So Why So Sadowitz?

Vile Sadowitz cuts a tragic figure without his trademark wig and rubbish hat.

By Ben Pensant

One of the best things about the modern left is our willingness to put ourselves in danger. Whether it’s risking assault by going out in public with our faces painted EU-blue, or putting our lives on the line reporting Twitter accounts with ten followers for calling Lady Thornberry a drunken arsehole, what separates us from the cowardly right is our selfless disregard for personal safety. And in 2019 there are few places as unsafe as comedy clubs.

Which is why a fortnight ago I grew some phaloplastic girl-balls and threw myself into the lion’s den that is The Strand, Newcastle. And it’s an evening I’ll never forget. Indeed, it’s taken me two weeks to muster the courage to revisit that terrible night. Because what I witnessed will be burnt onto my memory even longer than that grot movie where the two girls drink each other’s shit, a film so repulsive I had to delete it from my hard drive after the fifteenth viewing.

Sadly, there’ll be no such easy erasure for the brutality I witnessed the weekend before last. Because this was no ordinary comedy night, where decent leftists crack edgy gags about Donald Trumpton’s hair or the racist stupidity of Leave voters. No, this was something else: the world’s most offensive comedian, a walking, talking monster who styles himself as “the only comic who campaigns against human rights”. This wasn’t the smug sophistication of Richard Heron or the wacky blandness of Harold Kumar. This was the spite-filled bigotry of Scottish Zionist Gerry Sadowitz and I pray to Allah I never experience it again.

But I will. Because this is what we do. Though why this hateful Highland beast is still filling shitty basement clubs decades after being banned from television is a mystery. Then again, with fascism on the rise and hate crime levels being wildly exaggerated daily, is it any surprise the far-right have infiltrated the comedy scene?

I won’t dignify Sadowitz by repeating his repellent ‘jokes’, partly out of respect for my readers but mainly because I successfully erased them from my memory after two weeks of intensive therapy consisting of long lie-ins, regular naps, and repeatedly watching that video of Aaron Bastardi DESTROYING Skynet News by claiming Beth Rugby had said something then shitting his pants like a pro when it was pointed out she hadn’t.

Suffice to say Gerry stuck the boot into gays, midgets, Muslims, transwomen and foreigners with all the sensitivity of a rabid pit-bull, at one point even showing a complete lack of respect for the disabled by mocking that weather girl with the stumpy arm. Blacks, browns, yellows and reds felt the full force of his fascism too, in amongst obligatory gags about Scots, Jews and white men, crowbarred in to give the impression he treats everyone with equal contempt rather than just the groups he’s been told to take the piss out of by Rupert Maxwell and The Daily Fail.

This vile vein continued with his ultra-offensive ‘political’ material, an endless toonarmy of violent attacks on socialism, Lord Jezza, and Dame Diane Abbot. Again, to maintain the illusion of ‘balance’ he meekly took the piss out of the Tories and the Royals too, though it was painfully obvious how uncomfortable it was for this working-class Glaswegian to stick the boot into the English ruling classes.

Worst of all, after bullying traumatised Remainers and brazenly admitting to voting Leave, Sadowitz had the gall to suggest that in the real world most people couldn’t care less about Brexit. Dear me. Like so many fascist fruitcakes before him, Gerry has swallowed whole the dangerous, dishonest, demonstrably true narrative that only MPs, journalists, and self-important bores on social media spend their lives obsessing over Brexit when everyone knows it’s actually MPs, journalists, and self-important Good People. (As well as loads of flag-waving fascists but the least said about them the better.)

Predictably, the only person Gerry said anything nice about was President Pussy Grab. Indeed, the foul Scot repeatedly confessed his admiration for Agent Orange, causing audible gasps, several walkouts, and three heart attacks before losing the room completely, with as few as 295 out of 300 people laughing at every word while the rest of us sat stony-faced.

But as vile as his love for The Donald was, the most disturbing aspect of this grim evening was the audience: pinned to their seats, grinning maniacally, terrified of being taken into the beer garden and hung for not giving sufficient respect to a ranting loon in a top hat poking fun at the IRA.

Most worryingly, amongst the sea of privileged white faces I spotted an Indian couple, three black lads, and a Chinee. Yes, really. Horrified that these marginalised millennials had attended an event designed to disenfranchise them, I approached their tables, demanded to know why they hadn’t walked out and politely asked them to leave. Sadly these interventions were met with a barrage of abuse and a threat of Judo-inspired violence from the self-hating Oriental, forcing me to retreat to my seat and lament the way British society turns harmless ethnics into hate-filled thugs.

Whether their insistence on ignoring me as I stood in front of them blocking their view was a result of brainwashing or a desperate desire to appease white supremacy remains a mystery. Either way, it doesn’t take a genius to see this is what happens when minorities are forced to assimilate. The sooner St. Jezza becomes PM and passes a law banning non-whites from comedy clubs the better.

As the show reached its climax the tension in the room was unbearable, the audience stunned into silence as if locked in communal prayer. Sensing their nightmare would soon be over they pleaded with Muhammad for safe passage, avoiding eye contact with the plain-clothed Nazis patrolling the aisles and prodding anyone not laughing with invisible nightsticks. But Sadowitz had no intention of letting his prisoners go peacefully, saving the worst for last and showing his true Hebrew colours by performing a series of card tricks.

Mercifully, after lodging a fictional complaint about an audience member spotted reading The Establishment: And How They Smell Like Poo I was able to slip out while the fascist heavy on the door stopped playing with her pigtails for five minutes to investigate. Knowing the Nazis’ historical obsession with black magic it was inevitable Sadowitz would try to bewitch his entire audience in the name of UKIP, but there was no way I was becoming one of his brainwashed minions.

Of course, this won’t be the last time he pulls this sinister subterfuge as deception and deceit are bread and butter to card-carrying Zios. In fact I wouldn’t be surprised if he hypnotised the whole audience and sent us into a deep sleep so he could rifle through our pockets, or put us under a spell which will make us stab the nearest Muslim to death the next time we hear the theme tune from Seinfield.

Luckily I escaped with only mental scars. Though I almost sustained physical ones too when the male half of the Indian couple brutally barged me out of the way following my peaceful attempt to block his wife from leaving until she’d explained why she sold out her sisters by laughing at Sadowitz’s offensive Pakistani accent. Needless to say, I hold no grudge as this tragic pair are clearly unaware of their own internalised Islamophobia. But should hubby follow up on his promise to knock my ‘fucking teeth out’ if he ever sees me again I will be left with no option but to report him to The Muslim Brotherhood. Don’t make me do it, Vijay.

Feeling shaken and threatened by such unreasonable behaviour I exited immediately before the Japanee came at me with another Karate chop or the three black lads tried to pop a cap in my bottom. It speaks volumes about the damage stand-up comedy is inflicting on the world that all it takes is a long-haired comic to radicalise oppressed POCs into becoming spiteful bigots so prone to hatred and abuse they might as well be white. But from Lewis CK to John Cheese, everywhere you look a privileged male ‘funnyman’ is abusing the freedom to say what the hell he likes no matter many New Statesperson columnists it offends.

Thankfully the tide is turning, and last week a brave reporter from The Vice followed my lead by going undercover at notorious alt-right open mic night Comedy Unbound, a weekly festival of hate organised by Andrew Doylem, the self-hating homosexual behind tired SJW spoof Titania McGhee.

Held at a top secret location in London – deliberately chosen for its uncanny resemblance to those Dusseldorf beerhalls the Nazis used to smash up for playing R&B – the night was as eyepoppingly right-wing as you’d expect. Thankfully, since being exposed by The Vice, Doylem’s club has received a barrage of condemnation from hundreds of educated progressives who’ve never actually been to it. Indeed, the fact that most of the comics who’ve performed there aren’t even right-wing was cleverly ignored by all the brave liberals sticking their heads above the parapet to tell everyone how racist it is.

As well as the endless parade of conservative brutes cracking ‘topical’ gags about how awesome that ginger Nazi in the Shite House is, the celebrity guests given the VIP treatment were a veritable Who’s Who? of modern fascism, with Paul, Joseph & Watson and Toby Jones spotted guzzling fried chicken with Mick Griffin and the ghost of Hitler.

All of whom fit in perfectly with the grubby clientele: a sordid assortment of Tories, Incel Ultras, and heartless entitled bastards who think being white and cis-gendered gives them a god given right to pay money to laugh at jokes. And it’s thanks to these giggling ghouls that monstrous MELTS like Sadowitz are allowed to earn a living saying amusing sentences to people who want to hear them. Capitalism in all its vulgar glory. Meanwhile, thanks to the proliferation of alt-right comics clogging up the circuit, genuinely funny comedians – i.e left-wing ones – are denied the chance to shine and forced to make ends meet by slumming it on hugely popular nationally syndicated panel shows.

Still, at least we have brave allies like myself and that queer from The Vice risking our lives on the frontline, exposing the horror of modern stand-up using facts, reportage, and bare-faced lies. In the meantime let’s leave the last word to hilarious Kiwi comic Nanette Gadsby, who electrified social media last year by taking the dark, experimental, joke-free stand-up pioneered by Stuart Lee and re-packaging it for woke perverts with blue hair. Her simple but devastating wisdom offers a beautiful vision of how exciting modern comedy could be if it were cleansed of dangerous bigots like Sadowitz and Doylem:

“I don’t want to unite you with laughter”

You never will, Nanette. You never will.

Shaking Plans For Nigel


Brave Pete Crowther protests Climate Change or something outside Presto, Lobley Hill.

By Ben Pensant

It’s always nice to see Newcastle in the news. Indeed, it seems like only yesterday I was bursting with pride after reading about the marginalised Muslims from the West End who courageously stuck two fingers up to Western supremacy by importing the quaint Islamic custom of plying children with 20/20 and raping them in chip shops. (Shame the bubble burst when the yo-yo knickered racists who goaded these men into molesting them ran to the filth as soon as the booze ran out but hey, that’s modern Britain for you.)

But even that couldn’t touch the warm glow I felt on Monday watching a fellow Geordie utterly destroy the Brexshit Party with one flick of an overpriced milkshake. Because when roly-poly warrior Pete Crowther hurled that fruity beverage at Nigel Farrage outside Fenwick’s he wasn’t merely making a card-carrying fascist look like a proper ‘nana: he was striking a blow for everyone who refuses to accept the far-right myth that political opponents should be enaged and challenged rather than shut down and pelted with ice cream.

Fact is, you don’t defeat thugs like Nazi Nige with debate and disagreement: you do it by throwing dairy products and inspiring more people to vote for them. Which Crowther achieved superbly, earning a permanent place in the hearts of die-hard Remainers, who will never forget his laconic cool, shitty beard, and non-gendered throwing technique. He is without doubt the hero the left deserves.

But while Pete’s antics sent an army of educated people with letters after their names into spasms of joy, even better was to come. Because the left-wing reaction was arguably even more beautiful than the act itself.

As anyone who’s spent more than five minutes on social media knows, whenever some right-wing violence, imtimidation, or old fashioned fuck-wittery occurs, an assortment of MPs, journalists, and Bottom Inspectors will instantly blame it on people who had nowt to do with it. Right-wing newspapers, right-wing politicians, right-wing psychologists, right-wing podcast hosts who aren’t even right-wing… Anyone other than the person who mocked the POC, assaulted the immigrant, or shot up the mosque will be held responsible, despite the complete lack of evidence proving that the perpetrators either read The Scum or pay attention to anything Boris Johnston says.

Whether it’s the Easyjet racist or the Granville Tower effigy burners, neither a shred of proof that they learnt their bigoted ideology from the right-wing press nor a single example of one of these revolting papers telling people to abuse black women on airplanes or set fire to cardboard tower blocks filled with immigrants will be presented.

Which is because no such evidence exists. Not that that stops educated liberals like James O’Brian and David Schreider sending Twitter into a frenzy with their incisive takes on the gradual radicalisation that happens to readers of The Daily Fail, a process they are wisely reluctant to explore when it comes to the Kerrang, a holy book which literally instructs its followers to kill people. Well played lads!

Centrist blogger-cum-Antifa supporter Bob From Broccolli even pinned part of the blame for the recent San Diego synagogue shooting on Sue-Ellen Braverman, the creepy conservative who disgraced herself last year by referencing ‘cultural marxism’, a phrase used exclusively by Nazis and not simply lazy shorthand for the obvious left-wing bias that has existed in universities for decades. Because as we know, Californian white supremacists are renowned for being big fans of obscure Tory MP’s from Fareham.

What united these titans was the way none of them applied their well-worn rules of incitement to either the milkshaking of Farrage or the spate of similar attacks it inspired. Indeed, they offered neither a syllable of condemnation for the left-wing papers, pundits, and politicians who’ve spent months calling Farrage a far-right fascist, nor a moment’s consideration as to how – by their own logic – this may have influenced the exciting spate of milkshake hurlings electrifying British politics.

Left-wing responses ranged from “it’s no big deal!” to “he deserved it!”, both camps conjuring the spirit of Joe Cox to illustrate the huge difference between milkshakes and bullets. Indeed, it’s a tribute to Joe’s enduring legacy that she continues to fight fascism from beyond the grave, though it’s amazing she gets any peace in the afterlife with her corpse being dug up and exploited by leftists every five minutes.

As demonstrated by whataboutery-spouting progressives on Twitter, mentioning Cox is a perfect way to put Crowther’s attack in perspective. Because as daring as Pete’s act of ideological warfare was, it’s not the same as firing a gun (though fingers crossed someone tries that next time). And for anyone worried that the left have suddenly discovered the concept of ‘degrees’, fear not: normal service will be resumed the next time a comedian is exposed as a predator and compared to Harvey Wankstain because he once forgot to hold a door open for his date.

Meanwhile, the “he deserved it!” crowd correctly pointed out that while milkshake may be nothing like bullets, fresh farm produce is way worse. Hence Crowther’s act of self-defence against Farrage was re-imagined as payback for the attempt on Jeremy Corbyn’s life earlier this year when a murderous far-right fascist tried to kill him with an egg. Some also stressed that as Farrage is a fascist – unlike Jezza or anyone left-wing – he’s a legitimate target for attack via foodstuff. Though as was pointed out by several Good People on Twitter, it would be far more effective to ditch the milkshake in favour of petrol, boiling water, or hydrochloric acid.

Happily, Crowther’s brave performance has already inspired copycat shake-attacks, with heroic leftists turning up to Farrage’s tour bus armed with paper cups, forcing the yellow-bellied chancer to hide upstairs like a puff. As various principled liberals opined on Twitter, this is how you deal with bullies: by intimidating them and shutting them down. Soooo brave. Almost as brave as the probably fictional die-hard Remainer who threw a milkshake that looked suspiciously like a yoghurt at that Brexshit pensioner outside a polling station in Aldershot. Staged or not, to paraphrase Alan Parker’s Scum: you steal young man’s futures you get young man’s stick. Suck it up, grandad.

But it isn’t just racist coffin dodgers feeling the pinch – courageous leftists have also been turning up to Tommy Robertson events armed with bricks and glass, a hot new trend unheard of in the days before throwing drinks at fascists became the new normal. That this also seems to have inspired dipshits to chuck stuff at left-wingers – such as anti-Brexit campaigner Femi Moses, violently doused with water by flag-waving thugs on Wednesday – only adds to the excitement.

As the Cox killing demonstrated, there’s nothing the left love more than one of our own being targeted. Indeed, that the new dawn of food-based political violence has already escalated into attacks on all sides will do our sense of victimhood no harm whatsoever. That we’ve gone from hoying stuff that might stain a politician’s suit to things that could bruise or blind one in less than a week is something we can all be proud of.

Because it’s win-win for the left. If someone a little more unhinged than Crowther slips half a pint of acid in his McFluffy before hurling it at a Brexshit Party candidate then we can all celebrate the glorious act and laugh hard at someone we disagree with being scarred for life. And if something similar or worse happens to an anti-Brexit candidate? Even better! Because as satisfying as it is to see physical pain inflicted on people with different opinions, nothing is as joyous as the warm glow of victimhood. So bring it on righties – it’s your funeral.

Needless to say, there was zero talk of ‘complicity’, ‘escalation’ or ‘dangerous rhetoric’ despite the fact that if Chucky Umunna or Lady Nugent had been hit with a milkshake you wouldn’t be able to move for Guardian columns about complicity, escalation, and dangerous rhetoric. Indeed, social media would be positively drowning in left-wing hot takes decrying the Murdoch empire for goading a dumb white male into spunking a fiver on a carton of sugary mush for no other purpose than to annoy some gobshite politician and make the thrower feel manly, important, and, like, totally revolutionary.

In a nutshell, we’re allowed to do this stuff because we’re better than them. End of. They can present our refusal to acknowledge the role the liberal media played in radicalising an army of milkshake wielders as proof of the modern left’s cognitive dissonance all they like, but as usual they’re missing the point. Because unlike the classless Brexiteers, we don’t brag about our achievements like obnoxious children: we let our milkshakes do the talking. Left-wing pundits should be proud that their rhetoric has led to people on all sides of the aisle living in constant fear of airborne liquid refreshments and the fact that we’re gently applauding these outcomes rather than shouting from the rooftops only emphasises how much better we are.

Of course, in the Real World – that desolate wasteland that exists outside of newspaper offices, Twitter timelines and TV studios – most people aren’t easily incited, don’t take their cues from pundits and politicians, and are generally aware that if someone throws something at a public figure who disagrees with them it’s probably because they’re an arsehole rather than because a journalist told them to. They also tend to know that throwing a milkshake or a cup of water is about as ‘violent’ as a baby mouse wet-farting the theme tune to Rocky 6. And those Real World folk are right. 50% of the time. Because as all Good People know, what is ‘hilarious’, and ‘no big deal’ when it happens to a right-wing politician is ‘hateful’ and a ‘vicious attack’ when it happens to a left-wing one.

Thankfully, the Real World doesn’t exist on social media or among the political class, where everything a person does – be it good like milkshaking Farrage or bad like egging Jezza – is always because of something an MP or journalist said. And the worse it is the easier it is to blame on the other side.

So simple yet so hopelessly lost on the right-wing crybabies still bawling their eyes out. But even worse is the way they’ve pulled their usual trick of attempting to claim victimhood by brazenly stealing the left’s best moves. So while internet liberals demonstrated their commitment to peace and tolerance by supporting the intimidation of opponents and the weaponization of rat poison, right-wingers demonstrated their dedication to free speech by reporting people to their employers and trying to get them sacked for saying naughty stuff on the internet.

That’s right – one minute they’re calling us ‘snowflakes’ for objecting to the aggressive rhetoric of those dipsticks in yellow tabards harassing leftists outside Buckingham Palace, the next they’re copying us by comparing the launching of a non-lethal substance at a politician to an act of terrorism and demanding the hero who threw it goes to jail.

So for every progressive saying that Farrage deserves everything he gets there’s an alt-right thug saying the same about Femi. For every Remainer who complained to the BBC after the Tory dwarf off Lord Of The Flies banged his hand on a desk on Question Time there’s a Brexiteer grassing up liberals for making inane comments about acid attacks. And for every brave Corbynite who screamed ‘hate crime!’ after an egg was smashed on Jezza’s bonce but giggled and cheered when Crowther threw his drink at Farrage there’s a fascist cretin attacking the petulant tactics of the left despite laughing his cock off when the Labour leader got splatted.

If you didn’t know better you think the internet was rammed with partisan toddlers who couldn’t care less about intellectual consistency and will excuse any wrongdoing carried out by their tribe in the same hysterical manner they condemn it in yours. Unfortunately you’d be wrong as these partisan toddlers only exist on one side. And we all know which side that is.

Still, as joyous as it’s been seeing Nigel Numbnuts reduced to a laughing stock, what’s even more important is the blow the milkshake attack dealt his chances in yesterday’s Euro elections, with the polls predicting a Labour landslide as a direct result of his cowardice being laid bare. Indeed, after The Nude European editor’s perfectly pitched tweet about Brexshit Party supporters pissing themselves, the explosive story revealing Farrage’s ingenious plan to steal votes by placing an arrow in his party’s logo, and the shocking trauma endured by TV brainbox Dan Snowden after a racist campaign leaflet grew legs, climbed through his letterbox and hijacked his post, it’s pretty clear that when the results come in at the weekend the evil right-wingers determined to destroy democracy by respecting it will be dealt a severe bloody nose.

And when that happens we will all owe a huge debt of gratitude to the young man who made it happen with nothing more than wit, bravery, and a burning desire to see his hairy round face on the news.

Roll on Sunday!


Lie Hard With A Vengeance


Roger Crouton is shocked to find out his vile views have earned him the bullet.

By Ben Pensant

Little good has come from the twin horrors of Brexit and Trump, unleashed three years ago to strike fear and loathing into the hearts of celebrity QCs, milquetoast columnists, and shit-for-brains actors everywhere. Sure, leaving the EU has emboldened decent liberals who spent years fighting hatred and bigotry, gifting them a free pass to be hateful and bigoted towards 17 million people they’ve never met. And if it weren’t for President Pussy-Grabber we may have been denied the rise of Alexandria Arcadia-Cortez and her clever plans to revitalise the left by offering free money to people who don’t want to work, punishing future generations for stuff their parents did, and blaming the conservative media because almost 50% of her own party have never heard of her. (As we know, registered Democrats are notorious for talking their cues from Fox News and Tucker Carsehole.)

Sadly, these crumbs of comfort are few and far between. Indeed, since 2016 the political discourse has spewed out more dangerous trends than you could shake a shitty banner at, from the craze for accusing anti-fascists of fascism just because they like disrupting college talks and hitting people with bike locks, to the right’s habit of believing it should be judges and juries that determines if a man is guilty of sexual assault rather than Twitter and Opera Winfrey.

But the most insidious development has been the way sneaky trolls have started attacking their enemies by claiming they’ve said stuff they haven’t. Indeed, in this era of impending economic Armageddon, misrepresentation is one of the few growth industries. And the past week has emphasised this tenfold, as one of Britain’s most respected political thinkers saw his words twisted beyond recognition. For nothing has summed up how low the Tory smearmongers will go quite as grimly as the violent hounding of The New Statesmxn’s George Eton.

I won’t regurgitate the vile views relayed to George by ageing Nazi war criminal Roger Crouton, partly out of sensitivity to my readers but mainly because I’ve read neither the article nor the full quotes and until Wednesday had no idea who either of them were. Needless to say, all you need know is that while being interviewed Crouton admitted to the courageous hack that he hates Muslims, believes George Sorrows is an evil emperor, and thinks all Chinese people look the same.

Of course, anyone who took thirty seconds to find out what Crouton actually said knows that none of the above is technically, literally, or remotely true. Luckily, one of the bravest things about the modern left is our refusal to take thirty seconds to find out anything that might piss all over our ideological chips. And why bother, when all it takes is a crusading journalist tweeting cropped edits of some innocuous comments to force a gutless Tory MP to fire someone from an architecture commission that nobody outside of Westminster and the editor of the Stockport & District Heritage Review give two shits about?

Predictably, the outrage merchants pounced, accusing George of deliberately trying to get Crouton sacked by misquoting him, using piss-poor, flimsy evidence such as the full unedited quotes and a crudely photoshopped image of the young leftist toasting the decrepid racist’s dismissal with a bottle of champagne. (As if we’d fall for that when everyone knows liberal journalists only drink craft beer and charred parsnip Mojitos. Nice try, fash.)

Cue a torrent of abuse and harassment towards George for having the balls to remove words from Crouton’s replies to give the impression he’s a racist Islamophobic antisemite. They even pathetically presented the original quotes as proof that he had set out to stitch up the old duffer, when anyone with half a brain knows these crafty edits simply exposed what Crouton actually believes despite the fact that there’s no evidence that he does.

This is misrepresentation in a nutshell: Make non-bigoted comment to journalist. Allow journalist to report it as a bigoted comment. When bigoted comment gets you the sack claim you never actually made bigoted comment and accuse journalist of spreading lies by misquoting non-bigoted comment. Fade to black. Gaslighting at its purest, people. And it fucking stinks.

Fortunately, the modern left are old hands at fighting these gross distortions using a foolproof combination of lying, deflection, and grassing people up on Twitter. Indeed, just last week the words of moderate extremist Mehdi Hussein were crassly re-jigged to suggest he was deliberately misquoting Sam Harrison when he accused the far-right atheist of “attacking all Muslim immigrants in bigoted terms”. Mehdi’s evidence was a eye-poppingly racist column Harrison wrote in 2006 which claimed that “Muslim immigrants demand tolerance for their backwardness, their misogyny, their antisemitism, and the genocidal hatred that is regularly preached in their mosques”.

Of course, Mehdi neglected to mention that Harrison was specifically talking about Muslim immigrants within the EU, and had also removed the word ‘often’ from after ‘immigrants’ and before ‘demand’. This was predictably seized upon by the intellectual dark wanker’s rabid fans as evidence of Mehdi’s dishonesty, as if omitting trivial facts and words from a sentence completely changes its meaning or something. Thankfully, both Mehdi and his fans weathered the storm with grace and dignity by ignoring or blocking anyone who pointed out he was full of shit.

The left played a similar blinder last week when self-hating right-winger Candice ‘Auntie Tom’ Owens accused brave Democrat congressman Ted Lee of misrepresenting her after he played a context-free video during a senate hearing in which she praised Hitler, denied he was a nationalist, and claimed the former German Chancellor “just wanted to make Germany great again”. Bless ‘im.

Unsurprisingly Owens wasted no time in pouncing on Ted, accusing the Japanese war hero of thinking black people are ‘stupid’ and deliberately trying to smear her as a fan of the Fourth Reich. She even desperately claimed that if anyone cared to watch the full clip they would see that she wasn’t praising Hitler but condemning him, responding to a question about nationalism by using the mono-knackered megalomaniac as an example of someone who got it wrong. (Kind of like the alt-right version of ‘The Soviet Union wasn’t real communism!’ but said by idiots.) Since when have leftists demeaned themselves by watching a film clip in its entirety before commenting on it? Have these conservative clowns learnt nothing from Covington?

Luckily the damage was done, and despite her lame protestations Candice’s reputation was sealed: a black white supremacist with a soft spot for the man who wanted to wipe her ancestors off the face of the earth. But as beautiful as this episode was, it was nowhere near as satisfying as the huge ‘fuck you!’ leftists gave to the subservient Trumpster trolls who rushed to their hero’s defence after shocking new footage emerged in which he referred to asylum seekers as ‘animals’.

At least that’s how it looked if all you saw was the 40-second film which did the rounds last weekend: liked and re-tweeted thousands of times by principled leftists with neither the time nor inclination to find out the full story before spitting Twitter feathers. The video was so disturbing even Julia Hartley-Brexit stopped being a fascist witch for five minutes to condemn it: “This is terrifying stuff. And it’s become normalised now. No-one in the room even bats an eyelid when he says it. Horrific”

Cue a cavalcade of abuse from MAGA-bots, including one sick puppy who pointed out that the reason they never batted an eyelid is probably because they knew that the ‘animals’ Trump was talking about weren’t in fact refugees or immigrants but members of the ultra-violent MK-17 gang. Some even had the brass neck to counter the principled cries of “he’s said this before!” by pointing out that the speech was from May 2018, meaning the video clip was the exact same one they lost their shit over 11 months ago. As if that somehow excuses using such offensive, dehumanising language to describe vicious drug-dealers with a penchant for raping and murdering children.

Happily, the great and the good saw through these sad attempts to claim Trump was misquoted and were left with a feeling of warm contentment, satisfied that their pre-conceived prejudices about people they disagree with had been thoroughly confirmed. The likes of Islamophobic Punch columnist and professional gay traitor Dickless Murray tried their best, scrabbling around making terrible excuses for their hero but by that point no-one was listening.

As grim as the post-2016 landscape has become, it’s refreshing to know that despite spending all week being abused by the most virulent right-wingers on the planet, it still takes more than lies, smears and demonstrable facts to bring down a good pro like George Eton. Which was emphasised yesterday when George published a startling column so dripping in sincerity you could almost believe it wasn’t hastily written after a sound bollocking from the NS top brass. In the piece he clarified the quotes he misrepresented by misrepresenting them again, before pulling off the remarkable feat of both offering a heartfelt apology for his unethical behaviour and doubling down on it: “It was not my words that caused Roger’s sacking but his own intemperate comments”

The modesty is admirable George, but we all know who did what. They can misrepresent you all they like but the fact is Crouton got the bullet because of your words, your lies, and your brilliance.

It won’t be forgotten.




Girls & Boycotts


Channel 4’s golden girl chillaxing on set.

By Ben Pensant

Fighting fascism isn’t for everyone. The hours are shitty, the pay is non-existent, and few of us possess the mental strength to spend every waking hour staring at a phone, calling strangers Nazis, and utterly destroying the Tories by re-tweeting edgy memes of Theresa May scratching her arse. And with Sunday’s fresh set of right-wing press smears followed by the Jewish Lickspittle Movement’s vote of no confidence in Lord Jezza, it’s understandable that people are daunted by the huge task of convincing the world that Labour top brass intervening to keep holocaust deniers and 9/11 truthers in their progressive party is, like, totally normal and hey what about all that Tory Islamophobia you melty gammon?

Luckily, brave Corbynites like Ash Starkers resolutely do have the stomach for it. And this week she effortlessly cut through the chatter to focus on the ‘antisemitic connotations’ of a tweet sent by a racist fireman which contained a phrase that Stalinists used to use. Where Ash stands on the antisemitic connotations of calling Jews ‘bacteria’, blaming them for natural disasters and, y’know, murdering them, is unclear. But as the man she wants to be Prime Minister considers people who’ve done all three as ‘brothers’ who are ‘dedicated to peace and social justice’ it’s a knocking bet we’ll never find out.

Still, while few of us are as skilled in ideological combat as Ash, we fight on regardless, no matter how negatively it affects our ability to function in the real world. Indeed, only last week a trip to Woolco to buy some superglue ended in tears after the cashier asked if I would like a bag. Consumed with defeating fascism, I mistook her question for a far-right dog-whistle, assumed the word ‘bag’ was code for ‘hood’, screamed ‘you white nationalist whore!’ and launched myself over the till. It was only her colleague’s cry of ‘for god’s sake she’s Indian!’ that stopped me strangling the bitch there and then. (I gather she’s recovered from the misunderstanding and won’t be pressing charges as she wants to remain fully focussed on passing her GCSEs. Good luck, pet!)

This is what the daily barrage of right-wing fanatacism does to those of us on the frontline. But it’s a small price to pay to expose the most virulent racists on earth. And the shame of being pinned down on the floor of a cut-price homeware store by two ageing security guards after a frenzied, unprovoked attack on a 15-year-old girl is easily cancelled out by the satisfaction of hooking a big fascist fish. And they don’t come much bigger, more fascist, or as downright fishy as that pretty blonde clever-clogs who does the adding-up on C*untdown.

Indeed, without the hugely popular campaign to shun, cancel, and harass Rachel O’Riley, it’s likely the sly Tory brain-box would have decapitated Jeremy Corbyn and flushed his head down Robert Murdoch’s golden shitter by now. It’s no surprise that The Scumday Times hatchet job came mere days after Murdoch and his sinister Zionist lobby were left red-faced and rattled by the #BoycottThatSlagOffC4 hashtag, which put Tory HQ on red alert, sending shock waves all the way from Twitter to Facebook.

That they then had the nerve to smear Corbyn again – a mere week after the warning shot fired at one of their top-ranking poster girls – just shows this enemy can’t be reasoned with. It won’t be long before we decide ‘enough’s enough’ and simply boycott Jews altogether. So well done righties, you’ve just all but lost John Lansman his job and ensured a brick through his window every week for the rest of his life. I hope it was worth it.

Still, while Murdoch’s evil empire clearly remains a determined opponent, O’Riley shows no such stamina. Indeed, this particular Jewish Nazi – the very worst kind – has all but vanished from the battlefield in a puff of victimhood, all thanks to the brave Corbynite foot-soldiers who put in the hard yards sitting on the crapper telling a TV presenter her programmes are rubbish and she smells of wee.

Of course to most people it’s not entirely clear what Rachel did to offend Corbyn supporters, apart from repeatedly smearing Lord Jezza and being a sneaky Zionist. At a glance the fresh-faced fascist’s online persona – the only persona that matters – appears no more problematic than any other politically engaged celebrity with a huge following and an ego the size of Australia. But look beyond the shiny surface and it becomes clear this happy-go-lucky, swotty demeanour is one big far-right facade. Indeed, anyone with a basic grasp of history knows nothing screams ‘National Socialism’ louder than golden locks and a flair for mental arithmetic.

Needless to say, after the hashtag took off O’Riley did what anti-Corbyn zealots always do when faced with abuse and death threats: she played the victim, despite the fact that her all-important ‘brand’ suffered zero ill consequence as no self-respecting Jezza loyalist would watch her terrible TV shows anyway. 8 Out of 10 Cats Do Dallas has been off the far-left menu for some time, partly because it features comedians who occasionally mock the Dear Leader, but mainly due to the presence of arse-faced tax-evader Jimmy Khan. And we wouldn’t be seen dead watching Countydown while Amtrak kingpin Alan Shitter’s henchman Nick Heworth holds court, perving over female contestants and slipping coded Zionist propaganda into every other sentence. (Ever notice how often words like ‘hummus’ and ‘falafel’ crop up and just happen to get more points than ‘halal’ or ‘jihad’? Hmm.)

Luckily, those of us who’ve read books and stuff are more interested in the abstract, metaphysical concept of boycotting someone, enabling us to add a personal dimension to our principled protest. Which is why from now on I will never again masturbate about doinking Rachel from behind while wearing a Georgie Galloway mask, throwing a crumpled fiver at her, wiping my cock on the curtains, then sodding off to a Momentum meeting without so much as a ‘see ya later, sweetcheeks’. Let’s see how the mouthy little narcissist likes that.

Predictably, O’Riley’s response to her bullying and harassment being called out was to start crying and make out she was the one being bullied and harassed. Sorry love, but the war against fascism is waged on a huge global stage. It takes some chutzpah to arrogantly assume this doesn’t include the world of daytime telly. Tell you what, next time Noel Edmunds starts singing about throwing Jews down wells on Crackerjack we’ll just look the other way and let him get in with it. Deal? Oh hang on, it’s only far-right Scottish metallers who are allowed to do that, isn’t it? Multicoloured mystics with fannies for chins don’t get a look-in, do they? Wrong kind of Nazi. Silly me.

The entitlement is breathtaking. But what truly grates is that if O’Riley could have been one of us if she’d just opened her mind and pulled her knickers up for five minutes. An ally instead of a nemesis. Because like most sensible centrists, Rachel has a habit of responding to smears and pile-ons by spreading smears and encouraging pile-ons. And like all the kindest, most gentle Corbynites she doesn’t even realise she’s doing it.

Indeed, two weeks ago O’Riley started a hugely popular Twitter thread with the sole purpose of repeatedly accusing a lady she didn’t know of bigotry for criticising Islam. She then responded to requests to explain how this vile right-winger was racist by flatly ignoring them, a classic manoeuvre beloved of every Jezzabel in the land. Oh, Rachel. We would’ve been so good together.

She’s also been promoting the shit out of Stop Funding Fake News, the truth-seeking campaign to target websites which publish false or misleading stories by pestering companies who advertise on them. Their commitment to exposing media lies is so strong that the first page of their website features a claim about fake news causing mental illness which is both a textbook example of fake news and a blatant misrepresentation of the study it links to. Now that’s dedication!

Also, much like their fellow bottom inspectors Stop Funding Hate, SFFN have no qualms about publicly shaming charities for trying to reach as many people as possible, like they did last week when they successfully bullied McMillan Cancer Support into withdrawing all ads from one of these vile websites. Result!

But there’s a problem. Because as awesome as this sounds, the site in question wasn’t Westmunster or Greedo Fawkes. It was The Canairy. Yep, that’s right, not only have dishonest hacks appropriated the noble aim of SFH – to stop right-wing rags expressing views leftists don’t like using a principled combination of corporate blackmail and political censorship – they’ve flipped it on its head to target Labour-friendly outlets. And Rachel has been cheerleading them every step of the way, joining a whole host of centrist bloggers in defending the aforementioned mental health claim on Twitter before abandoning thread when someone points out it’s blatantly untrue.

But this is what we’ve come to expect from the new breed of fake leftists who aren’t keen on dictators, terrorists, and antisemites and would rather not have a leader with a massive hard-on for all three. They’re arguably worse than Tories. Indeed, one only has to look at O’Riley’s two fellow celebrity smear merchants to see both how low these Blairites go and how snugly they could have fit in to the pro-Corbyn movement if they’d just kept their gobs shut and left the agitprop to those of us with brains, penises, and duffel coats.

Much like Rachel, former Coronation Street star and convicted murderer Tracey Ann Doberman is just as happy exposing antisemites as people who aren’t antisemites, such as the chap on Facebook who she publicly scolded for having the temerity to say he didn’t believe holocaust denial should be a criminal offence, even getting his name wrong when shaming him online to increase the chances of some other poor sod with the same moniker getting it in the neck.

Tracey is ably backed up by fellow Corbyn-hater Frances Barbara, best known for ’70s rom-com Rita and Sue Get Laid, who recently made a fool of herself by claiming she remembered a bald, black scouse lady from her Liverpool activist days, little realising the bald black scouse lady was neither bald, black, scouse, nor a lady and was in fact a fake Twitter account set up by some weirdo who gets a kick out of stealing photos of Nigerian women and saying the N-word on the internet. Oh, Frances.

Still, they made their beds, the filthy sheets of which are doubtless stained with Cherry Blair’s crusty fanny batter. Which is why they now find themselves on the same boycott-list as Lady Rachel. To paraphrase Matthew Modine in Boloxi Blues, I now have three enemies: Israel, Revolting O’Riley, and those British soldiers who attacked that photo of St Jezza with paintballs. Which actually makes 6 or 7 enemies so let’s round it up by adding Tracey, Frances, Luciana Burger, and the entire staff of FakeNews International. Including the Romanian woman who cleans the toilets.

See what you’ve done, blondie? I hope you’re pleased with yourself.



The Great British Fake Off


Andrew Doylem smirking outside Scotland Yard before being questioned over another hate-filled tweet.


By Ben Pensant

Is anything real anymore? Like, really real? So real you can see it, hear it, touch it in Waitrose while its wife reaches for a jar of mung bean and horseradish marmalade? (Sorry, Lady Laura, but perhaps you shouldn’t take Lord Jezza shopping if you don’t want people fingering him in the organic aisle.)

I ask because lately it seems everywhere we look we’re bombarded with fakery. This year alone has seen the Covington kids scandal, reframed by the right-wing media to make it look like Native American Nathan Jones and the Black Homophobic Israelites were at fault and the schoolboys did nothing wrong. They did this in the most underhand way imaginable, by providing video evidence proving conclusively that Native American Nathan Jones and the Black Homophobic Israelites were at fault and the schoolboys did nothing wrong. Contemptible.

Next came the public shaming of gay, black actor Jessie Smollet, the gay, black actor lynched on an LA street for being a gay, black actor. After the two shapeshifting MAGA-bots responsible vanished, gay, black actor Jessie was framed for staging his own assault on the flimsy grounds that two extras from his hit TV show Umpire confessed to helping gay, black actor Jessie stage his own assault. Even worse, the press still refuse to accept the gay, black actor’s innocence, even after he was exonerated because nobody could be arsed to prosecute the gay, black actor as he’d already served his sentence in community service, most of which was spent on a gruelling tour of private schools teaching rich kids about the dangers of being a gay, black actor.

And two weeks ago saw the pathetic attempts to discredit the ‘Revoke Article 51!’ petition on the basis that the twelve million signatures it received don’t count as anyone with an email address can sign it. And sign it again if they have another one. And again. Etc. In a sane world, the fact that people are so impressed by this petition they’ve signed it repeatedly would be a good thing, especially when many of the signatories are too young to vote and don’t live in Britain. But even if this  talk of multiple signatures from all over the planet is true – which it isn’t, Hugh Rifkind said so – it only emphasises how desperately we need to cancel Brexit. It speaks volumes that the establishment thinks 17 million votes from actual individuals are more representative than a meaningless letter signed by toddlers, pets, and goat herders from Outer Mongolia.

But as disturbing as these examples of fake news are, they’re nothing compared to the insidious trend for fake people. Which brings me to Titania MacGrath, the pretend-leftist who melted fascist hearts with her recently published manifesto, Woke: A Guide To Crypto Fascism, the most offensively unfunny book I’ve never read and have no intention of reading. In fact, it was so dreadful I might not read it again just in case I missed something when I didn’t read it the first time.

‘Tits’ is the creation of Andrew Doylem: blue comedian, failed academic, and regular contributor to fascist fanzine Brietbart. A self-hating homosexual, vile Andrew also subscribes to the cult of libertarianism, which basically means he’s a Nazi who doesn’t like crowds. Titania – a cheap caricature of educated progressives who dislike racism, homophobia, and women with fannies – was invented last year, becoming an instant hit with middle-aged gammons upset that they’re not allowed to call people ‘wogs’ anymore.

Doylem is ably assisted by a grubby gaggle of co-conspirators, including foul-mouthed troll Lisa Gravy, a crap graffiti ‘artist’ who thinks because she once had a touch of cancer she has the right to take the piss out of left-wing people who talk rubbish. As trustworthy as a black Tory and twice as hateful, it’s debatable whether Gravy even had the disease at all. Inventing ailments to illicit sympathy is a tried and tested fascist tactic: you think Hitler really only had one knacker? That she’s also the brains behind sad male feminist ‘spoof’ Godfrey Elphick tells you all you need to know about the internalised misogyny of this yo-yo knickered slut.

Both Andrew and Linda are bum-chums with fictional newsreader Jonathan Pile, the red-faced reactionary who spent last year pissing away all the good will he amassed after enthusiastically endorsing Jezza’s successful election campaign. (What is it with Tory bigots pretending to be leftists? Jealous much?) He achieved this by taking the far-right dollar, trashing the Gender Pay Gap, and defending everyone from dog-fiddling Jew-hater Cunt Dickula to Hollywood killer Liam Nielsen.

You’d struggle to find a more gruesome pair of pricks. Indeed, one only has to look at the recent pics of Pile and Gravy having engine trouble outside a swanky restaurant – after a secret Cock Brothers-funded lunch discussing world domination – to see how these two Nazi punks roll when they think no-one’s looking:


No doubt Doylem’s two errand-bitches were also planning a surprise party to toast the success of Woke. (Or perhaps just to celebrate Hitler’s birthday.) Needless to say, the glowing reviews for his shitty tome were as fawning as you’d expect, with ageing agitators like Tony Parsnips weighing in to applaud Andrew’s ‘vision’ by flapping their right-wing tongues all over his dirtbox.

Luckily, some sane voices were brave enough to cut through the brown-nosing. The New Statesmxn‘s Mollie Goodfella took the original step of attacking Doylem for being a white man, reclaiming Titania’s intersectional worldview, throwing it back in her creator’s face, and sticking two fingers up at the trolls who suggested fixating on Andrew’s penis and pigmentation kind of proves his point. Mollie had the last laugh though, hilariously detailing plans to write her own comedy character, “an older white man obsessed with youth views”, who complains about having his voice stifled despite regularly appearing on TV and spends his days “taking supper with Nigel Farage and golfing with Andrew Neil”.

Ha! Like all good liberals, Molly showed how in touch with The Kids she is by misrepresenting Doylem and his fans as ageing conservatives, cleverly ignoring the fact that most of his fans are fairly young and left-leaning. But she saved her deepest cut for last, highlighting the crucial difference between a hypothetical character she hasn’t invented yet and one with a hugely popular book enjoyed by sane people yet to be seduced by the kind of intersectional horseshit only people who pen joyless columns in left-wing media give two fucks about: “Unlike Titania, he will be funny”. Ouch!

Alex Clarke of Guardian towers took a different approach, quoting French fashion designer Jean Paul Sartre and referencing Dorothy Barker to make the same point as Molly: the book isn’t funny, the only people who like it are middle-aged racists, and the fact that bad baddies such as Michael Grove’s wife are fans proves it. In fact, Alex’s piece was so elegantly crushing it reminded me of the classic Fraser episode where our hero trades blows with a pair of telephone pranksters who keep calling his TV show and cracking jokes about his huge arse. Ever the intellectual, Fraser decides to dispense with his aggressors by drafting a pompous speech full of Oscar Wild and Mike Twain quotes which he plans to read out on air and shame his tormentors into submission.

Unfortunately for Fraser his bent cop dad talks him out of it: “Y’know, if you read that out on air you’re setting yourself up for a year of abuse. This kind of stuff is probably why those guys started picking on you in the first place”. As maddening as it was seeing Fraser bullied into backing down by a cowardly cripple with a talking dog, at least we now know there aren’t any Marvin Cranes dishing out terrible right-wing advice on Kathy Viner’s watch.

But I must confess a personal beef. Since starting this blog three years ago I’ve often been accused of being a made-up person, mainly by dumb Tories but occasionally well-meaning leftists shocked that anyone could be as consistently right about everything as me. Luckily, these suspicions are regularly batted away by my loyal army of 17 fans. But the fact that not-real-Titania is cleverer, prettier and way more popular than definitely-real-me just shows how lucrative bigotry is.

This is comedy in 2019: right-wing hatemongers pretending to be nice people for clicks and bigoted funnymen believing they can say whatever they like in the name of ‘bants’. It’s this squalid situation that has emboldened the likes of Doylem to air their filth nationwide as if they lived in some kind of free country.

Luckily, there is a small but burgeoning group of decent British joke tellers – ie left-wing ones – who point-blank refuse to be marginalised. And make no mistake, marginalised is exactly what lefty comedians are: feeding off scraps and struggling to get their voices heard when the only available platform is every single panel show on television.

But what separates these titans from goons like Andrew Doylem is their deference to social media, especially in 2019 where staying on the right side of the mob can be the difference between headlining ten nights at the London Palladiadrome and cleaning the shitters in The Frog & Nightgown. Twitter is a sacred arena to be cherished, respected, and terrified of. It’s not a space for fun, and it’s certainly not one for mockery. (Unless the people being mocked are Leave voters. Or Jews.) It’s a place for real people with real aspirations to have real discussions with real followers. The growing legions of fascist fakes must be stopped. Now.

And if you still aren’t convinced of their sinister intentions, take a look at Doylem at the Stormfront Christmas party, entertaining the troops with his latest offensive creation, dim-witted BLM activist Tyrone ‘Shorty’ Wallace:



So next time you’re about to engage with or threaten a suspicious Twitter account, ask yourself: do I need to do this? Obviously I’m not suggesting you stop insulting people you disagree with altogether – I might as well ask you to give up sitting down. But every now and then why not forego that spat and go looking for someone with progressive values who you can do something nice for? Y’know, like what kind, gentle people do.

Should that happen, you could do a lot worse than follow pro-Corbyn activist Rachael Swinton. Her Twitter page is a goldmine of leftist talking points and she’s always on the lookout for followers willing to donate money to pay for her daughter’s new EXbox.

Or why not take a look at the Harry Lewis Smith account, lovingly maintained by Harry’s son since his father’s death at the age of 125, and contribute a few quid to help the trailblazing veteran transmit his message of hope from beyond the grave?

Better still, check out professional dinner lady/antiquarian/Antifa PR guru Mike Stookberry and pledge some cash so his beautiful family can eat this month. Mike has been collecting donations from kind, gullible strangers for some time now, most of which have gone towards feeding his children, buying fresh bike locks, and funding his vital work doing dead important history stuff. Indeed, only last summer a desperate Stook was left with no option but to ask for financial help to save his wife and kids from starvation.

Cut to four months later and Mike was jetting around Austria visiting all manner of old buildings and fancy cake shops, his impending penury forgotten thanks to kind-hearted leftists off the internet who’ll gladly give readies to any old John, Mike or Harry just as long as they love Jezza and hate the Tories. Here’s hoping Swinton, Smith and The Stook team up for an extensive tour of Europe’s historical sites. I’d recommend the ancient Greek ruins as a good place to start, as all three are clearly huge fans of the Golden Fleece.

That these three lions have carved out lucrative careers grifting in the name of social justice just shows what can be achieved when actual people discuss actual problems instead of debating fascist fakes.

The game’s up, Tits McGhee. Time to get real or get FUCKED.


Sunshine On Keith


Keith Prodigy in happier, more misogynist times.

By Ben Pensant.

There isn’t much we can predict with absolute certainty in 2019. In the old days, if your best mate told you his new girlfriend was a Tory you could deduce with confidence that she’d be white and wealthy with a penchant for throwing stones at disableds. You would then spit in his face, report them to your CLP, and challenge him to prove you wrong by inviting Arabella Tambin-Scrivener III to the local Spastics Society to see if she can go a whole afternoon without slashing the tyres on a wheelchair.

But the modern world is so arse-about-face, the dumb public so susceptible to fascist gaslighting, that even this is no longer a safe bet. Because if there’s one thing social media has taught us it’s that these days evil right-wingers come in all different shapes and sizes. (I saw a black conservative the other day, and I gather you can even get gay ones now. Shameful.)

However, one thing that remains depressingly easy to forecast is the way our biased media will always get the big stories horrendously wrong. And there was no better example of this than the recent gushing tributes which poured in following the death of Britpop legend Keith Prodigy. Indeed, almost two weeks since he died the press are still refusing to speak the truth about his tragic passing.

So while all manner of drug-addled hacks were praising Keith for his fetching eyeliner, punk rock attitude, and dedication to arson, few bothered to laud the wacky frontman for his greatest contribution. Because where other public figures double down or issue insincere apologies when found guilty of historical wrongdoing, Prodigy is one of the few celebs with the grit to hold his hands up and admit his indiscretion. Indeed, he may go down in history as the last ’80s rocker with the moral fibre to atone for releasing a misogynist single by hanging himself.

Not that he’s the first to take such a brave step. In 2016 Welsh Labour MP Carl Sergeant showed the kind of class only left-wingers possess when he faced up to allegations of harassment and sexual assault by ending his own life. An honourable choice, and few would have argued with his #MeToo-friendly belief that attaching a noose to your neck to deprive your brain of oxygen is the most appropriate and respectful response to being branded a sex-pest.

But as courageous as Carl’s demise was, Keith deserves even more credit for refusing to let the passage of time dilute the pain he caused in 1995 when his band The Chemical  Brothers released their ultra-problematic love-letter to domestic abuse Smack That B**** Up. Indeed, as if this disturbing track wasn’t offensive enough – from its rowdy celebration of wife battery to its sinister demands to ‘come play my game!’ – its X-rated video only compounded Keith and co’s shame, offending lesbians everywhere by depicting them as hedonistic brats who enjoy taking drugs and having sex in toilets, as opposed to bookish librarians who enjoy making cushions and wearing Plimsolls. Needless to say, to see where this distortion leads one need only look at the absolute state of the modern-day homosexlady, with her zealous belief in biological facts and bigoted refusal to suck cross-dresser cock.

As usual, the courageous bedsit militants who control the Labour Party were wise to the danger of this revolting record, with St Jezza, Lady Di, Brother McDonald and Lord Barry Gardener famously sticking their necks on the line and trying their damnedest to ban billboards from advertising the single. I urge younger Corbynites to read up on the principled stand the quartet took against a poster they didn’t like and a song they hadn’t heard. With politicians flip-flopping every other day it’s deeply impressive that they are every bit as censorious now as they were then: the Dear Leader remains forthright in his universal opposition to violence; Abbott maintains her zero tolerance approach to toxic masculinity; Chancellor John still gets half a lob-on at the thought of the state telling people what’s good for them. And Gardener is perhaps the most impressive, having been doggedly consistent in both his politics and his dress sense. Indeed, it’s remarkable that two decades later Baz still looks and sounds like the lead in a contemporary version of Richard III set in the cut-throat world of high-end gents’ tailoring.

All of which makes Keith’s decisive act of hare krishna even more commendable: he sensed with a Labour government imminent his days were numbered and hit the snooze button accordingly. That he spared the Momentum Secret Police the messy trouble of arresting him by erasing himself with the minimum of fuss only makes his selfless act all the more beautiful. Because as every Kool-Aid Corbynite knows, when Labour eventually seize power they’ll be too busy fighting fascism and bankrupting the economy to hunt down and execute spiky-haired pop stars. (Though we may make an exception for Keith’s bandmate Liam Gallagher, who not only laid his Islamophobhia bare when he smeared jihadists as ‘goons’, but also attacked Jeremy Corbyn, laughably calling him a ‘communist’ as if that was a bad thing. We’re coming for you, sunsheeeiiine.)

No doubt the freeze peach fuckwits will rush to defend Smack That B**** Up on the grounds of ‘free expression’ – urgh! – before bastardising the iconic words of Owen Jones and claiming ‘nobody was ever killed by a Keith!’. Yeah, right. They clearly have no comprehension of the pain the grotesquely sexist video caused oppressed ’90s feminists who were literally forced to watch it, many of whom strangled themselves to death with their own armpit hair before the first chorus.

Needless to say, the MSM deliberately ignored the real reason Prodigy took his own life, instead focusing on his mental state and the fact that his wife had recently dumped him, the same excuse they use every time a privileged male who’s neither brown nor Islamic opens fire on a building full of people. We’ll see a lot more of this over the next week as they desperately excuse the New Zealand mosque shooter as an evil white supremacist who murdered loads of Muslims because he has daddy issues rather than an evil white supremacist who murdered loads of Muslims because Fox News, Donald Trump and Chelsea Clinton told him to. Because as we know, far-right terrorists are notorious for taking cues from left-leaning daughters of world-famous Democrats.

Still, at least we know the truth. And in topping himself Keith joined a tiny but illustrious group of British rock legends who pulled their bootstraps up and made up for traumatising liberals everywhere by saying ‘sorry!’ in the most final manner. Who could forget Manic Street Porters frontman Nicky Wire, who went from zero to hero in less than a year after he mocked and offended IRA terrorists everywhere by wearing a balaclava on Top Of The Pops? Sure, disappearing off the face of the earth is not quite as impressive as doing yourself in but was a bold effort nonetheless, and despite his body never being found I can’t have been the only principled leftist who punched the air for joy when the troubled singer was declared officially dead in 2006. Well played, Nicky!

If only politicians could take some inspiration from Wire and Keith. Because as great as Carl Sergeant’s self-administered death was, it remains but a brave drop in a murky ocean. If Berny Sanders is serious about appealing to the intersectional left he could do worse than apologise for using the word ‘niggardly’ 33 years ago by selecting a rifle from his huge arsenal of firearms and shooting himself in the face. Sure, we’ll miss his pie-in-the-sky socialism, quaint grasp of economics, and self-aware complaints about too few people having too much wealth, tweeted from the modest confines of his third mansion. But as he himself said ‘when you’re white, you don’t know poverty’. And when you’re dead you don’t know anything which is even better.

His demise would also shine much-needed light on the long overdue discussion on how to deal with non-racist words that sound a bit like racist ones. Banning them is obviously the most logical step going forward but the end goal would be the eventual removal of these words from pop culture entirely. Only last week I watched Bridget Jones’ Tea Party and winced every time she mentioned her ‘genuinely tiny knickers’, horrified that she used a word so potentially offensive when she could have easily said ‘twat hammocks’ or ‘gammon catchers’.

And with Brexit becoming even more of a disaster with every passing day it’s high time everyone who either campaigned or voted for it did the decent thing and slashed their own throats with scissors. They’d still be evil right-wing xenophobes with shit for brains but at least they’d be evil right-wing xenophobes with shit for brains who did one honourable thing in their wretched lives. Until then we can only hope more Keith Prodigies come out of the woodwork and into the ground, taking one for the team in the name of liberal values.

Failing that we can always dig Michael Jackson up and kill him again.

The Hunt For Red Cap Toerags


Jessie Smollett’s cowardly attackers flee after setting fire to his foot-long.

By Ben Pensant.

They mostly come out at night. Mostly”

The world was a simpler place when Linda Hamilton spoke these chilling words in ’80s sci-fi hit Gremlins. Sure, we had AIDS, nuclear war and fascist governments on both sides of the Atlantic, but they were minor annoyances compared to Brexit, manspreading and bigoted shop assistants calling blokes in eyeliner ‘sir’. Those beasts Linda warned of may have lurked in the darkness but at least you knew if you kept out of their way they wouldn’t eat you up, unlike Jews or Brexiters. Indeed, the western world thirty years ago was a bastion of safety compared to 2019, where transphobes quote biological facts with impunity, ‘comedians’ are allowed to tell jokes to people who want to hear them, and invisible Trump supporters have been emboldened to roam the streets kicking fuck out of black homosexuals.

Yes, I’m talking about Umpire actor Jessie Smollett, who not only recently endured a battering at the hands of this new breed of supernatural street criminals, but has also been fired and accused by the LAPD of faking his entire ordeal. That’s right, in 20th century America it is now officially a crime to get beaten, lynched and doused in bleach. Welcome to Trumpville.

But even more terrifyingly, while an unholy alliance of cops, journalists and alt-right studio bosses have been orchestrating an elaborate plot to frame a marginalised millionaire as a liar, two dangerous killing machines are still at large. Which means now more than ever intersectional Hollywood needs to be on its guard.

So what do we know about this diabolical duo? Well, there’s two of them, they wear red caps, and they possess both the ability to impersonate Nigerian bodybuilders AND the power to disappear into thin air by blending into trees and that, like the shapeshifting space-bat in Predator.

But they share an even more terrifying trait with the ferocious beast who stalked Sly and co: a hatred of black people. In fact, in light of the Smollett attack it’s time we re-evaluated the problematic content of James Cameron’s ‘classic’. I wouldn’t be surprised at all if Jessie’s attackers were influenced by the awkward scenes featuring black characters being abused and assaulted, such as the moment where the creature break’s Lando Calrissian’s arm. And is it any wonder Ainsley Harriott gave up acting altogether after travelling all the way to the Amazon only to have his head blown off by a couple of red dots?

The MAGA kill-bots also have a unique talent for administering a good hiding without leaving a mark, a trick mastered by the Driscoll Brothers when they ruled South London in the ’70s. But even more sinister is their arsenal of sophisticated weapons, including a magical amulet which when placed around their victim’s neck renders them powerless, a bit like that green chain thing in Batman.

To throw their target off-guard, the amulet is disguised as an everyday object – in Jessie’s case a rope fashioned into a noose with a gravitational pull so strong he was unable to take it off for several hours after the attack. Evidence suggests the mysterious substance the amulet is forged from also touched Jessie’s hand, gifting his fingers a magnetic quality causing the Subway sandwich he bought minutes before the attack to remain stuck to his hand the whole time he was being chinned.

Knowing Trump’s dedication to cultural imperialism it’s pretty clear where they found this remarkable tech. You think it’s coincidence that a year since the release of DC mega hit Black Panda, two superhuman racists just happen to be found in possession of a hyper-potent raw material mined in the afro-futurist utopia of Waikiki? Don’t make me laugh.

But the sinister mind-tricks they use to control their prey are even more disturbing than torturing soap stars with magic dust plundered from fictional third world ethnostates. Much like the right gaslighted those of us who saw a still image of a spoilt brat smirking at an indian elder and rightly deduced the kid was a nasty racist and the elder an American hero, the spooks planted state-of-the-art, microscopic brain-bugs into Jessie’s head which forced him to make wildly unconvincing statements that ensured none of his story added up. Needless to say this was achieved with ease, because as every progressive knows a black homosexual is far easier to mould and manipulate than a straight whitey.

This sneaky move gave them time to pull off the rest of their cunning plan. For while Jessie spent the days after the attack arousing suspicion by following the messages implanted into his brain and refusing to hand over his phone records to the police, the MAGA tech-heads were gleefully hacking into his smart phone and doctoring the call-log to prove he had contacted two mysterious ‘Nigerians’.

To cover their tracks they paid a couple of black stooges to impersonate the fictitious Africans, who admitted to carrying out the attack, pretended they had been extras on Umpire, and even provided a forged cheque they claimed was signed by Jessie. That’s right – the LAPD expect us to believe a successful, ultra-woke Hollywood actor is dumb enough to hand over anything other than cash to a pair of low-life criminals. Nice try. He might be black and gay, but he’s not a bloody idiot.

Needless to say, the pigs have been involved in the conspiracy every step of the way: planting evidence, harassing Jessie and recruiting the race traitors who played the mysterious Nigerians. All of which has forced Smollett to spend the last month in hiding, victimised by fascist lawmen determined to bring him in like some kind of outlaw, bullied into confessing to a crime planned and executed by Trump, the cops, and every racist on Twitter who cruelly claimed Jessie’s story didn’t add up. Thank god some brave souls – left-wing journalists, left-wing celebrities, the left-wing loon out of Judo – saw this vile attack for what it was from day one.

Sadly, the right-wing machine has rendered them silent. Because despite diving straight in and framing the attack as proof of the racist wasteland America has become, the media and arts establishments have been left with no choice but to tow the line. The disgraceful gaslighting dished out after Covington has emboldened the right, the fear of deportation and incarceration terrifying liberals into submission.

So while the left initially reacted like they always do and jumped to huge conclusions based on the scantest of evidence, this has since vanished to the point where virtually no-one is doubling down, not even anti-Trump funnyman Bill Marr, who was still screeching about schoolkids abusing Native Americans a week after most sane people had accepted no such thing happened. (What do you expect from a rampant Islamophobe?) So it’s down to people like me to pick up the slack and educate the masses about the serious threat still out there.

But that’s not all. While my ‘hyper-intelligent super-soldiers in MAGA hats’ theory clearly has legs, there may be an even more terrifying explanation, based on explosive intel from a highly placed source. And trust me, when you receive an email from a bloke who used to clean the toilets at Vox, you listen. Especially when he tells you that several eyewitnesses placed a tall, big-nosed Irishman at the scene of Jessie’s assault.

Oh man.

Now, I’m not claiming that racist action star Liam Nielsen was definitely there. But how do we know he wasn’t? And if not, why the cover up? Would it surprise anyone to find out that 30 years after his friend’s rape Liam is still looking for a random ‘black bastard’ to murder? As I said, this crack team of MAGA-bots are professionals: who else but Nielsen, with his ‘special skill’ for hunting down undesirables, has the expertise to train these dangerous bastards?

I wouldn’t be surprised if Jessie’s assault was a revenge attack for the bad press Liam received earlier this month. Sure, it took place weeks before Liam’s interview but that proves nothing. We already know the Zionists have been using time machines to travel to the noughties and trick Jeremy Corbyn into saying nice things about Hamas and Black November. It’s hardly a stretch to believe Liam was so red-faced he struck a deal with Trump and Netanyahoo which allowed him to go back in time and duff up a brown queer.

This is how the white man rolls. He knows he’s had his time and it’s someone else’s turn to rule the world, a world he can’t keep up with because of his whiteness. And this malaise is exemplified by Liam’s ignorance of the ever-evolving #MeToo movement. Because you have to be appallingly out of touch to be unaware that believing women, seeking vengeance, ignoring due process, admitting to racism and pledging to Do Better are now bad things, despite the fact that a couple of months ago they were good things.

But if he IS responsible we mustn’t naively assume he worked alone, and the list of potential Hollywood accomplices is as long as Liam’s cock. (No surprise that a privileged white male culturally appropriated his over-sized appendage from the black community he so despises. Is there anything they won’t plunder?)

So I’ll be keeping my eyes on wooden pretty boy Dan Gosling, whose bootlicking turn as the brains behind the faked moon landing marked him as both a Trump ally and the most virulent Zionist in Tinseltown. And after last week’s revelation that cancer-stricken BUTT cowboy John Wayne was a right-wing bigot, don’t be surprised if the dead gunslinger was also involved, most likely utilising his frontier skillz to tie the magic noose from beyond the grave.

But the main person I’m watching is someone closer to home, a man who also recently suffered a racist attack. Needless to say, self-hating Muslim and right-wing shock-jock Magic Nawaz received way more sympathy from the MSM than Jessie.

Who knows why the Quillette founder’s claim that he was punched outside a Soho strip club was believed without question while Jessie’s was rubbished. It could be that the attack happened on a busy street in front of several witnesses. Perhaps it’s because Nawaz co-operated with the police and gave a clear description of what happened. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s because it’s far easier for the alt-right-controlled media to take the word of an Uncle Tariq obsessed with smearing jihadists than a marginalised black gay guilty of nothing more than popping out for a snack at the same time a drunken paddy with a cosh down his trousers was patrolling the streets with a couple of pipe-hitting mercenaries dressed as African tourists.

I’ll let you decide. In the meantime, take care of yourselves – and each other – and remember at all times the pertinent warning issued by Jeff Goldberg in another ’70s horror classic…

Be afraid. Be very afraid.