Still need proof that right-wingers are stuck in the past? That they’re ageing fossils yearning for simpler, more racist times? Out of touch reactionaries who neither respect nor understand the youth of today, whose freedom and intelligence they resent and fear? If your answer is ‘yes’ then please flush your head down the nearest toilet. But first I suggest you close that book, pick up your iPhone, and read up on the recent online furore over Ben Shapero’s wet fanny. Or rather, his wife’s dry fanny but we’ll come on that – sorry, come to that – later.
Because few things show up conservatives for the dinosaurs they are than their inane, archaic thoughts on modern pop music. Which were offered this week when Nazi Jew Shapero used his shitty radio show to lay into WOC rapper Cardy B’s controversial new single Wet Arsed Pussy. Needless to say, dangerous fogey Ben proudly displayed his right-wing credentials by raging against the track’s x-rated lyrics about love, equality, and gallons of fanny batter. Indeed, Ben’s judgemental whining couldn’t have been more out of touch if he’d whipped his dick out and stuck it in a tub of Benny Jerry’s as a dirty protest against the mega-rich ice cream magnate’s principled support for migrants (as long as they’re not Mexicans). Because as any self-respecting millennial progressive knows all too well, the only people allowed to have puritanical strops about pop singers are leftists.
Yes, not for the first time an evil righty has tried to pass himself off as a Good Person by giving their grubby right-wing ideology a shiny, liberal makeover. We’ve already seen GMTV gobshite and Ben’s old adversary Pierce Morgan virtue-signalling about Covid-18 and blindly supporting BLM despite not having a clue what they stand for. Now we have a far-right Mossad agent deciding he gets to police what female singers write about, when everyone and their Twitter alias knows that’s the job of middle-class feminists without a creative bone in their bodies.
The maddening thing is, everything Shapero said about Cardy B and her obscene new track was correct. WAP features more worrying content than a Daily Heil editorial meeting, not least its title which doubles up as an anti-Italian slur hugely insulting to dagos and greaseballs. As for the video, which features semi-nude Cardy and a female friend wandering around an ostentatious mansion, grinding their ample curves and luscious booties together while rapping about squirting in each other’s faces, trust me when I say it doesn’t get any less problematic after twelve-and-a-quarter viewings.
As for Cardy herself, from working as a stripper to speaking out against ‘cancel culture’, she’s been whoring for the establishment ever since she burst into the scene, selling out her Afro-Carribean brothers and sisters by bigging up warmongering former President Franklin D.Eisenhower and collaborating with toxic white sex-pests Maroon 4. And the least sad about her outdated obsession with promoting heterosexual sex the better.
The problem is, as justified as Ben’s outrage was, it’s not his job to say it: it’s ours. We claimed Mary St.Whitehouse as One Of Ours several years ago, and no amount of right-wing whining about Stormsy’s knife collection can steal her back. Still it’s a shame Ben chose the dark side as he would’ve made a great leftist: he’s prudish, he’s moralistic, he’s utterly cluless about popular culture. He even says ‘p-word’ instead of pussy, describes bullshit as ‘BS’, and is more likely to declare “Gosh darn if that bee-hind ain’t the size of Walton Mountain!” than “Fuck me, that lass in the leopard skin bra’s got a massive arse”.
The difference is, unlike modern leftists Ben doesn’t impose his beliefs on anyone else: he might object to homosexuality on religious grounds but has no desire to imprison gays and is happy for adults to sleep with whoever they like. He also regularly meets, debates, and befriends liberals he disagrees with – such as slaphead strongman-cum-alt-right-adjacent thug Joel Rogan – and has long defended free speech for everyone, not just people he likes. The shifty coward.
Which proves conclusively that Ben’s anti-Cardy rant was all for show, a lame attempt to curry favour with the left so that when Joe Bidet becomes President we don’t tie the Nev Flanders-voiced neo-con to a chair and throw him off Trump Tower. Because if Ben really cared he’d have attacked the song’s blatant transphobia, and pointed out that the phrase ‘wet arsed pussy’ is grossly offensive to transwomen, whose pussies tend to be drier than the Gobo desert.
Luckily, Shapero go what was coming to him after he took to Twitter to expand upon his video. “My only real concern is that the women involved – who apparently need a ‘bucket and a mop’ – get the medical care they require. My doctor wife’s differential diagnosis: bacterial vaginosis, yeast infection, or trichomonis.”
Sure enough the Twitter literalists pounced, and decreed that this unsubtle, not-particularly funny attempt at a joke was actually an admission that his wife’s privates are about as damp as a sunburnt Ryvita. So Ben’s longwinded observation that anyone whose vagina leaks so much it requires domestic cleaning products should probably see a doctor became a huge self-own, casting doubts upon the state of Mrs Shapero’s under-carriage and confirming that it sees about as much action as Boris Johnston’s comb.
Indeed, the tweet delighted sensitive male feminists so much they demonstrated their disgust at macho culture and toxic masculinity by mocking Ben’s sexual prowess and penis size. (Which is understandable, as the ability to sexually satisfy a women is a cornerstone of being a male feminist, whether the woman in question asked to be sexually satisfied or not.) They were bravely backed up by their blue-haired female counterparts, who temporarily suspended their aversion to shaming and sexualising women in order to scold a wife and mother they don’t know for marrying a Republican and spend all day discussing her sapless, neglected snatch.
Of course, none of this washed for a second. Indeed, the idea that a Republican Jewess with a bone-dry fadge would put up with a sexless marriage is ludicrous: as anyone who’s watched Rachel O’Riley and Tracey-Ann Doberman spend the last few years sucking off the Tories knows, these right-wing Zio bitches love the cock.
But that’s by the bi. Whatever the truth of the matter, it was a great day’s work: a self-hating pop star got cut down to size, an alt-right goon was shown up as a charlatan, and hordes of creepy progressives earned a free pass to spend all day speculating about one man’s failure to make his wife’s front-bottom weep like a broken egg.
Job done, point scored, bigotry defeated. I can’t wait to hear what Ben thinks of that self-hating bitch Lana Del Ray’s vulgar poetry collection. Go get her, needle-dick!
Nazis come in all shapes and sizes: Nazi Tories, Nazi Republicans, Nazi Blairites, Nazi Gays, Nazi Blacks, Nazi Muslims. Hell, you even get Nazi Jews these days, though they tend to just call themselves ‘Jews’. Like most Nazis, they’re all united by a hatred of progressivism, a desire to murder leftists, and the fact that none of them are actually Nazis.
But the worst modern Nazis are those ‘FREEDOM!’-screeching whoremasters who pride themselves on doing whatever the hell they like. Yes, I’m talking about Libertarians, who’ve spent the last month losing their shit over the government finally doing the right thing and making face-masks compulsory in shops in order to contain Covid-18, protect the public, and curry favour with journalists who hate them.
For the unininitiated, Libertarians are basically Nazis who don’t like crowds. Their goal is the destruction of the nanny state, which they hope to achieve via democracy, debate, and shaking their fists at Stop signs. As a result they despise rules and regulations and think health and safety legislation should be scrapped, believing hairy-arsed brickies should be made to read the collected works of Ayn Randy instead.
Predictably, being denied a pint for four months left them whining endlessly about their ‘civil rights’ being under threat (yawn), reaching its crescendo with last month’s announcement that if they want to pop to Tesco’s to steal a can of pop and thumb through Fox-Hunting For Dummies they’ll have to debase themselves by covering their faces for a whole two-and-a-half minutes. (Three if the pushy technocrat behind the counter infringes their liberty by demanding they pay for the plastic knives they shoved down their trousers.)
Because nothing gets a Libertarian Nazi’s goat like being told what to do, despite the fact that Libertarian Nazis are exactly the type of people who need to be told what to do. Indeed, it demonstrates the left’s enduring tolerance that even when we’re told what to do by a government we loathe we suck it up, follow their orders, and make sure every fucker in earshot knows about it. And people have the nerve to call us partisan dipshits. Ha.
No such principled kowtowing from Libertarians, whose fierce sense of entitlement is matched only by their burning desire to play on train-tracks and sell fireworks to six-year-olds. Led by the crypto-fascist fake leftists of Spike magazine, they sneakily conceal their Nazism by obsessing over personal freedoms and not being remotely like Nazis. Indeed, if you actually research Libertarianism instead of waiting for OJ Jones to tell you what it is, it’s clear that it’s pretty much the polar opposite of Nazism. Which is why research is inherently problematic and probably makes you a Nazi too. So stop it.
All we need to know is that they think seatbelts are the work of the devil and consider being asked to wear a piece of cloth an act of violence on par with being called ‘pet’ by a northern misogynist or forced to share a bus with a fleet of coffin-dodging Leave voters. These privileged morons should step outside of their alt-right bubble and spend five minutes on Twitter listening to real liberals. Then they’d know what suffering’s all about.
Because believe it or not, there are people who have to cover their faces for a lot longer than the 60 seconds it takes to swagger into a paper-shop, steal a packet of Ringos and spraypaint ‘Pakis out!’ on the counter, like Shaun and Convoy in Made In Britain. So without further ado, here are my Top Five Marginalised Groups Who’ve Been Wearing Masks For Years And Don’t Whinge Half As Much As Bloody Libertarians.
Not actual perverts, like Harvey Wankstain, people who sleep with Tories, or transphobic ‘lesbians’ who refuse to have sex with burly plumbers with their knackers cut off. No, I’m talking about the non-binary counter-culture progressives bravely reclaiming the word ‘pervert’ from dead Tories with oranges in their gobs by dressing up as cats and turning themselves into six-foot Barby Dolls.
Heroes such as child rentboy sensation Desmond Does Dallas or that NSPCCC bloke who got caught wanking at work in fetish gear have been covering their faces in all manner of pantalones and gimp masks for years, yet do they twist their faces about it? Do they ball(gag)s. That they do it all while fizzed-up to the eyeballs on poppers only adds to their bravery.
4. The Antifas
My dear, dear Antifas. Day in day out they hit the streets to face off against Nazis in the boiling cauldron of Portland, Oregano: wielding bike locks, harassing old ladies, and swaggering around town dressed as non-binary ninjas. Yet I’m struggling to remember hearing one of these balaclava-clad soldiers whine that they feel ‘silly’ or complain about a nasty case of chin-chafe. Funny that.
They also put the public first when fighting fascism by observing social distancing as while they assault college lecturers who disagrees with them. Which is doubly impressive when you consider that the group’s entire raison d’etroit is to hang out in large groups and get in people’s faces, as anyone who saw the recent video of a brave Antifa throwing paint at an evil octogenarian while his brave colleague screamed “Put a mask on!” at her knows. It speaks volumes about the Antifas’ open mindedness that they’ll happily follow rules set by a fascist government they hate if it gifts them a chance to pick on a pensioner.
Still, while they’re careful not to get too close to the journalists and pretend-feminists they try to educate by kicking in the head, they won’t think twice about ramming 12″ corona-sodden nightsticks up their enemies’ anuses. Because nothing screams ‘modern left’ like a spot of socially distanced assault and battery. Be warned.
3. Muslim Men
Not all Muslim men, obvs. Those awful ‘moderate’ Muslims who just want a quiet life, have zero interest in the Kaliphate, and wouldn’t be seen dead in a face-covering can get knotted. Never mind masks, these sell-outs don’t even have beards.
No, I’m talking about REAL Muslim men: the crusading masked warriors who do all the work while their spineless Islamic ‘brothers’ sit at home twiddling their turbans. And they don’t just wear masks when popping to Wilko for a new hacksaw: they wear them in the scorching desert heat of theocratic utopias like Ragga, while also grappling with systemic Islamophobia and the knowledge that Julien Clary is still alive.
Yet do they complain? Did John Jihadi ever say “Sorry Mo, I’d love to slice off this infidel marine’s bonce but I’m afraid it’s a bit sticky under this mask”? Did the Saudi’s infamous top executioner Muhammad Saad al-Bishbosh ever tell the crown prince “I hate to be awkward, Bin, but is there any chance I could sit this one out? This cowl has been chafing my nose all day”? Did they heck. These Libertarian pussies should try walking a mile in a jihadist’s sandals. Except they can’t because they probably think footwear is another example of bureaucracy gone mad. Silly me.
2. Muslim Women
Let’s be clear: these girls rock. Not only do they never leave the house without face coverings, the hardcore sisters never leave the house at all unless they’ve got a man in tow to ensure they don’t flash an ankle bracelet and incite a posse of bus-driver into gang-raping them.
Like all truly observant Muslims they wear masks in baking heat, safe in the knowledge that if they remove them for some fresh air they run the risk of a compassionate beating from their husband or that posse of bus-drivers. Consequently it’s common for women in Muslim countries to contend with uncomfortable facial scars sustained the last time they disrespected Alla (PBHU), yet I don’t recall ever hearing any of them moaning about their ‘agency’ being eroded.
They even keep their faces covered when they’re getting executed. If Christopher Hitchens and Brendan O’Bollocks think wearing a mask for five minutes is such a huge imposition I’d love to hear them whining about ‘paternalism’ while getting pelted with rocks.
Sadly, most Muslim ladies don’t wear masks, defying the Kerrang daily by applying lipstick, flaunting their cheekbones, and promoting the imperialist notion that freedom and equality are more important than flying horses and paedo-warlords. Frankly, it’s high time someone told those Iranian hussies throwing their headscarves off with queer abandon that only middle-class Muslims in Islington are allowed to do that.
1. NHS Workers
Is there anything they can’t do? Day after day they’re saving lives, keeping the country safe, and performing hilarious dance routines on Tik-Tak. And thanks to that callous penny-pincher Boris the Beast, they do it while wearing the same sweat-drenched PPPE underpaid hospital cleaners use to scrub cancer-shit off the toilet walls. (Thank fuck all the hospitals are empty.)
And do they complain? Do they knackers. They simply get on with it, fighting the virus with all their might, ignoring such trivial concerns as heart transplants and hip replacements to spend every second crushing a virus that most people won’t contract. And still they remain unsung heroes, despite the fact that they’re constantly being told how awesome they are and until recently had the whole country banging saucepans in a weekly nationwide circle-jerk. That they do all this while the PM whose fat arse they’re saving plots to murder them is impressive enough, but to do it while wearing a mask for a lot longer than it takes James Delingpool to smugly wander around Waitrose like a posh, four-eyed Rosie Parks takes balls of steel.
Angels, in a word: truly the best of Britain. Unless they vote Tory, treated Boris when he pretended to have Covid, or appeared on telly claiming their hospitals had plenty of PPPE and the shortage was massively exaggerated. They’re all cunts.
All of which begs the question: How do the rest of us become allies to these latter day saints? Well, for me it was simple. I decided the only way to fully empathise with these modern martyrs was to walk a mile in their shoes. Which I did by taking a week off from calling JK Rowland a ‘slag’ on Twitter and spending that valuable free time adopting the various identities of these wonderfully brave groups.
But I didn’t merely experience the myriad hardships they each endure: I did it while kneeling in solidarity with BLM, permanently, 24/7, just in case any concerned leftist saw me not kneeling and reported me to Pierce Morgan. (Whose transformation from right-wing bigot to fearless SJW has been one of the unexpected joys of this glorious period of mass unemployment and old people dying.)
It was painful, tore the skin from my knees, and earnt me days of suspicious looks from stuffy Tories at bus-stops, but if the marginalised can put up with a bit of discomfort in the name of saving lives than a white man like me can handle a spot of chronic backache and bloodstained jeans. So, like a intersectional Craig Davids, I set off:
On Monday I put on stockings, suspenders and my favourite speccy-kid-from-Gerry-Maguire mask and masturbated furiously over a video of James O’Brian shouting at a Brexity plumber from Swinton.
On Tuesday I donned a ski mask and firebombed the local church hall’s parent and toddler group after a stray Gollywog was spotted lurking in the Wendy House.
On Wednesday I cut eye-holes in my mam’s best tablecloth, placed it over my head, threw a camp-looking Ken Doll off a garage roof then beheaded a chicken.
On Thursday I went to Asda, walked two paces behind a man, then removed my veil and slapped myself gently on the cheek after accidentally flashing my bare arms.
On Friday I wore a sweat-and-toil-drenched mask, filmed myself doing the YMCA dance on my lunch break, before driving through various red lights while harassing a trauma surgeon on Twitter for not hating the Tories as much as I do. Then stitched that chicken’s head back on.
And on Saturday I told everyone about it on Facebook, cried about the second wave of Covid-18 about to decimate the north, cried again thinking about all the new infections caused by selfish idiots drinking in pubs, then dried my eyes and cheered up immediately after reminding myself that they probably all deserved to get it anyway for voting Leave and eating kebabs.
I then took my mask off, had a coughing fit, called an ambulance, and threw up all over the paramedic. It’s the least they deserve.
They just can’t help themselves, can they? First they crash us out of the EU, then they get rid of St. Jezza, now they’ve decided to flush the concept of subjectivity down the same ideological crapper as peaceful protest, the Liberal Democrats, and a middle-aged man’s right to get his kit off in Topshop.
And this latest assault on progressivism is the modern right’s nastiest yet. Not content with destroying the logical, inclusive notion that a child’s gender has nothing to do with ‘biology’ and is actually determined by whether they prefer Tonka Dolls to Barbie Trucks, they’ve now declared that if you post a photo of someone online the name in the caption absolutely MUST correspond with the person in the picture. Jesus H. Corbyn.
Yes, I’m talking about The Guardian, and the recent fury directed at star columnist Owen ‘OJ’ Jones by an army of fascist trolls and self-hating Peoples of Colour because a piece he wrote about misunderstood rapper Joe Wiley was accompanied by – the horror! – a picture of fellow misunderstood rapper Kanu. Cue an avalanche of invective from right-wing bullies accusing OJ and the G of racism for mixing up a black pop star with another black pop star. And not just any black pop star, but a black pop star fond of making sharp observations about the inherent evil of Jews.
Personally I don’t know what Kanu’s issue is – I’d be honoured if a newspaper got me mixed up with a brave truth teller like Wiley. The only problem is, they hadn’t. Because as anyone who’s been paying attention knows, in 2020 nothing is quite as it seems. And despite what the frothing loons calling for OJ’s head might say, the photograph used was Wiley. Don’t believe me? Read on.
Okay, technically the photo was of Kanu, by virtue of the fact that Kanu was literally the person in the photo. But where did the photo come from? I’ll tell you where: Google. Which begs the question: who died and made them the authority on who’s Kanu and who isn’t? Why should moneybags capitalists who employ virulent sex pets like James Damora get to assign a name to a person in a photo based on nothing more than the fact that that’s what the person in the photo is called? We already have bigoted doctors deciding non-binary babies are male or female simply by checking between their legs and look where that got us.
No, who or what a photo depicts is in the eye of the beholder, like beauty, gender and whether or not someone is a Nazi. Don’t believe me? Check out this picture of a well-known Hollywood star:
Now, as far as photo-fascists are concerned, this is Samual L. Jackson as Mick Fury in Avengers 5. They’ll swear blind this is the case because society has brainwashed them into such dangerous binary thinking, and also because it demonstrably is Samual L. Jackson as Mick Fury in Avengers 5. But when were the alt-right appointed arbiters of who is and who isn’t Samual L. Jackson? Since bloody never.
Because, actually, that picture is Larry Fishbone as Neon in John Matrix. Why? Because I say it is and unless you want to deligitimise my right to believe Samual L. Jackson is Larry Fishbone you can damn well go along with it. If I say that’s Larry Fishbone in John Matrix then it is Larry Fishbone in John Matrix, regardless of the fact that it isn’t. And there’s sod all JK Rowland or Julia Hartley-Brexit can do about it.
As you may have noticed, this is a touchy subject for me, as I’m often wrongly accused of getting people mixed up. Indeed, since launching this blog four years ago I’ve been repeatedly harassed by pedantic right-wing halfwits who seem to think my opinions on political and cultural issues are somehow worthless because their tiny brains need to be spoonfed a photo of Gary Neville in an article about Gary Neville when any idiot knows a picture of his brother Phil is just as valid.
Plus, their tiresome claim that I ‘always’ get people mixed up couldn’t be more wrong. Indeed, most of the times I’ve been accused of using the wrong photo I’ve actually used the right one, such as this delightful picture of Diane Abbott looking radiant on a yacht which accompanied my 2016 piece on Lady Di’s brave humanitarian work:
More importantly, even on the odd occasion when I have used a photo that technically wasn’t the person I said it was, it is entirely irrelevant because on the day I used that picture they were that person. See? The fact that in 2020 I still need to explain this to right-wing dunces is utterly tragic.
Thankfully, OJ did the decent thing and apologised for the ‘mix-up’, despite the fact that it wasn’t a mix-up and had bugger all to do with him. For his troubles he got ambushed by cancel-happy trolls convinced the photo was used deliberately, who refused to accept his apology and were utterly incapable of grasping that the photo was picked by a picture editor, not Owen. Still, given his passionate defence of cancel culture and Twitter mobs on the grounds that punishing people for stuff they haven’t done is simply a way of holding them to account, he can hardly complain when a Twitter mob holds him to account for something he didn’t do, can he?
Instead, Owen made an emotional video pleading his innocence, mumbled a few banal platitudes about systemic racism-or-something, then said ‘sorry’ and vowed to Do Better. Good lad. See how it’s done, Toby? The world may be about to end but it’s comforting to know we can always rely on a spineless modern leftist to cravenly prostrate himself on social media when he’s done nothing wrong.
Or had he?
Let’s back up for a second. Sure, this piece was published in The Guardian, Fleat Street’s last bastion for progressive ideas, left-wing rabble-rousing, and searing think-pieces on the latent fascism of Tommy the Tank Engine. But as all decent Corbynites know, in recent years the paper has soiled its reputation by printing the odd column critical of the Dear Leader, which they pathetically tried to compensate for by printing significantly more about how bloody awesome he is.
Indeed, these sporadic anti-Corbyn pieces were instrumental in Labour losing the last election (and the one before), denying St. Jezza the celebratory election night three-way he’d been promised by flame-haired minx Amanda Rayner and communist fuck-champion Ash Starkers.
The more I think about it the fishier it becomes. (The OJ photo mix-up that is, not Jezza getting double-teamed by Ash and Mandy.) And it becomes even murkier when you remember that The Guardian did the same thing a few days earlier when they reported the death of Britpop singer Denise Johnston (below) with an accompanying photo of mass-murdering Prime Molester BORIS Johnston.
Either The Guardian is deliberately disseminating racism and misogyny or the recent cuts have hit so hard that they’ve given the job of picture editor to the bloke who washes Polly Toynbee’s incontinence pads. White supremacist messaging or unpaid intern fuckwittery? I’ll let you decide. (It’s clearly white supremacist messaging.) But whoever’s responsible, the fact remains that to get two People of Coloured mixed up once is unforgiveable, to do it twice in the same week is criminal.
Sadly for OJ there’s no coming back from this. After defying Lod Corbyn four years ago he was given one last chance to prove himself and this is how he thanks us. We even rewarded his efforts to make up for that betrayal by promising him that when Labour swept to power we’d only hang him once. He can forget all that now.
So if you’re reading, Owen, I’m afraid that tear-stained apology is fooling no-one. As much as we’d love to remember you for your sterling work spreading Corbynism and helping Jezza become the first leader in history to win two elections in a row by coming second, from hereon you will be forever known as the former leftist who thinks black people all look the same. You made your bed, comrade. DEAL WITH IT.
In the meantime, let’s send our warm wishes to the real victim here, rap superstar Kanu, who I’m proud to call a friend and an ally despite having never heard of him until last Friday. And to show that we true leftists don’t have a systemically racist bone in our fascism-scarred bodies, here’s a photo I took last night of Kanu ripping it up at a socially distanced invite-only VIP show at the Cumberland Arms, Byker, the proceeds of which will fund Joe Wiley’s forthcoming legal action against Twitter, Rachel O’Riley, and the Zionist Federation of Britain. (We’re coming for you.)
As myfive regular readers know, I don’t like hogging the limelight. While other commentators insert themselves upfront and centre into every story, I prefer beavering away in the background, quietly fighting fascism so people stupider than what I am don’t have to. So naturally I was mortified to learn that I’d inadvertently contributed to a recent shocking development in the ongoing culture war between decent liberals who want everyone to get along and evil right-wingers annoyed that they can’t make jokes about ‘woofters’ anymore.
Yes, I’m talking about last week’s infamous anti-cancel culture letter, a vulgar missive designed to give alt-right ‘intellectuals’ a free pass to persecute minorities. And it never would’ve existed if I hadn’t written a bruising polemic about communist sexpot Ash Starkers. Allow me to explain…
The modern right are always watching. Always. And they were clearly watching last week when when I published a fiery piece urging fellow progressives to stop demonising right-wing nuggets and start turning them into left-wing nuggets. Rattled at the prospect of their fascist foot soldiers defecting to the left, they swiftly devised a plan to compensate for the upcoming exodus.
Sure enough, days later notorious right-wing porn mag Harpo’s published their eye-poppingly offensive letter, signed by an assortment of successful authors, respected academics, and some weirdo who fucks sharks. As you’d expect, the signatories were all white males, even the black or female ones: the worst kind of white males. So like most sensible leftists, my reaction focused on them rather than what the letter said, which was fairly easy as I hadn’t read it. Indeed, deducing that the grubby screed was a spiteful response to my piece without having clapped eyes on it merely illustrates how grubby it was. Luckily the great thing about being a modern leftist is you don’t have to read something before penning an outraged column about it. Why bother when a soon-to-be unemployed Guardian columnist can read it for you then deliver it back with all the context removed?
What was obvious from the letter I hadn’t read is that my Ash piece touched such a nerve that an unholy cabal of conservatives, libertarians, and Jewish Nazis desperately tried turn the tables on me by recruiting mental left-wingers to their cause. And they would have got away with it if it wasn’t for this pesky kid.
Yep, even when they steal a good idea they arse it up. Because the ‘leftists’ they lured to spread fascism and promote ‘f**e s****h’ are anything but. Sure, their pretentious letter may have included obligatory swipes at President Pussy-Grab but it was clearly all for show. So well done, righties: you tried to get back at me by recruiting left-wingers but instead recruited a load of right-wingers. Slow handclap, dipshits.
Indeed, the signatory list features more alt-right loons than a Pokahontas-themed themed Halloween-and-sushi party. And I should know as I’ve actually heard of four of them: the grubbiest and most duplicitous of the lot.
Take Margaret Atwoods, the Handmaiden’s Tale author and feminist icon who earnt her spurs attacking the patriarchy and supporting trans rights. All good and well until you explore her work and realise this was simply a ruse to gloss over her Islamophobia, as seen in her most famous novel’s racist dig at the quaint Islamic custom of forcing enslaved women to wear silly dresses and executing them in football stadiums. She also believes in the archaic principle of ‘due process’ and once supported a white male academic accused of sexual assault. Christ, Marge – why not just write ‘I ♥ Hitler’ on your pink fanny hat?
But her betrayal was nothing compared to Norm Chomsky, the left-wing godhead revered for his love of murderous dictators and dogged determination to blame the west for absolutely everything. Indeed, his reputation as the Godfather of Moral Relativism earned him a permanent place in the hearts of modern progressives, some of whom have even read his books. Despite this he’s debased himself in recent years by repeatedly defending the fascist principle of free speech for everyone, even engaging in rambling email debates with vicious right-wingers like Peter Hitchens and Sam Harrison. I bet Paul Pot’s turning in his mass grave.
Much like the heroes of the Iranian revolution, whose enjoyment of their 73 virgins is soured by the knowledge that a man who wrote a book they haven’t read still walks the earth. Yes, I’m talking about Salmon Rushdie, the Islamophobic fugitive who remains a free man, 40 years after penning a novel that offended moderate mullahs so much they were forced to urge their followers to murder its author.
Like Atwoods and Chomsky, Rushdie masqueraded as a leftist for years, imitating a decent, open-minded liberal by calling all Trump supporters idiots and racists. But he’s fooling no-one. That Rushdie is still at large is heinous enough, but to further insult marginalised Muslims by promoting free speech is one kick in the burqa too many. He could’ve spared the Muslim community years of pain and saved a load of bother by turning himself in decades ago and allowing Cat Stephens to burn him alive. But no, he took the neo-con dollar instead. May Allah forgive him. Or cut his head off.
But the worst of the lot is JK Roland, who spent years pretending to be a decent liberal: campaigning to overturn Brexit, supporting Black Life Matters, and generally being as blandly conformist as your average millionaire progressive. Sadly, she soiled herself years ago by smearing Lord Corbyn, sealing her transition to the dark side when she outed herself as a raving transphobe, despite never having said anything remotely transphobic. So it was no surprise to see her name on this vile letter. To think I once read six whole pages of Harry Porter andthe Wizard’s Sleeve: two hours I’ll never get back. TERF Bitch.
Thankfully, the left-wing response was as brilliant as ever, with thousands of principled authoritarians avoiding the contents of the letter in favour of abusing the people who signed it. And why not? It was anti-cancel culture: it might as well be anti-equality, anti-welfare state, or anti-cutting-your-son’s-dick-off-because-he-plays-with-Barby-dolls. When you’re anti-something amazing you don’t get to be engaged with. Why discuss what the letter says when you can simply remind everyone that one of the signatories wrote a shitty kids book featuring a Vietnamese character called Ching Chong and another likes to finger-blast aquatic mammals?
Far better to disprove its premise that the modern left enjoy cancelling people by, well, trying to cancel people. Indeed, this tactic worked so well one signatory publicly withdrew her support, which naturally saw loads of right-wing doughnuts try to cancel her. (See what I mean about how we should be recruiting them? Unless you’re one of the ten people who read my last blog, I guess not. Cunts.)
Across Twitter, Facebook, and anywhere else where people terrified of human contact hang out, the responses came thick and fast, boiling down to two arguments:
1. Cancel culture doesn’t exist.
2. Cancel culture does exist but it’s a good thing as only bad people ever get cancelled.
Often theses two contradictory statement were uttered in the same sentence, a timely reminder of the enduring popularity of left-wing cognitive dissonance. Indeed, the left’s approach to cancel culture is ram-packed with cog-dis: witness the glorious spectacle of people who claim to hate tabloid muckraking celebrating lives being ruined by tabloid muckraking. And why not, if it gifts us a chance to air our virtue, score a point against someone we don’t like, or catch a bit of blue-haired feminist pussy?
Cognitive dissonance also informs the popular Kray Twin Defence – ‘We never cancelled no-one who din’t deserve it guv’nor!’ – advanced by legendary cockney shitehawk Bobby Bragg, who declared on Twitter that he was fine with people losing their jobs if their opinions “deligitimised the rights of minorities”. Of course, neither Bragg nor his followers could explain how former Radio 2 DJ Danny Barker deligitimised the rights of minorities by tweeting a photo of a chimp. Which is handy as any references to left-wingers being cancelled – such as nonce-joke director James Gun or Trump-decapitating funny lady Cathy Griffin – are to be avoided at all costs, as they upset the narrative that it only happens to ghastly right-wingers. Instead, he argued that people getting sacked for wrongthink were simply being “held to account” by the public, ie Twitter Bottom Inspectors. (Not the actual public, they do enough damage at the ballot box, thank you very much.)
Unsurprisingly, he was abused by alt-right trolls, who put it to Bragg that by this logic his beloved St. Jezza should be sacked immediately for deligitmising the rights of a minority by declaring that a terrorist group who call Jews ‘bacteria’ and want to wipe them off the face of the earth were “dedicated to peace and social justice”. Thankfully, Bragg’s an old hand and simply ignored the question, like Kool-Aid Corbynites always do when faced with evidence of their principled hypocrisy. Good lad.
He was ably backed up by OJ Jones, who cheekily suggested cancel culture isn’t a thing, despite the fact that it’s very much his thing. Indeed, OJ saying cancel culture doesn’t exist is like Iain Watkins claiming there’s no such thing as child abuse. OJ then brilliantly contradicted himself by stating that the only people who need worry about cancel culture are rich, powerful, and right-wing, despite the fact that cancel culture isn’t a thing. Which will come as a huge surprise to all the non-rich, un-powerful, left-wing people who’ve been targeted by online mobs but, well, the least said about them the better.
Because they can protest all they like, but every one of those people must have done, said, or – urgh – thought something terrible. And it illustrates how the modern left have evolved that celebrity socialists like Bragg, OJ, and former Word presenter Terry Christmas are intensely relaxed about the management class peddling workers because of their beliefs. And people say us leftists are stuck in the ’70s. Ha.
Luckily, to reinforce the point that only right-wing nasties who thoroughly deserve it ever get cancelled, on the same day the Harker’s letter landed Twitter trained its sights on privileged British actress Josie Comer after it was revealed that the dumb yank she’s been fornicating with is a Trump supporter. And not just any Trump supporter, but a Trump supporter who assaulted someone.
Of course, there’s zero evidence that he assaulted anyone, or that Comer’s been fornicating with him. But evidence is just sooo last century, and within hours the internet was teeming with brave leftists and crusading lesbos calling Comer everything from a “two-faced bitch” to a “Nazi lover”. And rightly so. Because in 2020, simply being suspected of letting a Republican stick his knob inside you is enough to erase you from the public sphere. The fact that allowing people to sleep with who the hell they like is supposed to be a cornerstone of liberal ideology is utterly irrelevant.
Suffice to say, the cancel-worthy little madam STILL hasn’t issued an apology or dumped her Trump-supporter-boyfriend-who-probably-isn’t-a-Trump-supporter-anyway. Sickening. Such selfish behaviour makes you wonder if her Killing Zoe co-stars also harbour racist secrets. Don’t be surprised to find out that the Jap girl’s a Nazi too.
Thankfully the left are experts at spotting who deserves it and who doesn’t. So while celebrating cancel culture as a Good Thing that only happens to Bad People, we still expressed anger that the women who removed her name from the Hairpin’s letter was being targeted for cancellation by anti-cancel culture cancellers. Ditto left-wing ladies man Sam Criss, sweary Sheffield Harem MP Jared O’Hara, and that vulnerable NSPCCC worker who got sacked for filming himself masturbating at work in fetish gear and posting the footage on Grindxr.
These instances were clearly bad cancel culture, demonstrating how in the wrong hands it’s a destructive force, despite the fact that we’ve spent two weeks saying it doesn’t exist and everyone who gets cancelled had it coming. So the writer who removed her name was hounded by alt-right trolls; the activist who got handsy on a date was the victim of right-wing smears; the Labour MP who wrote dodgy stuff on Facebook was young and daft and deserves a second chance; and the children’s charity employee who broadcast his kinky hobby to the internet was victimised by homophobes too bigoted to accept that wanking in the bogs at work while wearing a rubber vest is just something gay men do.
But some will never get it. Compare the howls of right-wing outrage at the above incident with the reaction to the justified sacking of newsreader Alastair Burnett: yep, in 2020 some people genuinely believe that having a sly tug at work is more deserving of the sack than quoting a Shakespeare Stevens poem to a black person. Which is why I’m honoured to have incited that letter and tricked the bozos who signed it into revealing their true selves. You’re welcome.
Still, despite our best efforts some people simply refuse to be cancelled. But they can’t hide forever and the day will eventually come when no-one is safe from cancellation. Not even Peoples of Colour, a disturbing minority of whom seem to believe they’re allowed to think for themselves and even disagree with liberals. For shame.
In the meantime, we’ll continue fighting fascism and sticking up for working folk by silencing people and trying to get them sacked. But in this post-#MeTwo moment we have to be one step ahead. Which is why it’s vital when defending cancel culture, pretending it doesn’t exist, or performing some weird contortion that incorporates both, any discussion of men wrongly accused or found innocent of indecent behaviour must be shut down immediately. Red flags to studiously ignore include Harley Proctor, Leon Britain, Ken Roach, Michael Le Webster, Jimmy Tarbrush, Paul Wella, Mike Hucknall, Woody Alan, Jonny Depp, Ryan Seacrust, and Michael ‘Spacko’ Jacko, though if you’re cornered simply remind your opponent that they must be rapists as most of them are Tories. Then block, report, and run away.
But the most important thing to remember is never, ever, under any circumstances, research the scores of normal, non-famous, un-powerful, not-bigoted people who’ve been punished for saying things Twitter people don’t like, such as Justine Sacco, Tim Hunt, Angelos Sofocleous, Chelsea Russell, Ned Lebow, Mary Beth Maxwell, James Damore, Lindsay Shepherd, Nick Buckley, Harald Uhlig, William A.Jacobson, the mystery copper who used the phrase ‘white than white’, and anyone else whose experiences with woke inquisitors and online morality mobs pisses all over the notion that cancellation only happens to rich racists and celebrity sex-pests.
So get to work, my pretties – these cretins won’t cancel themselves. And remember, unlike winning the lottery, being sexually assaulted, or abducted by Mossad, if you’re a Good Person cancellation literally can’t happen to you.
Like most hyper-sensitive leftists with male sex organs and milky skin (sorry!), I reacted to the recent fury over Ash Starkers’ Islamist oranges with anger, astonishment, and intense arousal. It was vulgar enough of right-wingers to accuse Ash of celebrating the jihadist murder of three white people in Swindon, but to then suggest the killing was a bad thing was beyond contempt. Indeed, I was so incensed by the suggestion that a left-winger supported violence I spent the whole weekend fantasising about garotting Sun-readers.
But then, like that other metropolitan wordsmith with a love of shoes and a taste for cock, I got to thinking. Was this alt-right smear job really such a bad thing? Sure, Nazis spreading lies, accusing leftists of racism, and exploiting the fresh corpses of murder victims is undoubtedly terrible. But let’s be honest, the only thing these bozos got wrong was the target: their tactics were spot on. And we leftists should know, because they’re our tactics too.
For you sad bastards who missed it, two weeks ago luminous Ash posted a photo which showed her eating an ice lolly in a park, accompanied by a tweet featuring three ‘orange’ emojicons. Like most people, my immediate reactions were “Hmm. I hope that lolly is organic” and “Wow! Ash doesn’t just fuck like a champion, she sucks like one too!”, followed by a non-threatening bout of sex-positive self-love, the details of which are private but suffice to say, the eco-friendliness of Ash’s sugary treat made the two minutes spent imagining her inserting it it into my anus even more special.
Unfortunately, on the same day in a different park in a different city, the presence of three privileged white people offended a marginalised Muslim so much he had no choice but to stab them to death. So naturally, people who don’t like Ash decided with no evidence whatsoever that the oranges symbolised the trio of slain Islamophobes, despite the fact that the photo was taken several hours prior to the murder and the picture posted before any details about the killer had emerged.
No matter, the right smelt a theocratic rat and within hours Islamic fundamentalist Ash – so fundamentally Islamic that she drinks, flashes her legs, and fornicates with non-Muslims – was officially a supporter of terrorism. The fact that Ash is a savvy media operator with zero form for openly lauding vulnerable jihadists was entirely irrelevant to the mob, who ploughed on with their deranged fantasy, impervious to facts, logic, or the world outside their ridiculous partisan bubble. Sound familiar?
You bet. Because it’s exactly what we do. Indeed, swap Ash for Julia Hartley Brexit and the method is nigh-on identical, from the inane accusations of racism to the bitchy critiques of Ash’s hair, make-up, and sexual appetite. Equally indistinguishable were the breathtaking mental gymnastics deployed to explain how the oranges represented the murder victims, a complex series of contortions incorporating everything from time travel to Martin Scorsese’s The Godfather. It was all so evidence-free and utterly batshit I almost wished I’d thought of it.
Of course, it was entirely unoriginal, stealing from such greatest hits of left-wing hysteria as Otto European convincing his adoring followers that the Brexshit Party turning their back on the EU was a Nazi dog-whistle, and the Novaru Groovy Gang accusing the BB(astard)C of airbrushing St.Jezza’s hat to make him look like a Russian nonce.
But more than anything it recalled the left’s long-running campaign against Boris Johnston’s foul government, from our anger at the blonde butcher for promoting imperialism by using the word ‘surrender’, to losing our minds over henchman Dominic Radge saying his boss had ‘fought’ Covid 18, implying that everyone killed by the virus didn’t fight, and putting a rich buffoon with the sniffles into the same category as actual fighters, like the courageous perverts who bravely combat transphobia by sending death threats to JK Roland.
It’s clear that with a little tweak here, some reprogramming there, even the most rabid right-wingers – scratch that, especially the most rabid right-wingers – could be valuable assets. Lord Corbyn may have been perfect in every way but ultimately he was just too nice. And there’s no better example of this too-niceness than his attempts to appeal to normal people instead of targeting the lunatics. It pains me to say it, but as thrilling as it was abusing people on the internet for four years, I now realise instead of blocking and despising Tories we should’ve been moulding and converting them.
Because most alt-right fruitcakes are halfway there already, and a far better fit on the Corbynite left than the boring centrists Labour wasted years courting. Conservative loons may be evil but at least their evil can be put to good use. The same can’t be said for those tiresome non-partisan types who think they’re special because they don’t blindly support anyone, value ‘consistency’ and ‘universal values’ (yawn), and judge arguments based on merit rather than who’s making them and how they vote.
No, we should be raiding the BNP for new recruits, not the Lib Dems. Because as we know, most online politics bores are less concerned with ideology than they are with belonging to a group who hate another group. And as your average right-wing nut is as hopelessly obsessed with identity politics as any blue-haired progressive they’re already on the right path. And they have been for some time.
Take the recent furore over Steve Bellend’s Pritti Patel cartoon, which saw the sinister Auntie Tom depicted as a bovine beast, inspiring hordes of fascist ideologues to declare the sketch misogynist and suddenly decide that, actually, mocking certain religions is racist after all, and a Guardianista of all people should know how offensive it is to caricature a Sikh as a cow. Naturally, the fact that she was supposed to be a bull – because the cartoon was about bullying – was studiously ignored, as was the inclusion of Bull Number 2: Boris Johnston, who as far as I can tell is neither a Sikh nor possesses a pair of tits.
A similar storm greeted The Nude European’s infamous cartoon showing Sajiid Javiiid musing about deporting himself on his first day as Chancellor: a blatantly obvious dig at predecessor Amber Ruddy and the Windthrush scandal. Sure enough, hordes of right-wing hall monitors angrily protested that the cartoonist was being racist towards Javiiiid because…well…because that’s what a left-wing hall monitor would do.
Both examples demonstrate how the Twitter right is brimming with joyless literalist ideologues, desperate to see racism in everything the other side does and utterly incapable of understanding how jokes work. In other words: fresh blood.
Because with the culture war heating up, we urgently need reinforcements to make up for all the transwomen, unarmed black men, and middle-class protesters murdered daily by the right-wing establishment. Who better to fill those gaps than people who regularly chastise the left for speech policing despite demanding Katy Brand was fired and arrested for making a joke about throwing acid at Nigel Farrage? The angry right-wing ideologues who last December declared all Labour voters antisemites, conveniently forgetting they’ve spent years attacking angry left-wing ideologues for calling Leave voters racists? The self-righteous prudes who threw a Whitehouse-sized strop when Corbynite rapper Stormzee read a passage from the Bible on the BBC last Christmas, polluting the airwaves and poisoning young minds with his shirtless urban swagger and foul-mouthed lyrics about smoking LSD? Or the dedicated puritans who photographed Diane Abbots sipping a can of gin on a train, accused her of being an alcoholic, reported her to the police, demanded she lost her job, and went blue in their outraged faces about the ‘terrible’ example she was setting by doing something that normal people in the real world do all the time?
Frankly it’s an embarrassment of riches, chockfull of left-wing soldiers-in-waiting. And I’ve no doubt Ash would agree as she’s been endorsing these tactics for years, as demonstrated by her joyous reaction to the sacking of evil eugenicist Roger Cruton after crusading liberal George Eton cynically misquoted him. Because Ash is literally a communist (you idiot!), so she understands that equality means white male righties are as legitimate smear-targets as sexy brown leftists. Luckily, smearing sexy brown leftists will be illegal once Jezza re-seizes Labour from Ken Starmer and cruises to Number Ten. But until then she’ll deal: kicking against the pricks and dreamily anticipating the glorious day when all wrong-think is outlawed and there are no right-wingers left to lie about.
In the meantime she can simply bask in the warm glow of victory, pleased as vegan punch that her latest ordeal gifted her what the modern left always desire: sympathy, victimhood, and crucially, oodles of airtime: the one thing in our gender-neutral locker that the enemy can only dream of. Because unlike the right-wing version, left-wing demagoguery has gatecrashed the mainstream, with virtually every actor/pop star/presenter/thick-as-a-brick footballer now buying wholesale into the grubby Marxism espoused by the likes of Ash, the Extinction Rebels, and everyone’s favourite progressive separatists, Black Life Matters.
Indeed, the fear of being cancelled has seen support for the modern left swell to almost Corbynmania proportions. Sure, the right have the Murdoch press but their pernicious influence only infects actual voters and – urgh – normal people. In the beautiful funhouse mirror of online politics, left-wing ideals are king, with the media, tech, and entertainment industries given no choice but to watch their step and french-kiss our non-binary arseholes. Even evil capitalists like Len & Jerry are going for woke, a wise move considering people who espouse progressive ideas invariably have plenty of disposable cash. All of which means the wonky ideology espoused by Novaru et al may not be in everyone’s living rooms but it’s all over their devices.
Meanwhile, the oppostion make do with fringe racists like David Vancey, with barely a sniff of the mainstream acceptance afforded to their left-wing counterparts. But imagine the wonders Vancey could work on the left? He spreads lies, posts craftily edited videos, and thinks nothing of exploiting dead people to score cheap points on Twitter. Imagine the good he could do if he were on our side? He’s already got a penchant for promoting antisemitic cranks so he’s practically one of us.
Vancey and others like him could become modern day progressive heroes if they utilised their skills fighting fascism instead of piling-on hot Muslim pundits with a thing for frozen confectionary. And DV’s dedication to bullshit is second to none, demonstrated by his devotion to the barefaced lie that Mayor of London Larry Khan once said “Terrorism is part and parcel of living in a big city”, a misrepresentation so blatant, easy-to-disprove, and mystfyingly ubiquitous it’s currently tied with “Toby Jung called disabled kids illiterate troglodytes” in my ever increasing list of Things That Never Happened But Mentalists On Twitter Are Convinced Did. (Good mentalists in the case of the Toby one, obvs.)
Needless to say, Vancey’s opportunistic fury about the triple-homicide was palpable, though unfortunately for him that far-left influence struck once again as the story quietly disappeared from the news cycle once it was revealed that the murderer was an Albanian immigrant and the killing motivated by homophobia. Much like the outrage over Ash’s oranges, which two weeks on have been largely forgotten by everyone but sexually frustrated progressive male bloggers desperate to catch some feminist pussy before their cocks falls off.
Sadly, this failure to keep Ash’s ordeal trending shows they still have much to learn about ideological warfare. If I were right-wing – URGH! – I’d have hammered her for months. And I’d have been all over the tweet she sent a few days later, which featured three pointy hand emojis clearly intended to signal her joy about the trio of girls from Scunthorpe-or-somewhere who were fingered by an Asian – yes, ASIAN – grooming gang in that thing on ITV. Ditto her sweet message to Geordie firebrand Laura Pigcock, in which Ash pissed all over the graves of terror victims by including three kisses to symbolise the 3,000-minus-3 infidels who died on 9/11.
Still, the next time she says something the right don’t like it won’t take long for some fascist footsoldier to recall that time Ash Starkers celebrated white people getting stabbed to death with cyber-fruit. At which point thousands of people who don’t recall it will gleefully retweet it anyway, while thousands who know for a fact it’s not true but are too hopelessly embedded to admit it will do the same. Again. And again. And again.
So I hereby urge my liberal brethrens to stop castigating right-wingers and start brainwashing them. Because if they keep beating us at our own game we might all have to join them. And much as I share their passion for lying and abusing strangers I’ll never be seen dead in a crew-cut and braces. Though having just spent a few seconds reading some of the Ash-related threads on brand new Nazi echo chamber Parlez it sounds like alt-right hipsters are having even filthier wanks about her than I am. Hmm. Perhaps it’s time for a change.
It goes without saying the progressive left were overjoyed when brown-skinned 33-year-old TV personality Jameela Jamelia recently came out as a bender. Her story had everything: victimhood, diversity, and the kind of craven kowtowing to internet lynch mobs guaranteed to delight Bottom Inspectors everywhere. Indeed, Jamelia’s decision to tell the world that she likes fannies as much as cocks – prompted by the justified outrage that greeted the announcement of her new job presenting a talent show for gays or something – was veritable catnip to the modern left.
Jameela, of course, is everyone’s favourite brown-skinned 33-year-old presenter-cum-actress-cum-joyless campaigner for human rights, in particular the human rights of brown-skinned 33-year-olds called Jameela. As a result she finds every aspect of the Trumpian Brexity wasteland of 2020 grossly offensive; her dedication to rooting out problematic behaviour so thorough she not only wakes up outraged but is permanently offended in her sleep, as the binman she reported last week for calling her a ‘stroppy cunt’ during a dream knows all too well.
For the last few years courageous Jameela has been electrifying social media with her unique blend of constant finger-wagging and principled narcissism. In other words: scolding women she doesn’t like for not doing feminism properly and reminding everyone how awful it is to be a beautiful brown-skinned 33-year-old in a middle-aged white man’s world.
She also enjoys impressing faceless online language monitors by haranguing people for using terms she only found out were offensive yesterday. Her most recent attempt at policing words came when she objected to the hyper-problematic phrase ‘blind spot’, having learnt hours earlier that it was deeply triggering to people who cant see, acne-ridden teenagers, and vulnerable Dalmatians (especially trans ones). Word on the woke grapevine is that the brown-skinned 33-year old has spent the last twelve minutes sticking up for both the hearing impaired and the sub-Saharan wild cat community by urging her Twitter followers to boycott Barnsley rockers Def Leopard.
For such acts of bravery – combined with her sterling work fighting for the poor and the ugly by reminding them how pretty and privileged she is – Jameela has become something of a woke figurehead: the Lena Durham it’s okay to have a wank over. So if ever a celebrity deserved to be showered with victim points for coming out as non-binary, it was our Jameela. I mean, just look at her: she’s brown, 33, hates JK Rowland, and spends her life gleefully promoting the same banal platitudes promoted by Lena before she was deservedly cancelled for defending a man accused of rape and stuffing one too many pebbles up her infant sister’s arsehole.
All in all, Jameela’s announcement had the progressive world in a frenzy, and rightly so as there’s nothing we love more than knowing there’s one less straight person in the world. However, it pains me to say this but it seems my fellow leftists have got this one spectacularly wrong. Because as much as I want it to be true I just can’t believe that the brown-skinned 33-year old is genuinely lesbonic. Something smells fishy, and it isn’t Jameela’s fingers.
Why don’t I believe her? How long have you got? First off, she showed a complete lack of respect for SJW ethics when she bowed to the mob. Not the bowing itself, obviously – that’s to be applauded. No, it was the way she sullied the glorious tradition of caving in to social media outrage by following it up with a big-boned lie. All the brown-skinned 33-year-old had to do was issue an insincere apology, promise never to be naughty again, and agree to Do Better by attending seminars on gender, race, and Doing Better After Acting Like An Alt-Right Tit. Job done.
But no, Jameela had to spoil herself by falsely claiming to be a lezza sex-dyke, offending true liberals everywhere with her brazen cultural appropriation of lezza sex- dykery. “How do you know it’s false?” I hear you cry. Glad you asked. Shame you need someone to do your homework but what the hell – how amazing it must be to be so privileged you’re completely unaware of the cast-iron evidence proving conclusively that Jameela is about as gay as ISIS. Because to understand why she is lying you need only look to the brown-skinned 33-year-old’s choice of co-star in vile pro-Christian Amazon ‘drama’ The Good Life. Yes, I’m talking about syrup-wearing barman and serial rapist Charles Danson.
This monster needs no introduction but let’s just say his friendship with the Clintons does nothing to mask his career-long quest to spread vile right-wing propaganda through the medium of television ‘comedy’. Having spent the ’70s and ’80s molesting Shelly Winters as happy-go-lucky serial rapist Sam Maloney in Taxi, he moved on to his most vile creation yet: playing an even more revolting version of himself in fellow baldy Larry Davidson’s Islamophobic shitcom Seinfeld.
Even worse, white Danson was once in a mentally abusive relationship with African-American Whoopi Goldblum, the bigoted slaphead mocking his poor girlfriend at the notorious Friar Tuck’s Roast when he blacked up to humiliate the marginalised Ghostbusters star for the amusement of his toxic male buddies. Yet now we’re expected to accept that a card-carrying queer woman would choose to not only work but be friends with such an animal? Seriously? Clearly Jameela was a right-wing wolf in intersectional clothing all along. I bet she isn’t even brown. Or 33.
I don’t believe her for a second, and neither should any other self-respecting progressive. For these are dangerous, divisive times and we need fascist provocateurs masquerading as brown-skinned 33-year-old lesbians like we need more white men nominated for Oscars. Having said that, I’m nothing if not open-minded. So in the interests of fairness, I’ll happily believe Jameela’s a queer if she can provide me with a video of Kirsten Bell squirting in her face.
Over to you, JJ.
Sadly, she’s not the only celebrity to make headlines this month for stepping out of their lane and pretending to be something they’re not. Indeed, it’s becoming somewhat fashionable to mock the oppressed by jumping on their bandwagon to curry favour with the woke world, a disgraceful trend which must be stopped. Because impersonating a minority without direct experience of the hardships they’ve endured is about as insulting as you can get, almost as insulting as telling a transwoman she isn’t a real lady.
So forgive me for not joining in with the bonhomie around ageing Loose Women presenter Paul Schofield ‘bravely’ coming out as a gay last week. Don’t get me wrong, this frank admission by married father-of-two Schofield should be a cause for celebration, as nothing excites modern libs more than knowing there’s one less nuclear family in the world. But the manner in which the silver-maned star told the world he’s gay – and more importantly, his disgraceful behaviour last December – strongly suggests that all is not as it seems. Something’s a bit ‘funny’ about Schofield, and it’s not the way he stirs his tea.
Because in keeping some key details to himself the effeminate presenter committed one of the great cardinal sins of the 22nd century: he didn’t give the full story to people on the internet. Y’know, the folk who actually matter. It speaks volumes about his white male entitlement that he thinks it’s acceptable to publicly declare his homosexuality without satisfying every nosey bastard on Twitter by answering personal questions like: How long his wife has known? Does he have a boyfriend? Is he a top or a bottom? How many policeman has he rimmed on Hampstead Heath?
As if this wasn’t egregious enough, when you look back at decrepid Schofield’s behaviour before December’s rigged election it’s clear to anyone with half a Gender Studies degree that he left out those intimate details because its all one big lie: he isn’t gay and anyone who thinks he is hasn’t been paying attention. Because nice, liberal, homosexual Schofe is a Tory. And as every principled left-winger knows, there’s no such thing as a gay Tory.
Sure, there are right-wing bumboys everywhere, such as hateful posh racist Douglas Murryfield and his partner in grime, rubbish satirist Andrew Doylem. But a cursory glance at their problematic output reveals that these two numpties are nothing more than a pair of cute pencil cases: pink and warm on the outside but cold and blue within. Indeed, it’s highly unlikely these two are same-sex aroused at all, their love of gay romps fuelled not by attraction to men but because it gifts them a free pass to degrade poor black rentboys and flaunt their privilege by stuffing crumpled fivers up the unlucky hustlers’ arseholes.
And in case any right-wing trolls are wondering how exactly I know that Schofield is a Tory: he took a selfie with Boris Johnston. A selfie. You don’t engage in such worryingly chummy behaviour with a politician unless you’re intending to vote for him. As anyone who’s been paying attention knows, Jeremy Corbyn is the only politician with the moral fibre and all round decency to have his photo taken with unsavoury characters despite not liking them, agreeing with them, or having the slightest clue who they are.
And speaking of the Angel of Islington, if anyone’s still in any doubt that Schofield is as blue as they come, I suggest taking a look at the disgraceful interview he conducted with the Greatest Prime Minister Britain Never Had back in December. Only a full-blown Tory would refuse to kiss St Jezza’s arse in such a shocking, disrespectful manner. Schofield doesn’t know how lucky he is – if Labour had won the election he’d have been bundled on to the first plane to Iran and swinging from a crane before his rainbow crocs hit the tarmac. Let’s see how many homophobic Tories want their picture taken with the duplicitous 77-year-old when he’s lying in a hospital broom cupboard dying of AIDS. It’s all fun and games impersonating a gay until their signature disease strikes you down too.
Still, in the interests of fairness and equality, I’m more than happy to be proven wrong if presented with conclusive proof of Schofield’s gayness. In fact, I’ll gladly accept it if someone shows me a video of Rylan Clarke-Neil spunking on Phil’s hair.
There are many people to blame for Labour’s electoral defeat: the Russians, Laura Kuntsberg, stuck-up working-class northerners who think the right to vote means the right to vote differently to Paul Maison. I could spend all day listing the bastards responsible, and indeed that’s what I did the morning after Jezza’s humiliation before putting the past behind me and focussing on the future. As soon as I’d written another list of all the gammony-melts I forgot to put in the first one, such as Tracey-Ann Doberman and the bassist out of Pulp who smells like cheese.
But during this period of self-reflection I realised there was a group of traitors more at fault than anyone, whose unchecked power and diabolical influence even surpasses the combined might of Rupert Maxwell and that evil blonde clever-clogs off Fifteen To One. Yes, I’m talking about Hollywood. And to see the full extent to which the movie industry uses right wing propaganda to defame jam-making vegetarians from Islington, look no further than the recently released slice of gangster porn from one of tinseltown’s most distastefully bearded directors.
Marvin Scorsese has made a fortune out of offending people. For fifty years he’s terrorised audiences with his abhorrent blend of racist sloganeering and blood-splattered exploitation, safe in the knowledge that his status as white Hollywood royalty insulates him from the consequences of his crimes.
From The Godfather to The Wolf Of Wallsend, Scorsese’s films are crude celebrations of toxic masculinity, with an unhealthy dollop of eye-popping Italian stereotypes thrown in for good measure. His determination to offend liberals is so pathological he even made a film about Jesus, gleefully erasing superior religions more deserving of a silver screen tribute, such as Islam, Radical Islam, and that nice, peaceful, progressive version of Islam that only exists in Walford-on-Twitter.
Needless to say, Scorsese loves sticking two fingers up at the Muslim community, stubbornly refusing to adapt the Kerrang or make a biopic of Osama Ben Laden. Yep, ‘tough guy’ Marvy is happy to point his camera at greasy-haired clichés eating pasta, shooting each other in the face, and yelling “wadda mistaka to maka!” but when it comes to depicting good violence inflicted upon people who deserve it – Israeli children, British soldiers, adulterous women – this Hollywood ‘hard man’ runs a mile.
Pathetically, he even tried to rectify this in the noughties by making a film about the Dele Alli Lama. Luckily, leftists saw through his vulgar attempt to claw back liberal cred and Kung Fu was a box-office flop. Indeed, it illustrates how out-of-touch Scorsese is that he arrogantly believed he could make up for years of far-right propaganda by eulogising Lama, a notorious anti-communist with a penchant for objectifying women and telling immigrants to fuck off back to where they came from.
The rest of his career is equally problematic: a six-decade spectacle of bigotry and incitement. From smearing immigrants as murderers and thieves because society forced them to murder people and thieve stuff, to directing incel guidebooks masquerading as sitcoms like Taxi and The King Of Queens, Scorsese has long been regarded as the Republican it’s okay to like. Needless to say, his ‘unique’ filmmaking style was a huge influence on The Joker, the River Phoenix hatefest which last month left a trail of destruction so widespread panicky studio bosses hired Mossad to erase all traces of the gang rapes and mass shootings that accompanied every screening. I guess this is what being ‘influential’ is all about.
All in all, you’d think at the age of 87 he’d be retiring the reactionary rhetoric, hanging up his white hood, and shopping for coffins. Think again. Because from Lewis CK to Harvey Wankstain, the entitled white male just can’t help himself. No guilt, no shame, no insincere apology. And with Scorsese’s latest Amazon Prime cash-in The Irishmen traumatising decent liberals and delighting racist arseholes, it seems Marvy has sunk even lower.
I’ve long boycotted Amazon as a result of their fascistic policy of making people pay for films and albums, so when the time came to endure Scorsese’s latest disgrace I was left with no option but to sneak into my neighbour’s flat and watch it on her laptop while she enjoyed her afternoon nap. Unfortunately on this particular day the over-worked single mother had eschewed spending the morning in her goonie drinking White Grenache in favour of taking her infant son to the park, putting my plans into jeopardy with her brazen selfishness. Thankfully, plan B arrived in the shape of a not-quite-past-its-expiry-date Rohypnol I’d been saving for next year’s Labour conference. So after entering her home and depositing the ground-up pill into an open box of wine, I hid under her settee and waited, like a left-wing Chuck Morris. Sure enough, within seconds of getting home she’d downed the last dregs from the carton and was sparked out on the kitchen floor, leaving me free to be offended by Scorsese’s vile movie in peace.
And trust me, there’s a hell of a lot to be offended by. Indeed, the sheer outrage I felt was so intense it drowned out the constant crying from my neighbour’s white male rugrat. First off, despite the film’s title there isn’t a single Irishman in the film. That’s right, vile ‘auteur’ Scorsese is so sophisticated he thinks the best way to offset accusations of racism is to make a film about paddies played by wops. Genius.
So in a foul insult to the good people of Derry, Swansea, and Brigadoon, Scorsese trolls Irish audiences by casting swarthy Latin muse Al Pacino as Gaelic hitman Frank Shearer, caking the grumpy actor’s face in computer generated latex to make him look less Italian rather than giving the role to an authentic, preferably trans Irisher.
Such rank erasure is sickening, and a kick in the teeth to Irish actors such as Chris O’Donnelly, Euan McGregor, and the old bag out of Mrs. Brown’s Boyos. On this form don’t be surprised if Scorsese’s next movie is a Blade remake starring Nicholas ‘Trigger’ Lyndhurst. All in all, I’ve never been so offended on behalf of a minority since that time able-bodied Brian Cranston played a spacka. Needless to say, this disrespectable attitude to the green valleys consumes the film, with nary a shamrock, leprechaun, balaclava, or dead race horse in sight. And the film’s 6-and-a-half hours long!
Predictably, Scorsese tries to keep audiences happy by inserting a few well-known Irish traditions, but it’ll take more than cars being bombed or blokes getting gunned down on street corners to make up for such a shocking lack of representation. But amazingly, the anti-Irish racism isn’t the film’s most offensive feature. Because in a gross distortion of socialist history, Scorsese then has the brass neck to depict Teemster legend Johnny Hoffa as a criminal. That’s right, not content with offending the entire population of Boston, Scorsese decides to smear one of the most beloved left-wing figures of the 21st century. And it’s as clear as the blood on Marvy’s hands that the purpose of this betrayal was to defame Jeremy Corbyn and secure victory for Boris ‘Bastard’ Johnston.
For the uninitiated, union boss Hoffa was a proud firebrand slandered by the press, targeted by the establishment, and repeatedly attacked for being friends with unsavoury, often murderous characters. Sound familiar? Wrongly convicted of fraud, after his release he was hounded by both the government and the organised crime figures he’d spent years fighting to protect his members’ pensions. Needless to say, such principles made Hoffa a marked man and in 1985, after standing up to the bullies one time too many, he mysteriously disappeared.
Predictably, The Irishmen misrepresents all of this. Scorsese’s Hoffa – played by regular collaborator Robert De Niro under layers of ropey anti-ageing make-up – is depicted as a corrupt con-man with a sweet tooth and shit haircut, happy to steal from his comrades by furnishing the Bambino crime family with loans while sharing the profits of their illegal endeavours. Even worse, the left-wing tradition of paying for houses and holidays by dipping into union funds – as practiced by everyone from Arthur Scarsgill to Ian Laivery – is bizarrely presented as a bad thing, Scorsese’s delight at fermenting hatred of Corbyn’s Labour all too apparent.
As you’d expect, the film gleefully depicts Hoffa’s murder, stretching out the tragic rabble-rouser’s final minutes to wring every last drop of joy from seeing a socialist slain in broad daylight. In an act of jaw-dropping chutzpah, Scorsese then has the nerve to expect us to feel sorry for Hoffa’s killer, the pretend paddy played by aforementioned screen legend-turned-jobbing hack Pacino. Well done Marvy – as well as Irish erasure and anti-leftist messaging you’ve squeezed in victim-blaming and hitman-sympathising too. Bravo! Why not go the whole hog and add homophobia too? Oh wait, you already did that by referring to misunderstood Kennedy killer David Ferrybridge as a ‘fairy’. You’re really hitting out of the park here, aren’t you?
Add loud-mouthed Republican Joe Pesky as the grinning mob boss who ordered Hoffa’s execution – replete with appalling CGI wig – and it’s not hard to see how much Scorsese is enjoying himself. But most disturbing is the chilling glimpse of what’s in store for Jezza if he doesn’t keep his mouth shut. That this movie was released weeks before the election is no coincidence, and the lies and misrepresentations it promotes were reflected in the way the British media spent weeks spreading bullshit about the Dear Leader.
And the Tory establishment couldn’t have picked a better bullshitter than Scorsese, a man with so few morals he spent his entire career brown-nosing Italians only to then accuse them of killing Hoffa. The fact that it was actually carried out by the IDS at the behest of crooked Ronald Raygun was apparently lost on an ‘educated’ director too wrapped up in impressing Boris Johnston to read some history.
But ignorance is Scorsese’s forte, illustrated by his disregard for all the people who’ll be inspired by his film to go out and shoot left-wingers. And don’t be surprised if the security detail provided for Jezza conveniently disappears in the coming weeks and months. Because as we know, Italians and Irishers need no excuse to kill people. Thank god there are barely any blacks in the film – who knows what violent depravity it could unleash in those crazy bastards.
There are plenty of Jewish characters though, clearly put there to convince impressionable Zionists to become mob lawyers and put an even bigger target on the Labour leader’s head. But they fucked with the wrong messiah this time. Because Scorsese can recreate the deaths of celebrity socialists all day long, but it’s not so easy to snuff out a living, breathing legend. So don’t be surprised if when Jezza finally becomes PM in 2024 he immediately passes a law stating that no Scorsese film will ever see the inside of a British cinema again. In fact, I’d be happy for no movie not made by Ken Loach to ever see the inside of a British cinema again. Apart from the Dear Leader’s private home screenings of course, which will be exempt from the ban and showcase such Corbyn favourites as A Serbian Film, Thundercats: The Movie, and that 1972 public information film about the dangers of incorrectly sealed manhole covers.
With likeable penny-pincher Ian Laivery adapting to his new role as Jezza’s number two – feeding the PM a steady stream of kale popcorn, organic custard creams, and veggy sausage rolls imported from Gaza – these events will serve as both a warning to dumb Labour voters who defected to the Tories and a stunning rebuke to dark Hollywood forces determined to smear proud leftists as crooks simply because they like borrowing money from union coffers without paying it back.
With his career in tatters, Scorsese will be left with no option but to atone for his cinematic sins by filming Jezza’s long-gestating script on the life of misunderstood extremist Shakey Aamer, The Rage Of Innocence. Records will be broken, awards will be won, and a b-list director will be shown undeserved leniency and allowed to end his days stitching berets on the Thames floating gulag, reflecting on the people he offended and the lives he destroyed.
The last few weeks have seen more left-wing bravery than you can shake a shitty duffle coat at. We’ve witnessed St. Greta singlehandedly save the planet by skiving off school to do handstands on a yacht. We watched in awe as Jezza coolly despatched fuzzy-wigged fascist Andrew Neal with the simple tactic of refusing to answer a single question. And let’s not forget brave terrorist Osman Khan, who gave his life fighting off racist bullies who attacked him for no reason while minding his own business carrying out the popular Islamic custom of murdering people on London Bridge.
But even these jawdropping acts of defiance don’t come close to the sheer pluckiness of progressive comic Nish Kular, who somehow escaped unscathed last week after being heckled by a pack of rabid Tories and Brexiteers, one of whom viciously assaulted him with a breadbun.
Luckily, as traumatic as it was the whole sorry incident actually invigorated the left by shining a light on the brutal racism of Tories and Brexiteers, giving a huge boost to Labour’s election campaign. Don’t be surprised if tomorrow morning, thanks to Nish, Mr Corbyn’s loyal footman Owen is spotted stitching the names ‘Lovely Laura’ and ‘Jez Da Bomb’ onto the PM’s official No.10 bathrobes in place of ‘Blonde Bastard’ and ‘Little Miss Bucket Fanny’.
Of course, alt-right trolls were quick to minimise Nish’s ordeal by pointing out that comedians die on their arse up and down the country every night. But the difference is most of them are white and right-wing therefore they thoroughly deserve it, whereas Nish is liberal and Indian-or-something so clearly doesn’t. Sadly, he learnt the hard way what happens when left-wing comics step outside of their safe BBC bubble. They don’t deserve you, mate.
Needless to say, after cracking some clever gags about Brexit which went right over their bulbous heads, the toxic white audience turned on Nish, forcing him offstage with the help of the aforementioned airborne edible: doubly disrespectful when you consider that Islam views doughy baked goods as highly blasphemous. So well done, righties – as well as trying to kill a marginalised Muslim you’ve also condemned him to a bollocking from his Iman for being in the vicinity of a forbidden foodstuff. At least we now know who to blame when he turns up on Have We Got News For You with a missing hand.
Unsurprisingly, all manner of right-wingers jumped to the bullies’ defence. “It was a charity do for sick kids, not an episode of The Smash Report!” they bleated, as if the sickening event at London’s Grossvenor House was some kind of peace summit. I was about to say I hope the little shits choked on their gastric feeding tubes but as the rug-rats in question were probably the children of IDF generals I’d much rather they got bummed to death first.
Yep, in news that surprised precisely no-one, it turned out that the fundraiser was organised by a shady pro-Israel group, a group so shady and pro-Israel I neither know who they are, what they’re called, nor can provide a scrap of evidence to prove my entirely speculative claim that they had anything to do with the event. That’s how shady these bastards are.
Once aware of this unsubstantiated fact it becomes clear that the decision to ask a practising Muslim to perform was pure provocation, clearly designed to lure Nish into the Zion’s Den so they could humiliate him before fatally wounding the hapless funnyman with flour and dough. Because like all decent liberals, Nish’s only crime is to see the best in everyone, even imaginary Mossad agents using a children’s charity as a front to make Muslim comics look silly. Well if being a principled leftist makes one a criminal then kindly can arrest me now and throw me in a cell alongside an 18-stone bald lifer with fists like wrecking balls and a Top Cat tattoo on his left bum-cheek. Seriously, I’m not kidding. Lock me up and feed me to Big Brenda before I do anything vaguely progressive again. For the love of Sheeva, do it NOW!!
Thankfully the left-wing response was as supportive, compassionate, and transparently partisan as you’d expect, from fellow comics congratulating Nish on becoming the first Asian comic ever to bomb on stage, to concerned authoritarians demanding the savage crowd are arrested for assault with a deadly brioche.
But the reaction of the right was typically disturbing, as not for the first time devious Tory trolls cynically tried to curry favour with the public by masquerading as reasonable, mature adults. Which they achieved by going on Twitter and demanding Nish is sacked and arrested. Who do they think they are? Us?
They even ripped a page out of our playbook by taking a comment Nish made last month and pretending he said it at the Grossvenor to emphasise how thoroughly insulted the bread-throwing racists were and back up the campaign to have him nicked for telling jokes. Unfortunately this petty plan backfired as the gag they were so triggered by was actually edgy and erudite, which explains why it offended the Brexit-Boomers’ misshapen racist ears. Indeed, Nish’s wry suggestion that everyone go home and kill their Brexity parents was as on-brand as left-centric comedy gets, in that it wasn’t funny, contained no discernible punchline, and was a thinly-veiled variation on a far superior joke by a long dead comic. (Evil southern atheist Bill Hickson, in case you’re wondering. If ever a stand-up could do with having his material remixed by a genius like Nish it was this redneck loser.)
Predictably the righties pounced and accused Nish of incitement, blissfully unaware that left-wingers are incapable of it. Obviously if a Tory comic made the same gag about Remain voters he would want locking up immediately. But that’s because Tory comics are evil. And as anyone with half a Gender Studies degree knows, to suggest that Remain voters should be murdered is the most blatant example of punching down since Traci Ullman appropriated St. Jezza’s beard and mocked his jam-making skills.
And let’s just say Nish was capable of incitement and his comment was a genuine call for white people to slaughter their racist grandmas. So what? Is the fairly mundane observation that Brexit voters deserve to be shot or stabbed to death now considered a bad thing? Have we really come to this?
The same astonishing ignorance could be seen last week after a video emerged showing alt-right blogger Greedo Fawkes tricking an assortment of proud Corbynites into admitting that Jezza was an antisemite. What the brick-thick bigots rejoicing at this supposed ‘gotcha!’ failed to realise was that there is a simple reason these left-wing warriors thought the Corbyn quotes Fawkes read to them were antisemitic when they believed they were said by Boris Johnston: Jezza has been fighting racism all his life while Boris is a cunt. End of.
Because like Nish, Jezza is incapable of racism. He can’t do it. It’s literally the only thing he’s shit at. He’s not just anti-racist: he is Anti-Racism. (As well as Love, Tolerance, and Forgiveness.) You could spot Jezza at a Klan rally or a Mauricey gig and he still wouldn’t be racist. He doesn’t know how. Bojo on the other hand – more like BOZO! – just has to make a silly comment about letterboxes or use the langage of imperialism to mock Tony Bliar’s white saviour complex and he’s the most racist man on the planet. And a cunt. End of.
But this is what we’ve come to expect from the far-right: stealing our best moves and behaving as hysterically censorious as the most dedicated left-wing SJW. Luckily, they’re so stupid they don’t realise that this actually helps the left. Because right-wing internet warriors with a hard-on for hypersensitivity are basically leftists-in-waiting. Like us, they don’t really care about politics but they absolutely love being part of a group who hate another group. In other words: indescribably easy to mould.
Luckily the internet is chock full of people who get off on discussing politics despite knowing sod all about it, and they all love nothing more than an opportunity to send death threats to journalists. Latching on to this group over there as a means to be nasty to that group over here is practically a rites of passage in the infantile warzone of Political Twitter. And brilliantly, there are new converts every where you look.
Because with a bit of tweaking, even the very worst people – Tories, Brexiteers, lesbians – can be just as deranged as us. It’s not their fault they’ve chosen the wrong side, the poor saps, and we should treat them with the same compassion we would afford anyone else whose brain we’re planning to rinse. Which is a piece of piss when the thick twats you’re trying to turn have all the intelligence of an empty crisp packet. Thankfully, after Jezza cruises to victory tonight the indoctrination can begin in earnest, and any right-wingers whose tiny minds remain unswayed after six months of Labour rule will be put to work cleaning the Hide Park gulag or hung from a lamppost on Downing Street.
And the beautiful thing is it’s liberals like Nish – poor, traumatised Nish – who’ll reap the rewards as hordes of fresh-egg leftists flock to his gigs and laugh their backs off at his daring jokes about how frightfully awful Leave voters are. He may have to be quick though, as my Labour mole informs me that within weeks of reclaiming the No 10 throne Jezza plans to ban stand-up comedy altogether. It was only a matter of time. Apologies, Nish. In a perfect world we’d happy for the likes of yourself and Francesca Martini to carry on performing but the possibility one of you might revolt and crack a mild joke about Corbyn’s beard or change your mind about his bold economic policies once you’ve been forced to eat your own children is just too risky. Sorry, pal. I don’t make the rules, I just follow them.
However, all is not lost. Rumour has it that while Jezza has no intention of ever lifting the ban, there will be ample opportunities for ethically correct comics to perform at private banquets in Lord Jezza’s court, free from the prying eyes of the impressionable public who are so wild and unpredictable they’re liable to rob a takeaway or murder their own children if they hear so much a knock-knock joke.
Fear not though, Nish. I’m sure jezza will remember the sterling work you’ve done promoting left-wing ideology, as well as being eternally grateful for the way you selflessly swung the election in Labour’s favour by getting twatted on the head with a crusty roll. I’ve no doubt in time the honour of giving an intimate, behind-closed-doors show for the the Supreme Leader of Ukasia will become a sought after privilege. Indeed, give it a year and I’m certain these star-studded gala nights will be spoken about by leftist comics in the same reverential tones as Malcolm X’s famous “I have in my hand a piece of paper” speech. So keep your chin up, Nish. When the time comes to start hiring cooks, dishwashers and car valets I’m sure you’ll be at the top of the list.
There’s never been a better time to be a leftist. From Twitter to Facebook, progressive ideology is EVERYWHERE. But for all the great work done defending terrorists and indulging men in dresses – and despite the exciting prospect of Jezza seizing No.10 in time to cancel Christmas – the modern world remains a dangerous place. And nothing is more dangerous than US drama, an arena which should be brimming with more liberal values than a Holland & Barratts trolley dash. Sadly, despite living in a supposed golden age, American telly loathes the left. And recently two popular, critically acclaimed shows – one brand new, one mercifully finished – have grimly illustrated how intense this loathing is.
For anyone lucky enough to have avoided it, HBO’s The Affairs has been terrorising audiences since 2013. Over six seasons it followed the exploits of Dominic Cooper’s Noel Solloway and Kevin Pacey out of Dawson’s Creak as they wandered around the Hamptons drinking, fighting, and sexually assaulting mentally ill waitresses in sand-dunes. Women barely got a look-in – of the four leads only a derisory TWO were female – and the show never featured a single trans character. Indeed, to get an idea of how poorly it fared on diversity consider this: that the only penises in The Affairs belonged to men wasn’t even the tenth most offensive thing about it.
From episode one it deployed a crass framing device: splitting episodes into two and replaying the same events from different perspectives to explore the unreliability of memory. It doesn’t take Rose McGovern to tell you how problematic this is, and the swansong sixth season violently exploited the gimmick to stick two fingers up at #MeeTo.
But this was merely the show’s latest disgrace. From celebrating toxic masculinity to mocking campus culture the writers repeatedly courted fascists. They even promoted slavery by depicting privileged white Noel stepping out of his lane to date a black woman, though thankfully she came to her senses and dumped him for her militant ex-husband. I bet his cock was bigger than Noel’s too. (Of course it was: he’s black.)
The Affairs’ other crime was to suggest that adults commit adultery because they’re flawed and impulsive, when anyone with half a Gender Studies degree knows they do it because of the patriarchy or something. Especially women, who are so at the mercy of men they’re physically incapable of keeping their knickers on. Instead they’re brainwashed into casual sex and extra-marital trysts, forced to satisfy male desires on pain of death, divorce, or being made to wear a silly white bonnet. You thought being a Grid Girl or voting Tory was the epitome of internalised misogyny? Think again.
As well as making excuses for cheaters, the show also sneered at non-conforming relationships by promoting the outdated and deeply offensive concept of – urgh – family. So one minute it pretended it’s perfectly okay for men to plant their seed wherever they like, the next it suggested the world would be so much better if we were all straight and married with four white children. Cognitive dysentery much? Of course, such hypocrisy is commonplace in right-wing TV. Just look at racist sitcom Love My Neighbour, with its dishonest suggestion that an actual socialist would ever dream of ranting about “the sambo next door”.
Needless to say, the picture book Solloway clan – or rather, ‘klan’ – were as inclusive as a Tommy Robertson lookalike contest. The writing team pathetically tried to confect diversity by making one of the sons a noofter, blissfully unaware that no-one in the gay community wants to see themselves represented by a fat speccy kid. I’ll wager the privileged brat playing him was neither myopic, overweight, nor bent either. And people wonder why non-binary children get bullied. Contemptible.
But the final season was the most vile yet, the last three episodes dropping any pretence of liberalism and going all-out to promote a rabidly alt-right agenda. First it mocked #BelieveWomen, centring Noel in a storyline about historical abuse. Needless to say, it took potshots at internet outrage and cancel culture, siding with the abuser and demonising his victims. It did this by confirming that Noel had behaved in a creepy, abusive manner but also – shamefully – acknowledged that some of his accusers may not have had the best intentions. Disgusting.
The writers then insulted feminists everywhere by suggesting that while all accusations should be taken seriously, sometimes women lie. In 2019. Needless to say, one of Noel’s accusers was the ‘snowflake’ student who triggered him in season three. Sadly, she never got to say ‘screw you, Mr Rapeypants!’ as the writers instead punished her by suggesting she acted out of spite because he wouldn’t shag her and thought her writing was rubbish. Clearly HBO were desperate to claw back some alt-right cred after the attacks they received from nonce-apologists enraged by fictional Michael Jackson documentary Finding N$v$rland.
Which also explained their decision to fly in the face of science, reason, and James O’Brian by suggesting that traumatic experiences are inherited through DNA and this is why people behave badly. A shameful theory which conveniently ignores the much bigger role played by right-wing newspapers, right-wing politicians, and right-wing films about clowns. As you’d guess, the final season also saw the writers stick the boot into Hollywood and homeopathy, pausing briefly to mock the art and publishing worlds. Hmm, I wonder what it was about these staunchly left-wing industries that so bothered a gang of conservative hacks penning weekly love letters to fascism? It’s a fucking mystery.
Depressingly, the final episode ended with Noel’s ageing white male dancing on a cliff edge like a tit, consequence free, entirely ignorant of the damage done by his sex-crazed antics. So ignorant, in fact, he had no idea his old man make-up was about as convincing as the BBC’s attempt to smear Jezza as an antisemite by cropping the Thundercats sticker on his BMX so it looked like Eva Brown.
All in all, it won’t be missed. The Affairs is from a bygone era, before the world was destroyed by Trump and Brexit and put back together by St.Greta and Hannah Gatsby. A relic of the pre-woke world, its undignified climax was fitting for a show utterly devoid of dignity. Which made it all the more exciting that in the same week it ended Netflix launched its big budget comic book series Watchman.
On paper this adaptation of Bobby Moore’s graphic novel ticked every box: multicultural cast, diverse writing room, a hard-hitting story of resistance and white supremacy. What could possible go wrong? Everything. Because five episodes in it’s painfully clear this show is nothing but a trojan pony: the most sneaky piece of alt-right propaganda since The Colbert Show. And while the titular Watchman is yet to make an appearance, you can bet your bottom dollar what colour and gender he is. Because this show is so in thrall to Caucasian males it might as well be called Whiteman.
Sure, lead character Amanda is a black woman but this bold move is cancelled out completely by the decision to give her white children. Adopted white children. Yep, in Damien Lindelof’s twisted universe, marginalised minorities regularly invite packs of white supremacists-in-waiting into their homes because well, that’s what black folks do. Things take an even worse turn when we learn that not only is Amanda a police officer but the milky brood are her murdered partner’s kids. Because as we know, black women are just here to wipe the arses of white orphans whose biological parents are too lazy and dead to do it themselves. “Dem white folks was oh so kind, I jus’ cain’t wait to work three jobs so I can bring up dem poor lil’ mites! Massa’ Lindelof’s gon’ be so proud of me!” That Emmy-winning star Regina Queen would agree to star in such offensive tosh is obscene. Her character is also a masked avenger who goes by the name Night Sister but they should have just called her Mammy Marvel.
Needless to say, no prizes for guessing which actor from Miami Voice was offered a plum role. Clue: it wasn’t the brown fella. He had his day thirty years ago, that’s enough gainful employment for one black lifetime. Netflix are happy to make glossy TV shows about African-Americans but they can’t be giving them meaty parts when a hunky honky like Ron Johnson needs a job. Predictably, the show’s craven cheerleaders claimed that Johnson’s character’s whiteness is an integral plot point because the is-he-or-isn’t-he-KKK? narrative would make no sense if he was black. Whatevz. Clearly they never saw BlAcK kLaNsMxn, which proved conclusively that black actors are more than capable of playing white supremacists, thank you very much.
They’re more than capable of playing cops too, a slap in the face to POCs whose lives were destroyed by the pigs, such as Roddy King, Jessie Smollett and OJ Simpson. So bravo Netflix, you create a black character then completely undermine her blackness by foisting bigoted white kids on her and making her a rozzer.
Elsewhere, the show features a gang of mysterious cop killers but warps reality by making them white racists rather than misunderstood muggers or proud Antifa streetfighters. Like the Joker’s green hair, the killers’ iconic Scream masks have already inspired copycat attacks, but don’t expect Lindelof or Netflix to take any responsibility when the assaults, dead bodies, and hysterical CNN articles start piling up.
As offensive as that sounds, it doesn’t come close to Watchman‘s ableist, transphobic supervillain Doctor Hollywood. The giant bald alien has so far remained offscreen, though his problematic presence looms large, as does his enormous blue cock. It beggars belief that not one writer on this supposedly diverse show considered how his superpowers and enormous blue cock would exclude those of us with neither superpowers nor enormous blue cocks.
We are yet to see Hollywood’s enormous blue cock but have been treated to the sight of his promiscuous ex girlfriend marvelling at a not-quite-as-enormous dildo modelled on it, which is arguably worse. Because not only does it promote rapey consumerism to film someone using a sex toy shaped like an enormous blue cock, but the very existence of dildos is deeply offensive to transmen with drawers full of fake penises. None of which are blue or enormous. Or cocks.
So, having shoved the bad guy’s space-knob in our faces, the writers then sink even lower by reimagining the hero of the original comic as a posh psychopath with a penchant for birthday cake and mass murder. Alan Veidt – AKA blonde explorer-cum-crimefighter Ozymandela – successfully brought peace to the world by dropping a giant octopus on San Francisco and killing millions, a brave act admired by leftists as it confirmed our principled belief that the best way to bring people together is to slaughter them. But the TV show has sold Veidt out, making him in a privileged lunatic who spends his days riding horses, fishing for babies, and stabbing his servants to death. Yep, this is how Netflix repay the genuinely committed leftist who saved the planet: they turn him into a nutcase. Slow hand-claps, pricks.
And on it went, offending progressives, putting minorites at risk, and pissing all over the legacy of the book, which I haven’t read but know for a fact is waaaay better than the series. Luckily, this appalling adaptation is unlikely to endure as I’ve heard that among comic geeks the TV the show isn’t considered canon. It’s not even Ball.
Though considering the sorry state of US drama, don’t be surprised if it runs for seven seasons like The Affairs. No doubt Lindelof was emboldened by Dominic and co’s vile misogyny, his embrace of far-right ideology currying favour with President Pussy-Grab to ensure he personally greenlights another twenty seasons. And make no mistake, the white male TV scribes of the future are paying attention: taking notes, typing by tiki-light, and admiring Doc Hollywood’s enormous blue cock. The puffs.
In the meantime, like Watchman’s misunderstood socialist Roy Shark, all we can do is warn the world about the dire consequences of allowing these programmes to continue. Though fingers crossed that unlike the masked tramp-crusader we manage to tell humanity of its awful fate before before being vaporised by a giant blue Nazi. Or alternatively we could just tell Twitter how rubbish the show is and call anyone who likes it a Nazi. Yeah, let’s go with that.
‘Who watches the Watchman?’ Alt-right shitbirds, that’s who.
I hated The Joker. That’s right, I went there. Get me arrested for hate speech if you must. I’m past caring. Because if the last few weeks have taught me one thing it’s that there are times when speaking your mind isn’t just important, it’s absolutely vital. And after a month living in fear of abuse, cancellation, and burning dogshit posted through my letterbox, the time has come to say it once and say it loud: I hated The Joker and I’m proud.
That felt good. Not as good as watching Jezza demolish the Tories by losing an election to them, but definitely the second best experience I’ve ever had fully-clothed. After weeks of biting my tongue, to finally stick it to the haters is the definition of liberating. Now I know how self-help guru/professional mental patient Matt Hague felt when he risked ridicule by telling Twitter: “I don’t believe in astrology and couldn’t give a fig who knows it!”.
To go against the grain takes courage, the kind unique to social media liberals willing to say the unsayable no matter how many fascists they offend. And as everyone who read the bootlicking reviews knows, to even suggest that The Joker may not be the masterpiece the establishment tells you it is practically guarantees pile-ons, death threats, and funny looks at Klan meetings.
The silencing of those who saw through this vile film was so thorough that barely a dozen negative reviews were published. Indeed, the journalists who dared to speak out have been quietly ‘disappeared’, so determined are the alt-right to promote rabidly conservative propaganda via a sombre character study about inequality and mental illness. And judging by the media whitewash it seems they’ve succeeded. Indeed, if you didn’t know better you’d think critics and audiences loved the film. Which is why, after keeping shtum since its release, the time has come for those of us who detested this offensive flick to finally have our say.
And zoy, is there plenty to detest: gratuitous violence, culturally insensitive colour schemes, and aggressive demands that the audience feel sympathy for ‘comedians’ – currently the most dangerous people on earth. But the most hateful thing about Ted Phillips’ love-letter to fascism is the way it suggests that society turns white men into killers, when any idiot knows the thing that turns them into killers is movies like The Joker.
Not that you’d know this from the biased press coverage. Indeed, the average idiot on the street would probably tell you The Joker has inspired zero hate crimes or mass shootings and swear blind that since early October the streets haven’t been awash with blood, facepaint, and fake flowers filled with sleeping gas. For a whole month cinema goers have been routinely slaughtered during screenings of this terrible film yet do The Scum report it? Do they balls. At the performance I sneaked into twenty people were shot dead but surprise, surprise, the Murdoch empire smothered the story so efficiently even I didn’t notice. For all I know they shot me dead too.
But let’s ignore that and blame ‘poverty’ and ‘mental illness’ for making privileged white men kill, as opposed to movies about far-right supervillains. And newspapers. And ‘Go Home!’ posters. And big red buses. And all of those things the modern left used to hold dear but have now decided are bigoted, like free speech, democracy, and women having their own changing rooms.
Needless to say, the crass deflection and glowing reviews prove once and for all that the MSM has been hijacked by right-wing misogynists, such as the woman who gave it five stars in Premiere. It’s also been a box office hit, meaning everyone who paid money to see it has blood on their hands too. Yes, in 2019 there are still people who think it’s perfectly okay to enjoy a movie in which bad people do bad things. All the more reason then, to salute those brave journalists fighting for decency by praying The Joker will incite far-right violence so they can say ‘I told you so!’ the next time someone shoots up a cinema.
That the politics espoused by Phillip’s hatefest are pretty left-wing is irrelevant. The film’s message – that inequality and alienation can lead to antisocial or psychotic behaviour – may well be the same one promoted by everyone from Occutipy to Bernie Saunders but as all good leftists know, it becomes null and void when the antisocial, psychotic behaviour is carried out by straight white men. To suggest that marginalisation can provoke people into killing is deeply problematic in 2019, despite the fact that we’ve spent decades saying the exact same thing about jihadists.
And while reports of mass shootings and green-haired violence since the film’s release have been thin on the ground – ie ‘covered up by Mossad’ – the knock-on effect is everywhere. One only has to look at how the film’s most contentious scenes inspired the awful events of the last four weeks to understand the horrors this movie has unleashed.
Take the pivotal sequence in which our hero kills three men on the Metro. Critics went gaga but none of the privileged bellends praising Phillips ‘directorial flare’ or River Phoenix’s ‘acting chops’ considered the impact the scene would have on the impressionable public. Needless to say, weeks after the film’s release a pack of cockney thugs brutally assaulted a harmless Extinction Renegade protester for trying to save the earth by pissing about on top of a train and disrupting their precious commute. Yep, in the warped minds of greedy bankers and brainless Leave voters the destruction of the planet is nowhere near as dreadful as being late for work. We can’t upset bossman just because people who care have decided that combatting global warming is more important than capitalist drones losing their bonuses for bad time keeping.
At one time these animals would’ve simply tutted, spat on the floor, and written an angry letter to TheDaily Fail. Now, thanks to The Joker they’ve been emboldened to deliver street justice in the most fascistic manner imaginable. And who can blame them? If the mumbly dead fella out of Brokeback Mountain can dress as a clown and assault people on trains why can’t they?
But it didn’t stop there. Take the sad story of the 49 Japanese tourists who froze to death after being trapped inside a truck by a gang of Scum-readers trying to make a quick buck selling their organs to racist butchers. A horrifying story which led many to ask: what could possess a human being to do such a cruel thing?
Not me. Because I knew fine well what had possessed them. Like most sensible people, I instantly remembered that at no point in the film’s two-hour running time does a Chinee or Jap appear onscreen. Not only that, at one stage the clearly non-Asian Joker eats a ready meal which looks suspiciously like it contains noodles. In 2019. Sickening.
It doesn’t take a genius to make the connection. Erasure of Asians + cultural appropriation = Essex truckers murdering a wagon-load of orientals. It’s painfully clear these horrible bastards watched The Joker before embarking on their foul body-smuggling enterprise but will this be brought up in court? Will it knackers.
But it isn’t just normal folk who’ve been inspired by The Joker: world leaders are taking cues from the sharp-suited bigot too. The extrajudicial slaying of misunderstood ISIS leader Apu Bangra El Baggio initially seemed like a normal day at the office for the racist Trump administration. After all, it’s not like the US government need an excuse to murder brown-skinned men with beards and funny names. But the timing of this latest atrocity is deeply suspicious. Indeed, it’s obvious to anyone with half a brain that Trump was inspired by the scene in The Joker where the titular fascist mocks a dwarf.
Because what few people know is that brave El Bagdaddy was a somewhat small fella. Consequently, it doesn’t take Jessica Fletcher to deduce that Trump’s decision to take him out was influenced by Phoenix’s sick protagonist giggling uncontrollably while a work colleague mocks some poor little bastard. Clearly President Pussy-Grab loved this awful scene so much he just had to get in on the act, complimenting his love of bullying with a healthy does of Islamophobia by slaughtering the most high profile short-arsed Muslim he could find.
But it isn’t just the current POTUS who’s been prompted into evil by a mad midgetphobe with a deadly hand-buzzer. Last week St Barack of Obama sold out both his party and pigmentation when he attacked woke culture, breaking left-wing hearts by talking the kind of common sense that infests the grim wasteland known as The Real World.
Oh, Barry. We were happy to ignore all those immigrants you deported and Muslim countries you bombed but this ‘speaking the way normal people do’ stuff is beyond the pale. Though frankly, what did we expect? You’re a 59-year-old black man who desperately wants to be accepted by the establishment: even your baby mama was white. You’re a relic, too out of touch to function in the intersectional world. And unless you’re determined to tarnish your legacy for good I suggest keeping your right-wing rants to yourself. Okay ‘Bama?
Because for a supposed POC to take inspiration from such an abhorrent film is unforgivable, especially one which completely erases black women by giving roles to three of them. Even worse, Phillips thinks so little of these queens he kills one, objectifies another, and makes the third a cold-hearted therapist so uncaring she might as well be white. That Rocky & Bullwinkle star Al Pacino would co-star in such racially problematic filth makes a mockery of his much vaunted fondness for African-American ladies. Threatening to sock Trump’s jaw and telling Foxy News to go fuck themselves on breakfast television seems an awfully long time ago.
Of course, Obama was clearly emboldened by Ted Phillips’s identical rant in the jaw-dropping Variety Fair interview that offended liberals everywhere, some of whom had even read it. In the piece – a River Phoenix feature in which Philips’ comments took up roughly two paragraphs – he bemoaned woke culture and responded to a question about why he decided to make a serious drama by pointing out that nobody in Hollywood wants to make comedy anymore because they can’t be arsed with offended progressives on Twitter.
Cue an avalanche of criticism from offended progressives on Twitter, proving the shite director wrong by listing all of the great sitcoms currently being made in spite of ‘cancel culture’, cleverly ignoring the fact that Phillips was specifically talking about comedy movies, which they’d have been aware of if they’d actually read the article.
Well, guess what, Ted? You got your wish. The crawly-arse critics loved your movie, those of us who hated it are terrified to speak out, and the last month has seen your film inspire enough right-wing violence to guarantee a megabucks sequel is personally greenlit by Agent Orange. They’ll probably throw the wrap party at Trump Tower. And just yesterday it was announced that your magnum opus is the most profitable comic book adaptation ever. Well done! Keeping Lady Marvel off the top spot is the icing on the cake! Congratulations!
Thankfully, as the existence of this blog demonstrates, some of us are still fighting the good fight. Which is why I’m taking a rifle to the next available screening of The Joker so I can shoot the first white person who laughs. Sorry, is that not what you had in mind? Is it only women, minorities, and dwarves we’re supposed to kill? Silly me. Oh well, too late now, I’ve bought bullets and everything. Never mind, there’ll be as much chance of this being reported as Jacob Rees-Mug growing a conscience. I guess the only question is: how did you expect the public to react to a film which instructs them to kill people?