antifa. There’s not much to love in the MSM but we should be grateful that when it comes to deciding which boneheaded authoritarian extremists to support they know what side their soda bread’s organically buttered on.

Sadly, despite the heroics of the final five minutes it’s all too late. Sure, any pop at Trump is welcome, and the way Lee peppers his narrative with sly references to Nazis gaining high office had me nodding along with the four-eyed male feminists behind me as they guffawed loudly just in case anyone thought they hadn’t picked up on the sledgehammer-subtlety. Or at least I did until I remembered these eerily accurate predictions weren’t actually made by soothsayer-like cops in ’60s Colorado but a couple of actors on an LA soundstage last year.

And it’s this unwillingness to time travel in the name of diversity that ultimately scupper’s Lee’s mess of a movie. Let’s hope he learns from this debacle and gets back to doing what he does best: making fun films about black men in glasses, casting himself in his own movies despite having no discernible acting talent, and forcing innocent families to go into hiding after receiving death threats because some dipstick director posted their address on Twitter. That’s the Mike Lee the world needs, not some vanilla hack who smears Corbynites, sucks up to white supremacy and churns out crass love-letters to the same filthy cops who want him dead. In the immortal words of Ice B:

FUCK THA POWER!