Feels Of Steel


Roseanne Pallett contemplates life, the universe and broken ribs.

By Ben Pensant.

As a proud progressive I have little time for mainstream culture. I stopped listening to Pearl Jelly the second their debut single Never Mind went to number one, I never read another Irvine Walsh novel after Hollywood butchered The Wasp Factory, and as I explained in A Play For Yesterday, I gave up on A Game Of Tits And Dragons during episode one when I realised it was available to stupid people on Rupert Maxwell’s Skynet channel.

So I’m as likely to watch Celebrity Big Jungle as I am to get out of bed before lunchtime. Or so I thought. Because like the glorious day when Linda Nolan and Janet Street-Preacher ambushed disgraced Olympian Victor Louis-Smith on Loose Fannies and demanded he apologise for forcing peaceful Muslims to send him death threats, wokeness is often revealed in the most un-woke places.

Which is why I found myself in the unlikely position of having my mind blown by reality show designed for working-class cretins with feet for hands. For as the Roseanne Pallett story played out I realised what I was witnessing: the #MeToo movement writ large on national television. Finally!

The campaign has recently taken a bump of course, after the accusation that hot Spanish actress Asia Argentina sexually assaulted a 17-year-old boy then bought his silence. Predictably alt-right trolls accused the #MeToo club secretary of hypocrisy for effectively doing the same thing as Harvey Wankstain. Which is utter bollocks for several reasons.

First of all Asia, unlike Wankstain, didn’t admit her guilt by coughing up a six-figure sum to shut up her accuser: she got her rich boyfriend to pay instead.

Rose_McGowan_TIFF_2008_Straighten_Crop-wikipediaSecondly, this young man is clearly not suffering the same level of trauma as Asia (left). If he was he would’ve carried on dating his assaulter and laughing in photographs with her like she did.

Thirdly, the only pieces of evidence that they had sex are: his word; her admission; the texts she sent admitting they’d had sex. For all we know the Russians made him say that, just like during the World Series they forced soccer pundit Alan Shola to spout pro-Putin propaganda such as ‘Moscow is a really nice city’.

And finally, her accuser is a MAN. A WHITE MAN. Last I heard the command was ‘believe women’ not ‘believe men too even though they’re liars and if someone assaulted one it was probably his own fault for being a man’

It seems Asia’s one mistake was to seduce the only straight teenage boy on the planet who thinks getting sucked off by her is a bad thing. But this didn’t stop misogynist trolls crawling out of their basements to claim she’d discredited #MeToo, disgracefully suggesting that instead of flatly believing every allegation we should perhaps wait for evidence before calling for penthouses to be torched.

Luckily, the right-wingers ate their words when ‘Corrie favourite Roseanne singlehandedly resurrected the three cornerstones of #MeToo: principles burnt on my brain since Roland Farrow shocked Hollywood last October with the incendiary article that wasn’t remotely a cynical attempt to re-publicise the wafer-thin accusations against his pretend father. They are:

  • Guilty until proven innocent
  • If someone feels they were assaulted, they were.
  • A hand on the lap is like a knee to the fanny.

Manchester-United-Man-United-Man-United-News-Ryan-Giggs-Wayne-Rooney-Juan-Mata-Anthony-Martial-Charlie-Nicholas-630768All of which characterised Roseanne’s claim that she was beaten up in the Big Jungle kitchen by brutish Hollyoaks beefcake Ryan Thompson (right), who covered his tracks like so many abusers by making sure he didn’t actually touch her when punching her repeatedly in the ribs. Gaslighting at its most insidious.

But even Ryan’s alligator tears, the footage proving he never touched her, and Ms Pallett’s swift exit from CBJ after hearing hundreds of socially retarded psychopaths screaming ‘ROSEANNE OUT!’ weren’t enough to ruin her moment. Because she exemplified the way #MeToo has empowered all manner of struggling actresses with long histories of lying and cheating. The only regret is that Roxanne didn’t accuse Ryan of clobbering her off-camera so she could have really fucked him over.

Predictably, Roxanne was forced to tour the TV studios admitting she was ‘mistaken’ and repeating the same carefully worded apology ad nauseum. Her transparent attempt to destroy a fellow soapstar was never acknowledged, Roseanne wisely sticking to ‘I genuinely felt he’d battered me six times despite the fact he barely touched me once!’. And it worked brilliantly, with hip trans-chick Paris Jackson and loud-mouthed scab Shirley Fogherty defending her on the grounds that it’s not our place to tell Roseanne how she feels. Even though we watched her take twenty minutes to notice the air-jabs which slightly brushed her body apparently made her ‘feel’ like she’d gone twelve rounds with Frank Tyson.

Still, though I loved their re-casting of Roseanne as the victim – and she’d never have accused Ryan in the first place if he hadn’t intimidated her with those sexually suggestive swimming trunks – I’d have loved to see her stick to her original story and ruining the innocent bastard. Because it’s time #MeToo got some bloody respect. Progressives rightly bang on about incitement when condemning right-wing pundits but where is the celebration of good incitement? If we can blame Katie Hopkirk for racist violence then why not give props to the feminist bruisers who’ve convinced women that a wolf whistle is as bad as a gang-rape?

Without their influence I doubt Roseanne would’ve found the courage to fabricate her assault accusation. Or double-down on it by claiming she felt she’d been assaulted even though she hadn’t. Because we all know if someone feels hurt then they are hurt, and anyone who disagrees should check their privilege, stay in their lane, and quit talking over people who think shadow-boxing is the same as getting pummelled.

Of course, maybe Roseanne couldn’t care less about #MeToo and is simply a horrible person who lied and cheated because, well, that’s what she does. But sod that. Entertain such dangerous ideas and soon you’ll be saying that rapists rape regardless of how many issue of Loaded they’ve read, or jihadists kill infidels because their holy book tells them to and will do with or without Western foreign policy. So let’s not.

brendanoneill-784x495Fortunately, in the CBJ house Roseanne had the support of that rarest of beasts: the progressive man who knows when to shut his pie-hole and listen to lying women. And amazingly she found two: Rugby star-turned-serial drink-driver Jermain Defoe and Ben Gardiner (left), the property tycoon who found fame by marrying someone he’d never met on television then being surprised when she binned him three months later after realising he’s a bit of a plank.

These two titans put Ryan to shame by fulfilling the requirements demanded by the modern misandrist: respect for boundaries; a desire to Do Better; the willingness to believe anything that comes out of a woman’s mouth if it increases the chances of getting her bra off. It also helps that one is a person of colour and the other wears eyeliner. And please, before anyone accuses me of playing identity politics, you’ll notice I didn’t apply the same logic to the other POC in the house: Highlands Hindu Hardeep King-Cola, whose suspicion of Roseanne from day one forfeited his place in my Oppression Mini-League.

From his crowd-pleasing Scottish accent to his cosy friendship with fat-cat fraudster Nick Neeson, Hardeep may as well be white: he sure as hell ain’t no Muslim, bruv. Listen up, Uncle Jock. You may think mentioning your religion and ethnicity every five minutes will endear you to leftists but I’ve got news for you – that pillowcase on your head is fooling no-one. Perhaps it’s time you remembered what happened to the last brown-skinned Glaswegian who sold out his faith by sucking up to his white Christian slave-masters…

And as for Ryan Thompson’s pathetic boast that he is ‘a quarter Indian’. Yeah, right, and I’m Malcolm Luther King’s great-great grandson. As the violent ordeal he subjected Roseanne to demonstrated, his Asian blood was diluted long ago: he’s all white now.

Sadly, upon leaving the house Ben and Jermaine were forced to recant their support for Ms Pallett, due to a combination of cowardice, right-wing pressure, and the dawning realisation that they’d both been played like fiddles and had more chance of fucking Santa Claus. Just two more in a long line of minorities whose voices were erased to preserve the twin evils of white power and toxic masculinity.

Luckily, the impact of Roseanne’s bravery more than made up for their betrayal. And I can’t have been the only one reminded of that other teary-eyed young lady who recently made the headlines after demanding the removal of a criminal. So I was delighted to learn of the new twists taken in the heart-warming story of Swedish airplane hero Ellen Eriksson (below).

37490102862_6f88e43961_bIf you’re anything like me you’ll have marvelled at courageous Ellen’s refusal to sit down on a plane until an Afghan asylum seeker facing deportation was removed. And you were probably also horrified by the alt-right bigots who immediately piped up with Islamophobic questions like ‘what was he being deported for?’, ‘how do you know he’ll be killed in Afghanistan?’, and ‘are you aware that Sweden has extremely liberal immigration laws and don’t deport people for just anything?’. Thankfully such attempts to discredit Ellen were roundly dismissed as bigotry, and she received support across the political spectrum from Diane Abbott to Caroline Lucas.

But amazingly, this tale is even more joyous than we thought. Because the truth has finally been revealed about the poor, misunderstood Afghan on the plane. And contrary to what the racist rumour-mongers speculated, he wasn’t a rapist or a terrorist: he’d been released from jail for beating his wife and children with an electrical cord. Indeed, when found by police he was in the process of smashing her head off the kitchen floor: a far more humane way of assaulting your partner than the barbaric British method of braining her with a tin of pineapple chunks.

All in all, I can’t recall a better example of a brave Muslim defending his culture in defiance of western prejudice. And whatever path his life takes, he’s earned his place in regressive hearts forever, along with the marginalised men who ‘assaulted’ those prick-teases in Cologne and the oppressed grooming gangs who introduced northern England to the quaint mediaeval custom of abusing children in chip shops.

Trolls suggested this proved why Ellen was wrong to stage her protest without knowing the full story. Horse-shit. The fact that she was willing to go to bat for a man who tried to murder his wife just emphasises her compassion. So what if she knew bugger all about why he was being deported: she felt he shouldn’t be which is all that matters. And how was she to know he’d been in jail? She’s a student for god’s sake: where would she find the time to learn about her own country’s immigration laws or come to the obvious conclusion that he’d probably done something quite bad and maybe trying to stop him being deported without the facts wasn’t the wisest move? We’ll leave such agenda-driven muckraking to the Islamophobes, thanks. Because ignorance is a virtue on the modern left: what you don’t know is waaay more powerful than what you do

happy family smiling
The Afghan wife-beater’s family celebrate his homecoming.

Of course, nobody wants to see him return home and have another crack at killing his wife and kids. For starters it would be terrible PR. But who knows, perhaps they’d benefit from being encouraged to resist immoral European positions such as ‘not being totally on board with getting strangled by daddy’. Either way, if he does it would be entirely on the authorities and nothing whatsoever to do with Ellen’s protest effectively granting him the freedom to commit murder. Young left-wing ladies don’t even have the power to earn the same as men never mind force them to slaughter their families.

Similarly, if he’d returned to Afghanistan and been shot dead the second he got off the plane that would be entirely on the authorities too, and nothing whatsoever to do with the gunman or the oppressed bloke who got himself thrown out of a liberal democracy for gracing it with the very worst aspects of the society he left.

Lest we forget it was us who corrupted that society in the first place, destabilising the Islamic world so thoroughly that its marginalised citizens were left with no choice but to brutalise their own people. And any idiot knows the Taliban were only invented because the FBI and Jim Rambo trained those well-meaning Mujahideenies to act as cannon fodder against the Russians. Make no mistake, the country he would’ve been forced to return to because the authorities couldn’t keep their noses out of a private family dispute is a hell on earth NO human being should have to endure. Just don’t call it a shit-hole, you racist.

All of which reinforces how right Ms Erikkson was. And while rumours persist that the poor Afghan gent will still be deported, let’s hope in the meantime he’s allowed to practice the traditional Islamic custom of beating the shit out of your loved ones without the fascist state sticking their bigoted beaks in.

But we should also praise the celebs and politicians who were applauded her protest a month ago: the same ones who said fuck all when it was revealed that the bigots who cautioned that in all likelihood the man was a violent criminal were 100% right. And god bless Ellen and Roseanne for proving that two women can make a difference. Whether accusing an innocent man of being a wife-beater or accusing a wife-beater of being an innocent man, these ballsy ladies demonstrate the way feelings continue to shape the conversations EVERYONE is having.

Emily Parkhurst would be soooo proud.







A Groovy Kind Of Love


The motivational poster above OJ’s desk in the Groovy Gang clubhouse.

By Ben Pensant.

It’s almost a month since Labour’s definition of antisemitism became headline news and the smears still haven’t let up. Which begs the question: why do Jews care what a movement led by a man who supports antisemites consider antisemitic? Would you ask an Incel to define misogyny? And why do people who’ve repeatedly slammed Jeremy Corbyn for defending terrorists suddenly expect him to adopt the IRA’s definition of antisemitism? Answers on a postcard.

But let them slam. As predicted by those of us with brains, Jezza is still standing, Labour are as strong as ever, and currently two hours have passed without a fresh smear. (A record, I believe.)

So for once I intend to write about something good. No, really. Sure, I could wax lyrical about Jezza’s immaculate beard all day long, I’d gladly spend 2,000 words laughing at all the white people who died this year, and nothing would give me greater pleasure than penning an essay about what I’d like to do to anti-Brexit crusader Genie Miller. (Though I’m certain if I did I’d be bundled into a police van before the spunk dried on my mousepad.)

Overall though, it’s far more satisfying to write about how shit everything is. But lately I’ve realised there’s much good in the world, despite the triple-evils of fascism, fake news and free speech. And there’s more good on the left than you could shake a shitty bike-chain at. Hence our beautifully batshit defence of Corbyn’s longstanding indulgence of antisemites, murderers, and antisemitic murderers.

For as the attacks on the Angel of Islington mounted, a small but loud posse of social media militants defended Jezza to the hilt. But more impressive than the lame excuses and wild obfuscations was the way they completely ignored the most despicable slurs, such as the foul, slanderous, demonstrably true claim that Corbyn once called a convicted Hamas terrorist who conspired to murder seven Jews ‘brother’ and suggested he should never have been banged up in the first place.

Sure enough, the second the 2012 Press TV footage emerged The Groovy Gang unleashed their Wenger Manoeuvre: a stunning trick popularised by Corbyn which renders leftists deaf, dumb and blind in the presence of antisemites. Taking a break from interviewing each other about how brilliant Communism, is, Groovy Gang founder Owen Jones and Lipstick Leninist Ash Starkers were first out of the traps, spending all day on Twitter discussing Labour antisemitism without once mentioning the Labour leader gushing over antisemitism.

Their refusal to acknowledge it was as much about protecting their leader as it was showing compassion for victims of stalking. Indeed, as Corbyn’s presence at the wedding of Holocaust denier Husam Zoom-Lolly demonstrated, Jezza is regularly followed around by anti-Semites; the poor bloke can’t even admire a manhole without a Hamas operative climbing out to ask for a selfie. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if Press TV accosted Jezza and built a TV studio around him while he was visiting the Southport Lawnmower Museum.

The Gang’s dedication to pretending this interview never happened was so successful that by lunchtime it had disappeared into the same memory hole as Jezza’s membership of antisemitic Facebook group Palestine Live, his appearance at antisemitic jamboree Al Quds Day, his claim that antisemitic Hamas are ‘dedicated to peace and social justice’, and every other example too damning to be swatted away with lame Saudiboutery.

Naturally, there were other smears, like Corbyn’s 2010 appearance at an event comparing Israel to Nazi Germany, cheekily scheduled on Holocaust Memorial Day. But it’s perfectly understandable that a man who’s fought antisemitism his whole life would spend the afternoon with people who think a tiny liberal democracy surrounded by countries that want to destroy it is actually a genocidal dictatorship. And anyway, how was Jezza supposed to know it was Holocaust Memorial Day? Maybe, just maybe, he was too busy evading the antisemitic stalkers who pursue him 24/7 to check his sodding calendar.

OJ briefs his team of Groovy Gang footsoldiers, none of whom had the heart to tell him someone had nicked his Sooty puppet.

Needless to say, rightwing trolls accused Owen of hypocrisy for defending Jezza’s appearance, digging up a 2017 piece he wrote in which he argued that comparing Israel to Nazi Germany was ‘unacceptable’. Yawn. Next you’ll be saying he’s guilty of double standards for trying to unseat Tory MP Ben Bradley because of something offensive he once wrote on Facebook but urging everyone to give Labour’s Jared O’Mara a second chance for doing exactly the same thing.

Smears dismissed, The Groovy Gang initiated phase two: minimising Jezza’s indulgence of antisemitism by arguing that other forms of racism are far worse. Indeed, if you look through history at antisemitism and Islamophobia’s respective body counts it’s clear the latter comes out way ahead, provided you ignore the six million who died in the Holocaust.

Far better to focus on Muslim genocide such as the Bosnian one in the ’90s. Of course, you shouldn’t research this period too thoroughly, as you might find out Jezza and co’s solidarity lay not with the victims of genocide but the people carrying it out. Still, it takes more than thorny allegiances to derail the narrative of worldwide Islamophobia. Indeed, it illustrates the resilience of Palestinian Muslims that despite Israel’s attempts to eradicate them their population grows every year. Take that, Netanyoohoo!

But what made the Gang’s defence of Jezza rock solid was the way they focused on the real threat: the British far-right, who’ve grown so strong that apparently ISIS are deeply concerned the EDL are one carpark demo away from usurping them on Interpol’s Top Five Most Dangerous Terrorists list. Indeed, it’s to the Gang’s credit that they regularly condemn the far-right while excusing Jezza’s support for people who couldn’t be more far-right if they came to the negotiating table wearing white hoods and whistling ‘Send The Buggers Back’.

A song familiar to Tory Zio Danny Frankenstein, branded a ‘racist scumbag’ by pint-sized Groovy Gang polemicist Gabi Wilkinson for his inks to the Islamophobic Gateshead Institute. Unsurprisingly Gabi received a barrage of Twitter abuse and disappeared like she always does after saying something ridiculous and getting criticised for it. Luckily, she’ll always know she was on the right side of history as the man she’s spent three years campaigning for would never dream of endorsing racist groups with unsavoury views about minorities.

But just as the smears were threatening to overwhelm even Jezza’s most resilient cheerleaders, Boris Johnston saved the day by being accused of dog-whistle racism for comparing face veils to letterboxes, which anyone with eyes can see is far worse than calling an antisemitic terrorist ‘brother’.

This happy accident allowed The Groovy Gang to take a break from ignoring Labour racism to do what they do best: accuse someone of bigotry for taking the piss out of fundamentalists. And they grabbed it with glee, passionately defending a Muslim woman’s right to wear whatever her husband likes. Which is exactly what Johnston did in his Torygraph article, though luckily none of those hysterically accusing him of Islamophobia appeared to have read it.

Predictably, right-whingers highlighted the Corbynite left’s ‘hypocrisy’ by equating Boris’s hate-speech with our cutting use of the word ‘gammon’ to describe red-faced racists: a pathetic attempt at deflection as anyone with a brain knows it’s okay to make jokes about the appearance of social conservatives, just not religious ones.

Even sensible centrists joined in to defend a woman’s right to wear what she wants, the same sensible centrists who six months ago were tut-tutting at women for wearing clothes middle-class feminists disapprove of. Clearly liberals would’ve been far more supportive of the Formula One Grid Girls’ right to choose if they’d just worn black cloths over their heads.

As usual, the racists weighed in with their nonsense about grooming gangs, conveniently forgetting that if these ‘children’ had had the decency to cover themselves up perhaps those Asian men wouldn’t have been incited into abusing them in the first place. How many teenagers get gang-raped above kebab shops in Afghanistan? I’ll wait.

All in all, Johnston’s buffoonery was welcome as it allowed us to take the spotlight off Jezza, attack a Tory, and turn social media into a modern-day blasphemy court. Jackpot! But it’s still a frightening indictment of our political class that a potential Tory leader could show such little respect for a religion that respects no-one.

A beaming, independent woman, yesterday.

Of course, key aspects of this story had to be avoided to protect the narrative. So we wisely ignored the fact that the niqab is worn only by a minority of Muslims, rejected by most and not even mentioned in the Kerrang. This allowed liberals to maintain the illusion that criticising the niqab is deeply insulting to ALL followers of Islam, despite the fact that many followers of Islam have criticised it. Luckily, when right-wing bigots smugly asked if this means it’s also insulting to all Muslims to criticise jihadists we were one stop ahead, as anyone paying attention knows we’ve already been saying that for years. Checkmate, gammons.

Sadly, the sneaky Murdoch press were itching to play their Trump card. So after days of Boris’s vulgar racism being the number one story everywhere from Twitter to Facebook, they cynically deflected attention by dredging up the ‘heinous’ spectre of Jezza – wait for it – laying a wreath for dead Palestinians. How dare he?

I won’t regurgitate the flimsy details. Far better to simply admire the brilliant response from The Groovy Gang, Skweekbox et al, who decided to change direction and tackle this one head-on, deploying a series of excuses which evolved into these simple bullet points:

  • Jezza wasn’t there!
  • Jezza was there but didn’t lay a wreath!
  • Jezza was there and did lay a wreath but it was for 47 Palestinians killed in 1985!
  • Jezza was there, he laid a wreath for 47 Palestinians killed in 1985, but accidentally laid it on a plaque commemorating three Black November terrorists!
  • Jezza was there, he laid a wreath on a plaque commemorating three Black November terrorists but they weren’t the ones responsible for the Monchengladbach murders!
  • Jezza was there, he laid a wreath on a plaque commemorating three Black November terrorists but they weren’t the ones responsible for Monchengladbach and even if they were so what!
  • Saudi Arabia! Jack Straw! SHUT UP!

And everything in between. To double down the smear merchants dredged up the irrelevant fact that the bloke standing next to Corbyn in Tanzania (Maher Ukankorleme Al-Taher) was leader of the PFLP – the Progressive Friendly Loveable Palestinians, peaceful activists not to be confused with the PLP – the Pissant Lickspittle Plotters. Apparently a month later the PFLP hacked four rabbis to death in Bethlehem though there is zero evidence for this other than the group admitting responsibility for it.

The press pounced on Jezza – as if the poor bloke was supposed to know who the PFLP are or that Al-Taher was their leader – before citing as ‘evidence’ Corbyn’s Evening Star piece clearly stating he’d met the leader of the PFLP, obviously written by an imposter.

Cue an avalanche of lies ‘proving’ Jezza’s antisemitism, from his suggestion that an Islamist attack in Egypt was carried out by Israel to his appearance alongside antisemitic terrorist Leila Khaledonia, the world’s first female plane hijacker. (And they call him a misogynist!)

Every instance of Jezza meeting Hamas members or sharing panels with Hamas members was cynically exploited to suggest he had a soft spot for Hamas members, when anyone who’s ever been to a Muslim country knows it’s nigh-on impossible to visit a terrorist graveyard without bumping into at least one Jew-killer.

Needless to say, OJ weighed in, justifying Jezza’s behaviour by pointing out that ‘no-one was ever killed by a wreath’. This echoed his tribute to courageous crime boss Winny Mandela, whose penchant for violence was excused by Owen when she went to hell in April : ‘The struggle against the murderous white supremacist apartheid dictatorship wasn’t won by sitting around humming Kumbaya’ he raged. Indeed, as everyone knows the struggle to emancipate black South Africans was actually won by kidnapping and torturing black South Africans.

What a GENUINELY dangerous wreath looks like.

But OJ’s words stung, especially when you consider ‘humming Kumbaya’ is pretty much his stock response when Islamists kill British people. And Winny shared Jezza’s love of laying wreaths too, though instead of on plaques she preferred to put them around teenage boys’ necks, and rather than thorns and petals they were usually made out of burning rubber.

Of course, cartoons have killed even fewer people than wreaths though that didn’t stop Owen crying like a baby because a New European caricature depicted him crying like a baby. OJ correctly deduced the paper had targeted him because he’s gay, rather than because every time he tweets, writes a column or appears on TV he’s bubbling about something. But their ‘joke’ backfired as OJ’s wounded ego bought the Gang a few hours of downtime to sharpen their weapons.

And sharpen them they did, with helium-voiced rabble-rouser Aaron Pastrami storming Sky News and denouncing Margaret Hodge for trivialising the Holocaust instead of denying it like a normal person. Aaron then focused on the cruel decision to deny the Black October terrorists an Islamic burial in their own country, something of an obsession on the regressive left; who could forget Yasmin Alibhai-Bullshit’s anger when murdered freedom fighter Osama Bin laden was dumped in the ocean by heartless yanks? (They didn’t even put on a halal buffet, the cunts.) Which, as well as being disrespectful to the great man’s legacy, was totally counter productive: they dropped Megadeth into the Atlantic at the end of Transformers2: Return Of The Go-Bots and he’s had more comebacks than Mick Astley.

And it’s this affinity with radical Islam that informs The Groovy Gang’s obsession with defending antisemites. Because much like Communism, they never envision Islamism affecting them negatively. Come the religious or political revolution the Gang will be the oppressors, not the oppressed. And with good reason: from Owen’s championing of LGBTQED causes to Ash’s boast that she ‘fucks like a champion’, they’ve earned their seats at the captain’s table. Because as we know, gay men and sexually active young women who criticise the government go down a storm in authoritarian theocratic regimes.

Until then, Jezza’s future is in good hands. Even Thursday’s ‘revelation’ that he performed a stand-up routine in 2013 for a who’s who? of British antisemites has failed to dent his popularity. And true to form, two days since footage emerged of Corbyn quipping that British Zionists don’t get English irony OJ, Ash and Aaron are yet to mention it.

Similarly, Corbyn being praised by National Front leader Nick Griffiths and KKK Grand Whizzer Daisy Duke on the same day was met not with horror but admiration for Jezza’s ability to cross the aisle and break bread with his counterparts on the far-right. At least I think it was; as of yet few Corbynites have mentioned their ringing endorsement and the Groovies wouldn’t comment on it if you offered to do their homework for a year.

Strangely enough, Jezza’s corrupt enemies could actually learn a thing or two from Nick and Daisy’s  willingness to focus on what they like about Jezza. If far-right bigots can overlook Corbyn’s love of Muslims but embrace his attitude to Jews, would it kill the Blairite bell-ends to ignore Labour’s antisemitism and get behind the leadership’s vision to regulate the press and destroy the economy?

Of course it fucking would.

Still, let them whine. While they’re crying into their lattes because the nasty man made a joke about Jews to a roomful of racists, we’ll be focusing in the important stuff: crushing the Tories, holding the media to account, and attacking a fat-tongued TV chef for mislabelling some rice.




Friends With No Benefits


Just one of the grisly exhibits at Friends Fest 2018.

By Ben Pensant

Two weeks ago Theresa May visited Newcastle. Yes, really. Not content with squatting in PM Jezza’s house for the past twelve months she also shits all over his proud history by delivering a sermon to the proles from the same venue that hosted one of his greatest triumphs.

Indeed, the assorted resting actors, non-binary creatives and unemployed craft beer entrepreneurs who witnessed Jezza’s triumphant rally on the Sagebrush carpark last year are known to speak of it in the same reverential tones as ageing punks reminiscing about that seminal Clash gig at the Soho Hippodrome in ’79.

Freya, a young friend from the Communist Party of Lowfell, summed up Corbyn’s speech in the starstruck manner you’d expect from a turbo-woke millennial with purple hair and a chronic painkiller addiction: “He was like ‘yeah!’ and I was like ‘yeah!’ and we were all like ‘yeah!'”. In fact, Freya confessed to me she was so bowled over by Jezza’s spine-tingling performance she celebrated by rushing home and sucking her own cock.

I bumped into another comrade that night who was still staggering around in a euphoric daze an hour after Corbyn had left the stage to a 20 minute ovation. Marcus told me had no idea what he’d just witnessed but knew he had to write a song about it. “Is this what heaven tastes like?” he mumbled between mouthfuls of mungbean tea, smirking deliriously as the ethically correct beverage dripped down his elongated chin.

Thousands turn out for Jezza’s seminal speech at the Sagebrush Arena

We hugged, Marcus assuring me of his commitment to crushing capitalism before adjusting his GoPro, fastening his Kashmir scarf, and hurtling down the road as fast as his Trek Madone 7 could carry him. (He would’ve stayed for the aftershow poetry session but had to be up at 11 o’clock sharp to show an Iranian diplomat and his 12-year-old mistress around the Baltic.)

But most memorable of all was the call-to-arms from the gravel-voiced immigrant orbiting the hypnotised crowd from a lamp-post while gargling with warm Merrydown, who yelled ‘AM GANNA FUGGIN BRAY THE BAZDA LORRAYUZ!!’ to rapturous applause before pissing on the back row’s rucksacks.

I’ve no idea what language this brave open borders enthusiast was speaking, nor do I understand the symbolism of the broken bottle wedged down his yellowy-brown underpants. (The temptation for grown men to shed their clothes in Jezza’s presence can be quite overwhelming). But Corbyn’s gift is his ability to turn weather-beaten middle-aged blokes into quivering wrecks, with little time for such fascist concepts as ‘words’ and ‘sentences’.

This swarthy traveller – let’s call him Ibrahim – almost stole the show, with his shaven head, olive skin, and satirical tattoos of tits and swastikas. And I’m certain he spent that night beaming with pride, albeit through mouthfuls of blood and broken teeth after jumping off the lamppost and smashing his face off the tarmac. Few of the lucky socialists present will forget the roar that went up as he tried in vain to kick the paramedic with his shattered ankle.

All of which underlines what a sick joke it was to allow such an iconic location to be soiled by Mavis May and her alt-right shit-show, designed to convince working-class wank-stains that Brexit isn’t the worst disaster since the Black Death but actually jolly super. The shame of knowing my home town had thrown down the welcome mat for this lying hag was almost as great that time I accidentally called Jacob Rees-Moog a man instead of a cunt.

The same crowd turn out once again to protest Theresa May.

Thankfully she was gone by nightfall, sent packing by the die-hard Corbynites who sacrificed an afternoon of shut-eye to don duffel coats and wave banners. Sadly, wicked May bribed the local press to publish cropped photos giving the impression barely anyone turned up. So rather than a huge crowd of courageous protesters, Chronicle readers were led to believe the demo consisted of two drama students, three Islamists, and that short-arsed orange-haired yank who looks like Tommy Pesci in JFK, wears a beige flasher-mac, and can be seen lurking in frame every time Corbyn is snapped ‘oop north. (BTW, Jez, he sends his love and apologises for what happened at your hotel in York. He hopes the lovely Laura wasn’t too disturbed to be awoke at 3am by a naked man crying, though perhaps you should tell her it goes against the spirit of socialism to keep someone so awesome all to herself. He’ll tell you all about it in person once he gets released.)

Sadly, the ink had barely dried on my incendiary ‘TAXI FOR THERESA!’ banner before an even more rotten freakshow rocked up, striking fear into the hearts of frigid Gender Studies professors everywhere. For that very same week, Friends Fest came to town.

Or rather, ‘Fascist Fest’. For the uninitiated, Friends was a white supremacist ‘sitcom’ that debuted on Channel 5 in 1992, turning a generation of vulnerable youngsters into racist, fat-shaming, transphobic, misogynists. I was 14 when it first aired but mercifully avoided indoctrination as I was too busy reading Marx and Ingles to watch a gang of rich white people sexually assault each other. Though I do recall lying in bed, trembling as my racist parents guffawed at the endless gags about foreigners and sang along with the godawful theme tune: ‘You wanna go where everybody knows you’re white…’

Channel 5 even had the nerve to schedule it on Saturday nights after the equally vile Fraser, which shamefully attempted to mine laughs from a Republican (Kelsey Grandma), his queer stereotype brother, and a crippled, corrupt cop. They even gave tried to normalise the latter by giving him a talking dog, for fuck’s sake.

Meanwhile Friends ran for a whole decade, warping young minds with its sordid blend of offensive jokes and Zionist propaganda, before being put out of its misery in 2006 when a new generation of Guardian journalists decided that what was previously considered a warm, witty show about as problematic as a petting zoo was actually the work of sinister gay Nazis intent on normalising eye-popping wisecracks about G-spots and sandwiches.

That the show featured a running gag about a character’s refusal to share food sums up its selfish, uber-capitalist mindset. And it’s no coincidence that the MAGA shit-lords who cast their maiden vote two years ago were gullible teenagers when Friends was in its prime. How the NY apartment block these privileged cretins lived in survived both 9/11 and the Roverfield monster is a mystery as perplexing as ‘who stole Ash Bukakke’s shoe?’. Though having glanced at the surnames of the shows’ creators, it’s a knocking bet the cast and crew just happened to be told not to go to work on those fateful days.

The Friends cast pause for a group photo en route to a Klan meeting.

Due to a combination of Reaganomics, far-right fervour, and a sextet of photogenic actors just itching to be wanked over by promiscuous westerners, the show was a soaraway success, with many of its most contentious ‘jokes’ going unnoticed at the time due to the fact that in the ’90s people were really stupid.

For instance, two decades ago no-one batted an eyelid at the casting of cisgendered b********l f****e Kathy Turner as a transwoman. These days, five outraged tweets would be enough to see her replaced by a suicidal flasher with hands like shovels and a written contract stating he must be allowed to share a dressing room with Angelina Aniston.

Audiences back then also had no problem with crude jokes about overweight people and how they all all deserved to die. Today the sight of Courtney Love mugging for laughs in a rubber fat-suit would have the botox-addled actress accused of incitement and forced to express solidarity with the big-boned by eating her own weight in Space Raiders.

And most revoltingly, in the ’90s a retarded Latin beefcake winking at ladies and harassing them in coffee shops may have seemed like harmless flirtation, but in 2018 would be the equivalent of flipping a woman on her back, spreading her legs open and bellowing “How you doin’?” up her fadge.

Which makes Friends Fest all the more inappropriate. For despite belonging to a forgotten era in which people thought rich white men pretending to be gay was hilarious, someone decided now was the perfect time to rebuild the sets from the show and take them on tour. And who could blame them? With the far right rising and comedy writers thinking they can mock whoever they like, there’s never been a better time to spread some nastiness. And what better place to bring this carnival of hate than Brexit Britain?

The entrance to Friends Fest was almost as disturbing as what lay within.

So after buying a bulletproof vest – after Jo Cox I take zero chances – I stole some money from my mam’s purse, nervously purchased a ticket, and made my way to Heaton Park to witness this fresh hell with my own eyes.

Approaching the site I was struck by the varied ages of attendees: children, teenagers, thirtysomethings and pensioners united by fascism. Then it hit me – they were nearly all women; the same treacherous harridans who voted for Trump and Brexit. And even worse, they were blissfully unaware of their own vulnerability.

So, mindful of the possibility that such an environment could conceivably incite me to commit four rapes before lunchtime, I immediately cleansed myself of all sexual desire by using the best method at my disposal: hiding behind a burger van and masturbating furiously three times in a row.

Amazingly, I got through it in four minutes 37 seconds – a personal record! – though it would’ve been much quicker were it not for the foul-mouthed bimbo who screamed and threw a can of Vimto at my bell-end. Luckily, her ridiculous claim that I was ‘playing’ with my ‘willy’ was given short shrift by the security guard, and despite her shock I’m sure the whole experience could prove invaluable to her when she starts big school.

Capacity to commit serious sexual assault removed, I made my way around the site taking in the micro-aggressive exhibits: a yellow taxi cab with the Indian driver erased; a settee halfway up a staircase, abandoned while the cast members wait for a black removal man; and most damning of all, that grim symbol of our money-obsessed ‘me first’ world – a coffee shop.

Central Nervosa holds its weekly anti-racism event.

Indeed, as well as fleecing unearned wealth from trust fund hipsters, this particular foul-smelling cash cow was modelled on Central Peak, the communal hub from Friends where characters would meet to discuss white power and laugh at Palestinian genocide. I won’t lie, the mental image of these brazen neo-cons slurping filthy lattes without a thought for the malaria-addled Tanzanian labourers forced to grind coffee beans with their feet brought tears to me eyes. Though luckily I managed to cheer myself up by remembering how Jezza’s ‘brother’ Abdul Aziz Umar dealt with coffee shops filled with Zionists.

Needless to say, the crowd that turned out were exclusively white. Sure, I spotted several blacks, the odd Asian, and even a couple of Muslims swanning around like slaves allowed in the big house for dinner. But much like St Jezza is politically black, these servile drones were basically white, as anyone with a liberal arts degree knows an authentic person of colour wouldn’t be able to afford a ticket.

All of which compounded the horror of this grim spectacle. Indeed, navigating the site with its grim colour scheme and painful memories I couldn’t help thinking how similar the experience was to visiting Auschwitz. The difference, of course, is that unlike the holocaust Friends actually happened.

So with trepidation I entered the main attraction: three living, breathing sets from the show. Knowing I was about to stand in the exact same spots where the most hateful images of the last twenty years were created made me nauseous, and I’m certain I’d have tipped over the edge completely were it not for the fistful of adderall I necked beforehand.

Johnny (Matt Bianco) stalks his latest prey.

First up, the ‘lad’s pad’ shared by Johnny, the aforementioned Latin sex-pest, and his wisecracking homophobic flatmate That Chandler. It goes without saying their lair is practically a shrine to misogyny, with its table football, fridge full of beer, and reclining rape chairs. Knowing how many sexual assaults took place in this fake apartment made me feel physically ill and I’d never have been able to forgive myself for setting foot in this chamber of horrors had I not drawn a cock and balls on That Chandler’s cushion. But if I though the horrendous sexism of these two alpha-males was problematic, nothing had prepared me for the yo-yo knickered sluts next door.

Monaco emerges from her dressing room having gone ten rounds with Tom Skerrit.

Because you’d struggle to find a pair of women more consumed by self hate than Racquel and Monaco. As I walked around the garish living room I winced, aghast at the multicoloured crockery, over-puffed cushions and bloodstained knickers. The thought of all the times these poor, hateful creatures were sexually exploited by everyone from Bruce Lewis to Magnum PPI brought my animal instincts to the boil, and it was only the fact that we weren’t granted access to the girls’ bedrooms that stopped me taking five minutes to re-purge myself.

Rees (David Schumer) daydreams about world domination.

Finally we ended up in possibly the most abhorrent location of the whole series, the opulent penthouse owned by lizard obsessed Jewish ‘scientist’ Rees. Needless to say, by this point I’d seen enough and no amount of plush furnishings, climate change denial essays or ornamental arab skulls could keep me in this godforsaken place any longer. Realising my delicate brain could take no more – and mindful of the suspicious glances security staff had been giving me since that 4-year-old Nazi verbally abused me behind the burger van – I bailed.

Bebe prepares to play a private gig for  her genocidal namesake Netanyahoo.

As a result I never made it to the abode of ditzy blonde Bebe, though I can only imagine what indignities existed within its walls having earlier endured her X-rated paean to promiscuity ‘Smelly Cunt’. However, I’m willing to entertain the idea that the aromatic vagina referenced in the song was a result of performative free-bleeding in which case: go girl! It’s a relief to know you aren’t all slaves to conformity.

But to anyone considering a visit to Friends Fest I have one piece of advice: don’t. If, however, you absolutely must experience the ordeal first hand I’m more than willing to help you cope with the trauma. Indeed, for the tiny sum of a warm blanket, two flasks of coffee and a three figure donation to a charity of my choosing I’ll quite literally be there for you.

Could I be more virtuous?









Good Mob, Bad Mob


Political Twitter’s 2017 Christmas do was a lively affair.


By Ben Pensant.

‘Welcome to the real world, matey boy. It’s a place where people are held accountable for what they say and do’.

In case you’re wondering, the ‘matey boy’ in the white-hot tweet above is knicker-sniffing Tory Toby Young, who recently crawled out of the sewer he’s been lurking in since that glorious week in January when his reputation was destroyed by the social media outrage machine. The author of the quote is one of the north-east’s sharpest minds, a proud liberal whose name I won’t mention as I was so bowled over by his caustic wit I forgot to write it down. And his target was the shameless stink-piece shat out by Young in the pages of alt-right hate site Quilliamette, in which the four-eyed toff bemoaned the fact that he lost a huge chunk of his income because a handful of left-wing people didn’t like some naughty jokes he made on the internet six years ago.

My heart fucking bleeds, slaphead.

The ballsy riposte was just one of hundreds that told Young where to stick his self-pity, though this one in particular cut to the core of what the modern left are all about with scalpel-like precision. Because when this proud Geordie says ‘the real world’ what he actually means is ‘Twitter’, a place where people aren’t only held accountable for what they say and do but also for what they don’t say or do. Or as Young found out, for stuff Polly Toynbee and Owen Jones pretend they say and do.

None of which bothered our truth-bomb detonating northern correspondent. An informed, educated liberal, there’s no way he would make such sweeping judgements about Young without first reading the sordid articles that sealed the bald fascist’s fate. In fact I’m certain he’ll have re-read them several times, just to be sure. Because that’s what informed, educated liberals do, dummy.

Young takes a break from thinking about breasts to toast Josef Mengele.

So it stands to reason he knows fine well Young isn’t a eugenicist, doesn’t hate the disabled, and has no desire to stop working-class students from entering higher education. He’ll be fully aware Young is none of the things he was hysterically accused of being but will have sensibly decided the vile Punch hack deserved to lose his job anyway.  That Young has helped secure scholarships for numerous kids from disadvantaged backgrounds and is a patron of the care home where his disabled brother lives will have been digested, dismissed, and deemed far less important than a snooty essay from thirty years ago or a tweet about an MP’s titties.

Because we can’t go around holding people accountable for the good stuff they say and do. Not when they’re Tory Brexiters with a habit of provoking joyless left-wingers by saying stuff they disagree with. That won’t do.

So like the thousands of other brave progressives who decided because they didn’t like Young that made him an evil misogynist intent on sterilising the homeless and bulldozing wheelchair ramps, this northern star simply ignored the decent things Toby has said and done and focused on the bad things he hasn’t. (We can discount the possibility that he actually knows bugger all about Young and just sided with the mob because Toby’s a Tory. An informed, educated liberal would never do that.)

How our hero would react to losing his livelihood because a tiny gaggle of curtain-twitching nobodies accused him of saying stuff he didn’t say isn’t clear. Nor do we know what the various painters, musicians and stylishly bearded creatives who retweeted his comment would think if it were them being publicly shamed for making lame gags about knockers. But it’s refreshing to know that those at the cutting edge of the arts are in favour of punishing people for offending polite society. And anyway, Good People don’t need to worry about being publicly shamed for making lame gags about knockers as Good People don’t make lame gags about knockers. Simples.

Or so I thought. But as illustrated by the recent witch-hunt against left-wing filmmaker Jamie Gunn, even the Good People aren’t safe…


‘Nice Guy’ Ben, yesterday.

Let’s be absolutely clear, when indie movie mogul Mike Duplass tweeted that conservative shit-stirrer Ben Chappelle was a ‘nice guy’ he crossed a line. I’ll happily admit I don’t know the slightest thing about Ben but I do know he’s a Nazi. And not just any old Nazi but a Jewish Nazi, the very worst kind. That he also wears a silly cap, moonlights as an ambulance-chasing lawyer, and is a key member of alt-right network The International Black Widows just reinforces how misguided Duplass’ endorsement was.

Needless to say, within hours the actor was hit with a barrage of justified bile, as people he didn’t know expressed their anger at the actor for having the nerve to like someone they don’t. Indeed, his problematic plea to followers to ‘cross the aisle’ and follow shifty Ben on Twitter was met with an avalanche of hatred that would have flattened lesser men. But as the insults, death threats, and petitions to boycott This Is Us mounted, Duplass found the mental strength to use the faux pas to his advantage and did the one thing guaranteed to melt leftist hearts: He caved in to the mob.

In these selfish times it takes immense courage to admit you were wrong. But it requires King Kong-sized cojones to thoroughly abase yourself for the benefit of a handful of brain-damaged pitchfork wielders you’ve never met.

So by teatime it was smiles all round as Duplass was inundated with warm wishes by the same people who hours earlier were demanding his banishment to the same tinseltown sin bin as Roseanne Connors. See, apologies are like catnip to the modern left and the Buckethead director’s courageous apology taking back everything he’d said about ‘nice guy’ Ben had left-wing social media pawing, licking, and rubbing their sex bits against it with self-righteous glee. And the party would have continued if it weren’t for well-meaning Gunn weighing in with a sterling defence of Duplass.

Mindful of the situation’s delicacy, Gunn wisely added the caveat that while he was supportive of Duplass he hated Ben Chappelle and found his politics disgraceful, just in case anyone thought the Sliver auteur was also a Nazi. Gunn understandably felt he was on safe ground, having spent the last few years being vocally anti-Trump: a courageous position for a filmmaker to hold in this current climate when only 99.9% of Hollywood agrees with you.

So his previous good behaviour was just about enough to keep the mob off his back. But what Gunn hadn’t banked on was the reaction of the other mob. For unbeknown to him, a sinister and extremely dangerous group have recently  sprung up to shamelessly rip off the principled methods of the regressive left because they’re too intellectually bankrupt to think of their own. Yes, I’m talking about that ungodly internet phenomenon, right-wing SJWs.

Some deluded ‘non-partisans’ have pathetically tried to claim this is what happens when deranged activists use illiberal tactics, that sooner or later equally deranged counterparts will pop up and start doing it too. But this piss-weak analysis ignores an important fact: these tactics are only illiberal when the right use them.

Gunn with one of the blind puppies he recently rescued from Wok This Way, Scunthorpe.

Needless to say, it  didn’t take long for Nazi spies to dig up an assortment of harmless jokes Gunn made about paedophilia, and before the ink was dry on his obligatory apology Sony’s arse fell out and they fired him as director of upcoming sci-fi comedy Defenders Of The Earth 2.

So when we were supposed to be honouring Mike Duplass for courageously bowing down to a tiny minority of left-wing freedom fighters, instead we were furious at Hollywood for gutlessly bowing down to a tiny minority of fascist fuckwits.

But the most infuriating aspect is that it was beginning to look like Hollywood was finally getting this stuff right. Sadly, mere weeks after bosses correctly removed Scarlett Johannesburg from a transgender gangster biopic because she’s never owned a cock and balls, they undo all that good work by firing a decent liberal for cracking jokes about bumming young boys. I don’t know what rankles more, the brazen inconsistency or the thought of a poor progressive’s career ruined because of some off-colour gags they once made on Twitter.

Predictably, right-wing trolls suggested there was more to the story, citing a film hosted on Gunn’s personal website which allegedly featured underage sex and was forwarded to him by a convicted paedophile. But frankly this was all hearsay and until I see the video with my own eyes I refuse to believe it exists. And please, if you have a copy don’t even think about sending me a DM on Twitter, emailing a link to benspunkypants@yahoo.com, or leaving a DVD in a camouflage jiffy bag beneath the sycamore tree on Benton cemetery between the hours of 1 and 3 am. You’re wasting your time, not mine.

So this is what we’re up against. Everywhere you look, the alt-right are using our censorious tactics against us and it has to stop. NOW. Because we can’t let the best thing about social media become the absolute worst.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s undoubtedly a good thing that a grubby corner of the internet most people couldn’t give two shits about has the power to force a Hollywood studio to fire a director. And every brave Gender Studies professor who’s ever sent a furious tweet or started an online petition has successfully earned the right to be mentioned in the same breath as Malcolm Luther King and that Rosa wife who threw herself under a bus.

But when this modus operandi starts being abused by the wrong kind of people you know we’re in trouble. Public figures and companies folding under the weight of honest-to-goodness left-wing activism is admirable and necessary. Doing it because of vindictive right-wing pressure is disgusting, cowardly and a stain on society.

If we’re to preserve the noble leftist tradition of hounding people for saying stuff we don’t like we can’t allow the right to do the same. It’s an attack not only on liberal values but our Marx-given right to be raving hypocrites. And the second we allow the likes of Ken Cernovich or Mary Joseph Watson to behave exactly like us we upset the very fabric of social media. Because the last thing the world needs is for people to start doubting the importance of Political Twitter. Go down that road and before you know it they’ll realise it’s nothing more than a worthless platform for left-wing cretins to wave their cocks at right-wing cretins while trying to get each other sacked.

So by all means laugh at Toby Young, celebrate the hits taken to his bank balance, and bask in the warm glow of knowing that you contributed to a mildly right-wing gobshite being denied a seat on an educational board that no-one outside of Westminster gives a flying fuck about.

But spare a though for Jamie Gunn: alone, frightened, banished. And all because a ragtag of alt-right rabble-rousers can’t handle rape jokes, think it’s up to them who directs the next Justice League film, and were happy to hound a man whose only crime was being a principled liberal who enjoys a bit of banter about child porn.

Still, he’s white. He’ll bounce back. Pity the same can’t be said for Bill Crosby and OJ Simpson.

What a fucking world.




Jezza takes a well-earned break from fighting all forms of racism to enjoy a reacharound from the ghost of Brian Connolly.


By Ben Pensant

Pop Quiz:

Who harassed a marginalised WOC for supporting someone who believes Jews want to turn black men gay?

Who smeared PM Corbyn as an antisemite just because he was a member of an antisemitic Facebook group?

Who accused the Dear Leader of being a Putin stooge before sneakily making him appear more Russian by digitally altering his iconic Lenin cap to make it look slightly blacker?

And who staged a terrorist attack in a Sainsbury’s carpark which used Russian nerve gas, targeted a former Russian agent, and deployed decidedly Russian tactics that couldn’t be more Russian if a signed photo of Putin straddling a unicorn in nothing but a cossack hat was left at the crime scene?

If it isn’t blindingly obvious, the answer is The Zionist lobby, that multi-tentacled diabolical goylem controlling the BBC, CNN, IBM, REM and the so-called International Space Station which is actually on a private beach in Tel Aviv. (You think it’s a coincidence that the spaceman off The Big Ben Theory just happens to be a friend of Saul? Yeah, right.)

And boy, have they been busy bees, with #WomensMarch organiser Tamika Malloy one of the latest leftists to fall under the sinister Zio glare, as apartheid apologists worldwide got their kosher knickers in a twist after she attended a rally by Nation Of Islam leader, racist Jew-hater and all-round good egg Lucas Farrakhan.

Like #WomensMarch co-founder Linda ‘Cockrat’ Sarsour, feminist Tamika is a long-time admire of Farrakhan, no doubt enchanted by his habit of banning women from speeches, urging them not to wear short skirts, and suggesting they should abandon their careers to stay at home and look after their husbands.

Predictably, right-wing trolls pounced, slandering Tamika as a hypocrite for claiming to fight racism and misogyny while prasing a racist misogynist. Because as we know, black women aren’t allowed to hold unpopular opinions, especially ones that look favourably on someone who once called Hitler ‘a great man’.

Unsurprisingly white supremacy triumphed and Tamika was forced to explain herself in a rambling series of tweets, reaffirming her commitment to opposing bigotry while refusing to condemn the bigot she’d been photographed laughing and smiling with.

But the Zeds wouldn’t let it go, clearly rattled that a black woman had upset the neoliberal applecart by thinking for herself, speaking her mind, and defending a bloke whose version of Islam is so illogically batshit it makes the Qur’an look like A Brief History Of Time.

Still, she stood her ground, surprising no-one by claiming that the criticism she received was because of white privilege or something. A clever tactic seized upon by her cheerleaders, who deflected claims that Farrakhan is no different to white supremacists like Daisy Duke by pointing out the NOI leader lacks the systemic power of the KKK’s Grand Lizard.

Indeed, the closest to systemic power Farrakhan ever gets is when he’s indulged by an assortment of Democrats, such as the marginalised black man who sat in the White House for 8 years. If only Lucas could have enjoyed the systemic power of the widely despised Duke, whose growing army of white-hooded racists would struggle to fill the away end at Croft Park.

Unlike Farrakhan’s fans, who turn out in their droves to hear him speak passionately about The Jewish Problem. And it isn’t just fringe progressives like Tamika who can’t get enough of the cuddly racist; he’s also much loved by Hip-Hop stars past and present including Vanilla Ice and Griff D.

Both of whom were clearly drawn to Farrakhan’s enlightened views on white people. And it’s to Tamika’s credit that while she was at great pains to excuse Farrakhan’s antisemitism, misogyny and homophobia, she and her cheerleaders were perfectly relaxed about his belief that caucasians are a race of devils created in a lab by a mad scientist.

Similarly, left-wing supporters of Tamika who were more than happy to quote the Southern Poverty Law Centre when it called Maajid Johnson an extremist were remarkably quite about the SPLC’s classification of the Nation Of Islam as a hate group.

And that’s because the only way to defeat the Zios is to stoop to their level. Then play even dirtier. We may never know what drew a Hamas-supporting theocrat like Linda Sarsour to support a virulent bow-tied antisemite but who cares? As a Muslim woman and a black man they’re both given a pass, despite the fact they couldn’t be more illiberal if they slit Caitlyn Jenner’s throat and threw her off Stone Mountain while singing Throw The Jew Down The Well.

And it’s thanks to these competing narratives of victimhood that Tamika received widespread support, most touchingly from Shaun King, who proved once again that not all white people are evil. But while it’s all good and well showing solidarity with obscure feminists let’s not forget the many Democrat politicians and former Presidents who’ve also spent years supporting Farrakhan. Because as you’ll see, if we’re to destroy Ziopremacy we’re gonna need all the help we can get.

So with Tamika chewed up and spat out they sunk their teeth into the Angel of Islington. Well, they get itchy beaks if they go more than a week without pecking at him. And the latest assault had the desired effect, convincing braindead Sun-readers that actually, the kind, gentle man leading us out of the darkness is not our saviour but a vicious anti-Semite with a tattoo of Putin’s face on his stomach. Who knew?

And boy, did they aim low, demanding Corbyn explain why until 2015 he was a member of Palestine Love, the secret Facebook group where a diverse bunch of antisemites, Islamists and antisemitic Islamists congregate to discuss everything from the New World Order to Ashgar Bukakke’s missing shoe.

The answer, of course, was simple: while Corbyn was a member he never saw any anti-Semitism, but also left the second he saw some antisemitism. Clean, concise logic yet it still confused pea-brained trolls unversed in cognitive dissonance of the modern left.

But the Zio hounds weren’t having it, gunning for fellow leftists who were also ‘dragged in’ to the group, such as pie-faced economist Paul Mason. Luckily he deflected the attacks on his character like an old pro by saying fuck all and changing the subject. Indeed, when Mason’s membership of the group was revealed he cheekily spent the day bragging about a meeting he attended in Warsaw on Holocaust revisionism. Which funnily enough, is also a hot topic over at Palestine Love. Though only when Paul and Jezza aren’t looking, obvs.

All of which rattled the Zio press, as their vile, slanderous and demonstrably true claims were roundly ignored by people who usually never miss an opportunity to condemn the far-right. Luckily, Corbynites are renowned for their humour, and professional gobshite Aaron Pastrami couldn’t resist breaking the embargo to deliver this absolute sick burn to the Wicked Witch Of Downing Street:

‘I’d say journalists should check out what groups Theresa May might be in, then I remembered this is someone whose idea of a hobby is reading the telephone directory’

Ouch! May can only dream of being as interesting as Aaron, someone who said Labour losing an election was the best night of his life and whose idea of a hobby is hero-worshipping a 68-year-old man.

But aside from that zinger, Aaron kept a low profile. Though not as low as Owen Jones who still hasn’t mentioned Palestine Love despite his recent outrage at vile Tory Dominic Raab for being a member of a secret Facebook group where right-wing ghouls debate sending people to workhouses. Owen wisely ignored the flimsy accusations of hypocrisy as any idiot can see a bunch of creepy Tories discussing the privatisation of council houses is infinitely more sinister than paid up members of the Labour Party accusing The Jews of orchestrating 9/11.

But as with Venezuela and Al Quds Day, what Owen doesn’t say is worth a thousand words. Luckily, the story soon fizzled out, though not before the Zios lined up their next smear, one which OJ would have a lot more to say about. And true to form, when the BBC disgracefully photoshopped a picture of the Dear Leader to make his hat look more Russian, Owen defended Jezza’s honour with passion, commitment and a bucketful of Oxbridge tears.

Indeed, Jezza’s scathing speech to Parliament clearly took its cue from Owen’s identikit Guardian piece which first brought up the entirely unrelated issue of Russian oligarchs funding the Tory Party. His moving column raged against silence from right-wing commentators, no mean feat for someone yet to comment on his hero’s membership of a Facebook group for people who believe shady Jews harvest the corpses of Syrian children.

But it was Jezza’s refusal to accept the Russians may have been responsible which led to the BBC smearing him as a friend of Putin simply because the Dear Leader has spent years going out of his way to avoid criticising him. And to make matters worse it came after the BBC had excelled themselves by completely ignoring the latest tiresome grooming scandal for two days despite the fact it was plastered all over virtually every newspaper.

Of course, they bowed to pressure eventually, inviting one of the Telford ‘victims’ onto The Eileen Derbyshire Show to attack the marginalised Muslims she incited into raping her, AND giving the story prominent coverage on the BBC website just below reports on the death of a 99-year-old comedian and a beagle doing something cute at Krafts.

But still the Islamophobes whined, as if that wasn’t more coverage than this non-story deserved. Indeed, they should be grateful it was reported at all, as it would’ve been cut altogether if something more newsworthy had happened, such as Theresa May pumping during PMQs and blaming it on Jezza.

But I get why they did it. Tories and Zios are simple folk, easy to manipulate despite controlling the entire world. The best way to defeat them is to make them think they’re winning while covertly raising awareness about the much more serious issue of teenage temptresses turning Muslim men into child-abusers.

But if recent history has taught us anything it’s that every time the BBC get something right they go on to get something hideously wrong. True to form, following the Sainsbury’s attack the Zio lobby’s BBC shills doubled down. Which surprised no-one: Lest we forget, this is the channel that broadcast a documentary in 2003 alleging JFK patsy Lee Harvey Osborne was a lone gunman (!). And don’t get me started on those shitty idents propagating the offensive idea that the earth is a sphere (!!). What the sheeple want, the sheeple get.

Needless to say, Owen Jones leapt to Jezza’s defence with a ubiquitous urgency not seen since the last time someone said something beastly about his most favouritest politician ever. Indeed, the way OJ tore through TV studios was reminiscent of that glorious week in 1991 when Nirvana rocked The Word, Top Of The Pops and The Jonathan Ross Show, provided you swapped huge riffs and ripped jeans for hissy fits and cunt-jackets.

But to be frank, this is getting rather tiresome now – some might say ‘old hat’.  Which is why Owen bravely drew a line under the issue, sick to his milk teeth of talking about it despite the fact it was him who brought it up. It had nothing whatsoever to do with the widely circulated proof debunking the wobbly claim that Jezza’s hat was darkened and stretched to make it look more Russian.

And his desire to move on was in no way connected to the fact that two leading proponents of The Hat Theory – Craig Murray and John Clarke – turned out to be wacky conspiracy theorists with some predictably eccentric ideas about Israel and Jews. If your broadband repeatedly went tits-up this week don’t panic – it was caused by the most frantic mass deletion of retweets by leftists since Brendan Cox admitted to being a handsy sex-case.

But that didn’t stop us demanding an apology from the BBC for doing something only a handful of cranks believe they did. We’re still waiting but mark my words, when it comes it’ll be every bit as sweet as the last time we made someone say ‘sorry’ for something they didn’t do. Fingers crossed this starts a trend and Obama apologises for Sandy Hook, Stanley Kubichek admits he faked the moon landing, and the Zio lobby hold their hands up for 9/11, the Kennedy assassination and murdering that alien out of the Ant & Dec film.

Until then, we just have to keep fighting. And happily, there are encouraging signs that the golden utopia in which people are banned from saying stuff we don’t like may become reality sooner than we think, with Scottish YouTube villain Count Dankula – or as I call him, CUNT WANKULA – having been rightly found guilty of a hate crime for teaching his dog to do a Hitler salute. Good.

And in news that will surprise no-one, while Tamika and Jezza are smeared as antisemites for associating with antisemites, a man who isn’t an antisemite but pretended to be one for a laugh becomes the far-right’s latest free speech martyr. Remind me again who the hypocrites are?

But let them have their little strop. The more mud they sling the more powerful we become – see how the assault on Tamika brought new fans into her tight-knit community of brain-damaged Democrats and thick-as-shit celebrities. And as for Corbyn, do you really think he’d let their petty slurs ruin his week? Please. It’ll take more than lies to bring our man down, as demonstrated by the cool way he weathered the whole sorry storm by chillaxing with his bunnies at the Absolute Boy Mansion:


And for the record, the rumour swirling through social media that the lady on the right woke up the next morning to find Jezza showing her off to his mates is entirely without foundation. He was simply trying to unlock her talent, m’lud.

Stick that in your pipe and smoke it, Bibi.

UPDATE: As if to prove my point, within hours of publishing this piece Mossad sent a time-travelling alien back to 2012 to hack Jezza’s laptop and plant a message on his Facebook page praising an antisemitic mural.

Not only that, on their way back they stopped off in 2015, deploying their Jewish Chronicle co-conspirators to report the Dear Leader’s words and ask the Labour Party for comment; all orchestrated to give the disgraceful impression they’d spent the last three years ignoring the story and hoping it would go away.

Which it would have had the Zios not rubber-stamped their diabolical plan by brainwashing evil Blairite MP Luciana Furburger into exhuming the whole fabricated piece of fiction yesterday morning.

Luckily, Corbyn’s people are old hands at deflecting demonstrably true accusations – especially ones concocted by Israeli timelords – and issued a statement denying any knowledge that the mural was antisemitic, Jezza’s eyes having suffered the same temporary failure they did when he was posting on Palestine Love or giving speeches surrounded by terrorist flags at Kill Jews Day.

Needless to say, Owen Jones spoke for all of us when he tweeted his ‘relief’ that Corbyn had offered a detailed explanation, delighted that the leader of the opposition and his team of advisors had spent hours working on a press release which effectively said ‘I’m not antisemitic – I’m just thick as fuck!’.

And few could doubt the claim that his appreciation for the mural was purely a free speech issue. Indeed, we expect no less from a man who spoke out against the Danish Mohammed cartoons and recently told the British free press he was ‘coming’ for them. (I wish you’d come for me Jeremy. Seriously, I’ll do anything. Anything.)

Because this is what you get with a man as cultured as Jezza, as demonstrated by the fact that his recent excuses appear to have been lifted wholesale from The Simpsons‘ Principal Skinner after he was spotted in Springfield’s burlesque club Maison Derriere: ‘I only went in there to find out how to get out of there!’. And if that’s good enough for OJ it’s good enough for me.

Now, is it too much to ask that we focus on the really offensive stuff? Because it may have escaped everyone’s attention but while Corbyn is being smeared as an antisemite for lauding an antisemitic mural nobody seems to care that YouTube is teeming with non-antisemitic Scottish men teaching their dogs Hitler salutes for a laugh. Priorities, anyone?

Still, at least Jezza managed to ride this out with grace and dignity, unlike the ageist trolls mocking his inability to see antisemitism when it’s staring him in the face. So I’m delighted to share this charming picture of Jezza ignoring the latest smear and settling down to watch his most favourite aquatic thriller Jaws 3.


Kind. Gentle. Cool as fuck.





The Reel Thing: Black Panther


The Panther celebrates another triumphant week at the box office

By Ben Pensant

Well, I finally did it. After respectfully waiting a fortnight to give the ethnic community of Newcastle the best chance of seeing their lives on-screen for the first time, yesterday I dug out my Cameo t-shirt, stole a tenner from my grandma’s purse, and ventured to the nearest multiplex to see the most important movie ever made.

Sadly, the only screening of Dreamworks’ Latino-centric Cocoa clashed with Judge Rinder so instead I opted for the most micro-unaggressive movie I could find. And boy, did I find it. Because groundbreaking superhero flick Black Panther didn’t merely provide thrills and excitement: it also presented the most life-affirming vision of a perfect society since the joyous adaptation of George Orville’s 1974.

I was initially reluctant to watch the latest DC entry, mindful that my presence in a movie theatre might anger members of Newcastle’s black community. Luckily, that ship had sailed as I heard through the intersectional grapevine that by the end of opening weekend most of the Newcastle Utd squad, the slap-head out of The Lighthouse Family and those blokes who run the car wash on the West road had already seen the film twice each. Phew.

Knowing that the coast was clear was a huge relief. I don’t expect a medal for putting the needs of dark-skinned folk first – especially ones who might throw a fit if they see a white devil chomping popcorn in the back row – but the words of praise I’ve received have been fully deserved, especially the ones from me (i.e all of them). Because there’s nothing more considerate to black people than avoiding them or assuming they’re so irrational they might kick off if they have to share a cinema with a whitey.

Sadly, I spent much of the film on edge as I’d forgotten the handkerchief I’d been planning on hiding my face with just in case a drug dealer in oversized trousers walked in and popped a cap in my ass for watching the story of his life. Luckily, the cinema remain exclusively white for the duration, meaning I avoided the potential embarrassment of sitting alone watching a movie about black people with a white sheet over my head.

But my discomfort was a mere fraction of what black people endure every day. Fortunately, thanks to the film’s awesomeness I soon forgot about the plight of marginalised black people. Indeed, there’s no greater compliment to oppressed blacks worldwide than completely ignoring them while enjoying a piece of art designed to make a handful of rich white men even richer. You’re welcome.

Sadly, the insidious cancer of white supremacy made an appearance during the trailers when I noticed a smudge in the left hand corner of the screen. Clearly someone didn’t want people enjoying the daft movie about the funny black man in tights. Happily, after I’d took a photo of the offending blemish and started drafting my hate crime report the film began, the screen became gloriously dark, and the smudge was rendered virtually invisible for two joyous hours. Stick that in your pipe and smoke it, Trump!

A lucky escape though if I’d been watching a film with a lighter mise en scene such as The Snowman I may not have been quite so forgiving. Fortunately I would never dream of sitting through Johnny Briggs’s animated cringe-fest. There are enough white protagonists clogging up the silver screen without me enabling them.

Not when there’s a new protagonist in town, fashioned from the purest, toughest, blackest snow. For the uninitiated, the Panther – invented in the ’50s by Spike Lee – was the first black superhero and a key member of DC’s X-Men series. Denied a movie adaptation by Hollywood Zios, the character commanded a loyal following among that most rare of beasts: the non-racist American. Who, as luck would have it, are ten-a-penny in the comic geek community.

Needless to say, post-Trump it became apparent that a different kind of hero was needed: one blessed with the intersectional appeal to attract the type of people who normally wouldn’t be seen dead watching a mainstream blockbuster about men in masks chinning each other.

And the timing couldn’t have been better, with Tinseltown having replaced old school studio bosses who hated blacks with a progressive new generation who hate whites. Hence Black Panther arriving just as the Hollywood community consolidate their position as the most virtuous drug-addicts on the planet.

For an example of the entertainment world’s moral fibre simply recall how they spent a whole weekend flatly ignoring the lurid revelations about Democrat Party donor Harvey Weinstein. Indeed, there would probably be no #MeToo movement at all if someone hadn’t ingeniously decided to use his sex-pestery to paint the male population as potential rapists just because a leftist was exposed as a serial abuser fond of wanking into plantpots.

But even that demonstration of virtue couldn’t prepare us for the joy of Black Panther, a film so perfect it almost cancels out the offensive ’70s TV adaptation in which the dark-skinned, musclebound crime fighter was re-imagined as this pale, skinny shitweasel:

PantherThe dire cartoon ditched the original backstory, replacing worthy endeavours such as killing baddies, foiling terrorists and ruling over a progressively nationalist ethnostate with nude cycling, bodybuilding and helping a retarded stork in a pork-pie hat catch a butterfly for his tea. All set to horrific canned laughter and the most sexually aggressive lounge score this side of the theme-tune from Have You Been Served? I don’t know why they didn’t just go the whole hog and make the Panth’ a blue-eyed Aryan milkman.

Still, we leftists aren’t ones for dwelling on the past, apart from when we’re demanding white people apologise for everything from slavery to segregation. Two things which would have never existed if we hadn’t exported violent colonialism across the planet like a nasty dose of the clap. A point emphasised by Ryan Cobbler’s film which makes it abundantly clear that Waikiki – the prosperous, technologically advanced, ever-so-slightly authoritarian paradise of which Black Panther’s alter ego T’Chadwick is unelected leader – is exactly what every African country would look like had they been spared the horror of imperialism.

That Waikiki’s success is entirely down to the magic meteor that crashed there thousands of years ago is irrelevant. As is the fact that the Waikikans spent centuries extracting magic minerals from the magic meteor to create magic cities, magic spaceships and magic cat-suits for magic witch-doctors.

Because any fool can see the only difference between Waikiki and a real African country is that the black folks discovered the magic before the colonialists did. You think there aren’t top-secret aircraft hangars hidden in the worst corners of the Western world – Washington, Tel Aviv, Seaburn – filled with alien power sources pilfered from every ‘shithole’ between Tijuana and Timbuktu? Please.

For every starving child in Ethiopia there’s a chubby yank brat stuffing his face with pizza fried and sliced using oils and cutlery forged from the purest magical mineral.

For every poverty-stricken mother of ten with a bucket of filthy water on her head there’s a fresh-faced white woman slurping the cleanest liquid on earth from a plastic bottle made out of supernatural meteor dust.

And for every marginalised Procal Harum member forced by western foreign policy to kidnap 8-year-old girls at gunpoint there’s a misogynist white male abusing his privilege to sexually assault pretty young interns by touching their knees; knees clad in nylon stockings fashioned from the you-know-what her ancestors pillaged with impunity. What goes around comes around, ladies.

Thankfully there are few white males in Black Panther, though they still come dangerously close to derailing the entire movie. Indeed, while it was a wise decision to make the baddy and the buffoon Caucasians, the two overacting hams just can’t resist rubbing their impeccable range and PRADA training in the noses of every marginalised minority forced to endure their vanilla showboating.

Luckily they’re acted off the screen by the rest of the cast, who effortlesly add the kind of Afrocentric authenticity you’d expect from American and English actors. Though to be honest these two clowns could have been sharing a screen with computer-generated Danny Dwyer clones in blackface and they’d still struggle to make an impression.

Matthew Freeman phones in his performance as a ditzy FBI agent in the lazy manner you’d expect from someone who made his name sexually harassing a receptionist in a shitty reality show. Though his presence is almost justified by being on the receiving end of some witty casual racism from T’Chadwick’s supernaturally talented sister Shirley. But as for Andy Circus’s rare live-action turn as weird-accented bad guy Ulysees Grant. Daaamn. Let’s just say it’s a bloody good job he gets those regular gigs playing CGI monkeys.

But it’s not about the white folks: it’s all about the Panther and his beautiful kingdom. Because a nation free of white people is the pipe-dream of every modern liberal who learnt their trade not by observing politics or reading history but protesting free speech and threatening people on Twitter.

As edgy regressive bible Vice reported last month, fed up middle-class black women have been escaping the racist hellhole of Trump’s USA by booking into an exclusive complex on the island of Costa Rica in which white people are banned. Indeed, it’s a measure of the moral consistency of identity politics that these marginalised professionals choose to spend their well-earned break from whiteness in an upmarket beach resort rather than one of those African countries that definitely aren’t shit-holes

Such as Waikiki. It says everything about the modern left that the same people who condemn the Trump administration for its anti-immigration rhetoric will celebrate a closed-off Ethnostate that refuses to trade with other countries, bans the few outsiders it allows in from speaking, and is so opposed to open borders it uses magic invisibility dust to stop foreigners finding it. The Donald and co could only dream of the kind of isolationism enjoyed by the Waikikans.

And let’s not forget the gushing praise for the film’s depiction of  ‘Afrofuturism’. Which I’m sure is a fascinating concept though I suspect I dozed off and missed this bit as from what I recall most of the blokes had short hair and all the women were bald. Still, it sounds absolutely amazing whatever it is, and if it’s been bigged up by Kool-Aid Corbynite Aaron Pastrami it can only be a good thing.

But it’s not just the gammon-bashing slayer of melts who’s been going gaga over Black Panther, with everyone from Hillary Rodman Clinton to Sam ‘Squiddly Diddly’ Kriss giving it the thumbs up. Indeed, it appears many sections of the left have taken inspiration from the white liberal hero of last year’s Oscar-winning horror smash Get Away, who combined a gushing respect for genetically superior black role models such as Barack Obama with a principled plan to lobotomise them and steal their bodies.


(If any brothers or sisters are reading, rest assured my most favourite comedian is Kenny Lynch and if I could I would have voted for Danny Glover in The Day After Tomorrow a hundred times.)

But don’t take my word for it. I’ve left this review spoiler-free but without giving away the ending, let’s just say when misunderstood baddy Killdozer is forced to abandon his grand plan to defeat white supremacy by sharing Waikiki’s magic and wealth with black communities around the world there wasn’t a dry eye in the house.

Essentially Malcolm Farrakkhan to T’Chadwick’s Martin Luther X, this brilliantly complex character very nearly steals the moral high ground from the Panth’, who respectfully vows to implement some of Killdozer’s policies right after he’s stabbed the poor bastard to death.

Again, I won’t spoil things but rest assured Killdozer is ultimately defeated, his plot to make the world a better place through violence foiled in favour of T’Chadwick’s plan to give a fresh lick of paint to tower blocks in deprived areas. Fear not though, without giving too much away, the film is at pains to stress it was white people who turned Killdozer into a megalomaniac murderer and all things considered he kind of had a point. Phew.

But this is just one of many highlights in a highlight-stuffed film, from the stirring Afro-centric score to the evocative realisation of day-to-day Waikikan life. Indeed these two aspects had possibly the most lingering impact, not least by reminding me that The Lion King still has a hell of a lot to answer for.

But by far the film’s greatest achievement is T’Challa himself: his honour, his bravery, his permanently pained expression of a man about to shit himself and powerless to stop it. Indeed, perhaps the film’s greatest achievement is the way it strikes a blow for inclusiveness by making the first black superhero one of the most bland protagonists ever to grace the silver screen.

Now that’s what I call diversity.

The Boo Bradleys


Members of Owen Jones’ Groovy Gang recite offensive Ben Bradley comments to brain-damaged Macclesfield residents.


By Ben Pensant.

What did you get up to last weekend? If you’re anything like me you probably spent it sprawled on the settee, pretending to write an essay on the white supremacist subtext of Steven Spielberg’s Star Trek trilogy and generally contributing as much to the world as you do every other day of the week.

Perhaps you took the occasional break to peruse The Guardian, check your privilege, or send death threats to anyone on Twitter who dared to poke fun at that picture of Comrade Abbot and Shami JackRabbitSlim on the set of the upcoming intersectional remake of Lethal Weapon.


However you occupied your time, I’m sure you achieved just as much in the name of #resistance as I did, though I’d be gobsmacked if you went through half as many Space Raiders and boxes of Kleenex. But believe it or not, some spent last Saturday carrying out a public service even more noble than white-knighting for a pair of Labour grandees as they embarked on a UK tour as the most joyless Pepsi & Shirley tribute act ever.

Because while the uneducated proles of Macclesfield were assaulting their feral children with rolled up copies of The Daily Mail, Owen Jones was getting amongst it, dealing with the dirty stuff, fighting tooth and nail to save their smacked-arse of a town so they don’t have to. You’re welcome.

But what was he doing? Feeding the homeless? Rescuing kittens from trees? Unlocking the talent of the black community by demanding the council employ only Caucasian bin-men? All noble pursuits but Owen had bigger ideas. For while less committed activists waste their time working on solutions to actual problems, a week ago today Owen was knocking on doors urging people to unseat Ben Bradley because of something he wrote on the internet six years ago.

Wow. For the first time in my life I was actually envious of the savages who inhabit this grim midlands hell hole. And I’m sure they felt honoured to have their day off interrupted by an Oxford-educated quasi-colonialist telling them how ghastly their local MP is while saying sweet fuck all about who his replacement will be or what their policies are.

Indeed, as Owen pointed out in a blistering video released days before he and his pussy rode into town, there isn’t even an election coming up. No, Owen simply wanted to make Macclesfield aware of the vile, hideous comments Bradley made in 2012; comments so vile and hideous Owen was forced to repeatedly embellish and misrepresent them just in case anyone missed their vile hideousness.

All of which was fantastic preparation for his contemporary re-staging of the Jarrow March, which replaced 200 cold, hungry shipbuilders trekking from Tyneside to London with a handful of iPad-wielding Corbynites in American Apparel flouncing around a housing estate like Jehovah’s Witnesses with added zealotry.

His main bone of contention was Bradley’s disgraceful view that ‘unemployed wasters’ need vasectomies. Indeed, in the days leading up to the walkabout barely an hour passed in which Owen didn’t repeat this claim, which by the end of the week had evolved into a widespread belief that the vile Tory had ‘called for poor people to be sterilised’. Job done.

Of course, as anyone familiar with Owen’s stellar career knows, this wasn’t the full story. In fact it was barely the story at all, as the disgraceful 2012 blog post in question mentioned neither sterilisation nor poor people, and at no point ‘called’ for the former to be done to the latter.

Luckily, Owen and his fans have a healthy disregard for facts and completely ignored requests from right-wing trolls to look up the actual comments, preferring to gleefully characterise Bradley as a mad scientist intent on eradicating the underclass by cutting their knackers off. Which was a clever move, as the sixty seconds it takes to find out what Bradley actually wrote would reveal that Owen’s interpretation was about as convincing as his oft-repeated claim that ‘transwomen are women’ (a mantra he publicly states twice a week just in case Lily Madigan gets offended and firebombs his penthouse).

In the real world, the 22-year-old Bradley had written a gobby blog post attacking a benefits system which allows jobless families to ‘make vastly more than the average wage just because they have 10 kids’, a repugnant, extremist view which is fairly commonplace among normal people. Which explains why Owen was so appalled by it.

But nasty Bradley wasn’t done, going on to detail his diabolical plans for the mass castration of poor people. Or rather, express the entirely unremarkable opinion that if someone can’t afford to look after children they probably shouldn’t have any. Before exposing himself as the most evil eugenicist since Joseph Mangle with the sickening punchline: ‘Vasectomies are free’.

The fact that Bradley never called for anyone to be sterilised makes it even more impressive that Owen spent an entire week claiming he had. But as those of us who have endlessly attacked the Leave campaign’s promise of £350million a week for the NHS know all too well, the modern left have no time for the archaic concept of ‘suggestion’. Especially not when there’s a Tory MP’s career to destroy.

Which has been Owen’s pet project for the past fortnight, also condemning Bradley for comments made during the London riots of 2011. ‘We need to come down hard on these morons before somebody gets killed’ raged the foul right-winger, urging the law to ‘find the ones hanging around town centres with their faces covered’ and issuing a chilling call to arms: ‘For once I think police brutality should be encouraged’.

Grim stuff which Owen predictably redefined as proof that Bradley is a keen advocate of the police assaulting innocent people. Rather than someone who simply once said he’d have no problem with a copper giving a good hiding to marginalised youths who loot properties, set fire to shops and run over shopkeepers with stolen cars. A vile fringe view shared by about 90% of the population. The bastards.

All of which was perfect preparation for Owen’s assault on precinct Macclesfield, which was given a huge boost by Bradley sending a disgusting, libellous Tweet accusing Jeremy Corbyn of being a communist spy. Quick as a flash Owen informed the Dear Leader of the outrageous smear, which Bradley was forced to delete under threat of legal action:

‘Sue him, @JeremyCorbyn. This straight out libel is indefensible in a court of law and an example has to be made’ he beamed, no doubt relieved that Bradley doesn’t share his lust for legal action bearing in mind Owen had repeatedly accused the MP of calling for poor people to be sterilised when he quite literally hadn’t.

But Bradley’s tweet couldn’t have been a better PR coup if he’d confessed to having a shed full of blind refugees fashioning blue rosettes from butterfly wings. And the thrill of grassing up a Tory to Lord Jezza gave Owen such a buzz he even posted a picture of himself basking in the post-snitch afterglow:


Fortunately Owen’s zero tolerance policy towards dumb stuff MPs said in their early twenties doesn’t extend to everyone. That would be silly. So while The People’s Puritan spent last Saturday knocking on doors urging people to unseat a Tory MP because of offensive comments he made when he was 22, last October he wrote a column urging people to give Labour MP Jared O’Mara a second chance after he was suspended for offensive comments he made when he was 22.

‘We have to accept MPs who once sprayed their stupidity and bigotry online, as long as they prove they have learnt from their mistakes’ he pleaded. Which explains why there is no record of Owen wandering around Sheffield telling people to unseat the man who as a daft youngster called gay people ‘fudge packers’ and wrote a comedy song about punching women in the face: Jared has clearly learnt his lesson. And this willingness to embark on a journey of self-discovery and change for the better is what separates him from scum like Bradley. Despite the fact that O’Mara is reported to have made comments in the last year which were every bit as misogynist as the ones he was suspended for.

Still, as demonstrated by the pleas for understanding which echoed around social media after St. Brendan of Cox confessed to being a serial sex-pest, the modern left are dab hands at holding their own to a much lower standard than everyone else. Indeed, many of the same MPs and columnists who feverishly demanded Toby Young be sacked for talking about knockers were determined to forgive the grieving widow for going one  better and grabbing them.

And they were up to their old tricks again this week after Labour handed plum roles to Andrew Murray and Munroe Bergdorf. Needless to say, despite usually being the first in line to demand people are fired for expressing dodgy opinions Owen was remarkably relaxed about his beloved party giving top jobs to a Stalin apologist and a racist bigot. Indeed, he approached the two appointments the same way he deals with Al Quds Day and simply pretended they never happened. Good lad. He should be a journalist.

But I’m sure Owen would have sent warm wishes to both if he weren’t still worn out from last weekend. Indeed, rumour has it the post-canvassing knees-up in an exclusive Macclesfield micro-brewery was a riotous affair, with at least three of The Groovy Gang staying out until midnight, two having a food fight in the back of a taxi, and one hell-raiser being sick under a table after giving herself a poorly tummy giggling at a condom machine in the ladies.

Lions every one of them, and I’ll be thinking of them this afternoon when I hit the streets of Newcastle to tell my fellow Geordies how stupid they all are. Sadly, as I live in one of the safest Labour seats in the country I don’t have a Ben Bradley figure on which to focus my wrath. Instead I’ll be examining every parked motor vehicle in a five-mile radius before unleashing merry doorstep-hell on anyone found in possession of The Sun, environmentally unfriendly tyres or one of those micro-aggressive dashboard hula dolls that make Antifa activists cry like broken eggs.

Or at least I will as soon as Judge Rinder finishes and this snow melts. I might be principled but I’m not a bloody lunatic.