United By Hate

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

By Ben Pensant

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In the immortal words of West Country grunge legends Supergrass:

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




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

By Ben Pensant

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Take note, BBC. We’re coming for you.

An Open Letter To Graham Glinnerhan

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

By Ben Pensant

Dear Graham.

Oh dear, Graham.

What the hell happened?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

The balls are in your court.


The human race.



The Reel Thing: BlcKKKlnsmn


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

By Ben Pensant

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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





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?