By Ben Pensant

Like most hyper-sensitive leftists with male sex organs and milky skin (sorry!), I reacted to the recent fury over Ash Starkers’ Islamist oranges with anger, astonishment, and intense arousal. It was vulgar enough of right-wingers to accuse Ash of celebrating the jihadist murder of three white people in Swindon, but to then suggest the killing was a bad thing was beyond contempt. Indeed, I was so incensed by the suggestion that a left-winger supported violence I spent the whole weekend fantasising about garotting Sun-readers.

But then, like that other metropolitan wordsmith with a love of shoes and a taste for cock, I got to thinking. Was this alt-right smear job really such a bad thing? Sure, Nazis spreading lies, accusing leftists of racism, and exploiting the fresh corpses of murder victims is undoubtedly terrible. But let’s be honest, the only thing these bozos got wrong was the target: their tactics were spot on. And we leftists should know, because they’re our tactics too.

For you sad bastards who missed it, two weeks ago luminous Ash posted a photo which showed her eating an ice lolly in a park, accompanied by a tweet featuring three ‘orange’ emojicons. Like most people, my immediate reactions were “Hmm. I hope that lolly is organic” and “Wow! Ash doesn’t just fuck like a champion, she sucks like one too!”, followed by a non-threatening bout of sex-positive self-love, the details of which are private but suffice to say, the eco-friendliness of Ash’s sugary treat made the two minutes spent imagining her inserting it it into my anus even more special.

Unfortunately, on the same day in a different park in a different city, the presence of three privileged white people offended a marginalised Muslim so much he had no choice but to stab them to death. So naturally, people who don’t like Ash decided with no evidence whatsoever that the oranges symbolised the trio of slain Islamophobes, despite the fact that the photo was taken several hours prior to the murder and the picture posted before any details about the killer had emerged.

No matter, the right smelt a theocratic rat and within hours Islamic fundamentalist Ash – so fundamentally Islamic that she drinks, flashes her legs, and fornicates with non-Muslims – was officially a supporter of terrorism. The fact that Ash is a savvy media operator with zero form for openly lauding vulnerable jihadists was entirely irrelevant to the mob, who ploughed on with their deranged fantasy, impervious to facts, logic, or the world outside their ridiculous partisan bubble. Sound familiar?

You bet. Because it’s exactly what we do. Indeed, swap Ash for Julia Hartley Brexit and the method is nigh-on identical, from the inane accusations of racism to the bitchy critiques of Ash’s hair, make-up, and sexual appetite. Equally indistinguishable were the breathtaking mental gymnastics deployed to explain how the oranges represented the murder victims, a complex series of contortions incorporating everything from time travel to Martin Scorsese’s The Godfather. It was all so evidence-free and utterly batshit I almost wished I’d thought of it.

Of course, it was entirely unoriginal, stealing from such greatest hits of left-wing hysteria as Otto European convincing his adoring followers that the Brexshit Party turning their back on the EU was a Nazi dog-whistle, and the Novaru Groovy Gang accusing the BB(astard)C of airbrushing St.Jezza’s hat to make him look like a Russian nonce.

But more than anything it recalled the left’s long-running campaign against Boris Johnston’s foul government, from our anger at the blonde butcher for promoting imperialism by using the word ‘surrender’, to losing our minds over henchman Dominic Radge saying his boss had ‘fought’ Covid 18, implying that everyone killed by the virus didn’t fight, and putting a rich buffoon with the sniffles into the same category as actual fighters, like the courageous perverts who bravely combat transphobia by sending death threats to JK Roland.

It’s clear that with a little tweak here, some reprogramming there, even the most rabid right-wingers – scratch that, especially the most rabid right-wingers – could be valuable assets. Lord Corbyn may have been perfect in every way but ultimately he was just too nice. And there’s no better example of this too-niceness than his attempts to appeal to normal people instead of targeting the lunatics. It pains me to say it, but as thrilling as it was abusing people on the internet for four years, I now realise instead of blocking and despising Tories we should’ve been moulding and converting them.

Because most alt-right fruitcakes are halfway there already, and a far better fit on the Corbynite left than the boring centrists Labour wasted years courting. Conservative loons may be evil but at least their evil can be put to good use. The same can’t be said for those tiresome non-partisan types who think they’re special because they don’t blindly support anyone, value ‘consistency’ and ‘universal values’ (yawn), and judge arguments based on merit rather than who’s making them and how they vote.

No, we should be raiding the BNP for new recruits, not the Lib Dems. Because as we know, most online politics bores are less concerned with ideology than they are with belonging to a group who hate another group. And as your average right-wing nut is as hopelessly obsessed with identity politics as any blue-haired progressive they’re already on the right path. And they have been for some time.

Take the recent furore over Steve Bellend’s Pritti Patel cartoon, which saw the sinister Auntie Tom depicted as a bovine beast, inspiring hordes of fascist ideologues to declare the sketch misogynist and suddenly decide that, actually, mocking certain religions is racist after all, and a Guardianista of all people should know how offensive it is to caricature a Sikh as a cow. Naturally, the fact that she was supposed to be a bull – because the cartoon was about bullying – was studiously ignored, as was the inclusion of Bull Number 2: Boris Johnston, who as far as I can tell is neither a Sikh nor possesses a pair of tits.

A similar storm greeted The Nude European’s infamous cartoon showing Sajiid Javiiid musing about deporting himself on his first day as Chancellor: a blatantly obvious dig at predecessor Amber Ruddy and the Windthrush scandal. Sure enough, hordes of right-wing hall monitors angrily protested that the cartoonist was being racist towards Javiiiid because…well…because that’s what a left-wing hall monitor would do.

Both examples demonstrate how the Twitter right is brimming with joyless literalist ideologues, desperate to see racism in everything the other side does and utterly incapable of understanding how jokes work. In other words: fresh blood.

Because with the culture war heating up, we urgently need reinforcements to make up for all the transwomen, unarmed black men, and middle-class protesters murdered daily by the right-wing establishment. Who better to fill those gaps than people who regularly chastise the left for speech policing despite demanding Katy Brand was fired and arrested for making a joke about throwing acid at Nigel Farrage? The angry right-wing ideologues who last December declared all Labour voters antisemites, conveniently forgetting they’ve spent years attacking angry left-wing ideologues for calling Leave voters racists? The self-righteous prudes who threw a Whitehouse-sized strop when Corbynite rapper Stormzee read a passage from the Bible on the BBC last Christmas, polluting the airwaves and poisoning young minds with his shirtless urban swagger and foul-mouthed lyrics about smoking LSD? Or the dedicated puritans who photographed Diane Abbots sipping a can of gin on a train, accused her of being an alcoholic, reported her to the police, demanded she lost her job, and went blue in their outraged faces about the ‘terrible’ example she was setting by doing something that normal people in the real world do all the time?

Frankly it’s an embarrassment of riches, chockfull of left-wing soldiers-in-waiting. And I’ve no doubt Ash would agree as she’s been endorsing these tactics for years, as demonstrated by her joyous reaction to the sacking of evil eugenicist Roger Cruton after crusading liberal George Eton cynically misquoted him. Because Ash is literally a communist (you idiot!), so she understands that equality means white male righties are as legitimate smear-targets as sexy brown leftists. Luckily, smearing sexy brown leftists will be illegal once Jezza re-seizes Labour from Ken Starmer and cruises to Number Ten. But until then she’ll deal: kicking against the pricks and dreamily anticipating the glorious day when all wrong-think is outlawed and there are no right-wingers left to lie about.

In the meantime she can simply bask in the warm glow of victory, pleased as vegan punch that her latest ordeal gifted her what the modern left always desire: sympathy, victimhood, and crucially, oodles of airtime: the one thing in our gender-neutral locker that the enemy can only dream of. Because unlike the right-wing version, left-wing demagoguery has gatecrashed the mainstream, with virtually every actor/pop star/presenter/thick-as-a-brick footballer now buying wholesale into the grubby Marxism espoused by the likes of Ash, the Extinction Rebels, and everyone’s favourite progressive separatists, Black Life Matters.

Indeed, the fear of being cancelled has seen support for the modern left swell to almost Corbynmania proportions. Sure, the right have the Murdoch press but their pernicious influence only infects actual voters and – urgh – normal people. In the beautiful funhouse mirror of online politics, left-wing ideals are king, with the media, tech, and entertainment industries given no choice but to watch their step and french-kiss our non-binary arseholes. Even evil capitalists like Len & Jerry are going for woke, a wise move considering people who espouse progressive ideas invariably have plenty of disposable cash. All of which means the wonky ideology espoused by Novaru et al may not be in everyone’s living rooms but it’s all over their devices.

Meanwhile, the oppostion make do with fringe racists like David Vancey, with barely a sniff of the mainstream acceptance afforded to their left-wing counterparts. But imagine the wonders Vancey could work on the left? He spreads lies, posts craftily edited videos, and thinks nothing of exploiting dead people to score cheap points on Twitter. Imagine the good he could do if he were on our side? He’s already got a penchant for promoting antisemitic cranks so he’s practically one of us.

Vancey and others like him could become modern day progressive heroes if they utilised their skills fighting fascism instead of piling-on hot Muslim pundits with a thing for frozen confectionary. And DV’s dedication to bullshit is second to none, demonstrated by his devotion to the barefaced lie that Mayor of London Larry Khan once said “Terrorism is part and parcel of living in a big city”, a misrepresentation so blatant, easy-to-disprove, and mystfyingly ubiquitous it’s currently tied with “Toby Jung called disabled kids illiterate troglodytes” in my ever increasing list of Things That Never Happened But Mentalists On Twitter Are Convinced Did. (Good mentalists in the case of the Toby one, obvs.)

Needless to say, Vancey’s opportunistic fury about the triple-homicide was palpable, though unfortunately for him that far-left influence struck once again as the story quietly disappeared from the news cycle once it was revealed that the murderer was an Albanian immigrant and the killing motivated by homophobia. Much like the outrage over Ash’s oranges, which two weeks on have been largely forgotten by everyone but sexually frustrated progressive male bloggers desperate to catch some feminist pussy before their cocks falls off.

Sadly, this failure to keep Ash’s ordeal trending shows they still have much to learn about ideological warfare. If I were right-wing – URGH! – I’d have hammered her for months. And I’d have been all over the tweet she sent a few days later, which featured three pointy hand emojis clearly intended to signal her joy about the trio of girls from Scunthorpe-or-somewhere who were fingered by an Asian – yes, ASIAN – grooming gang in that thing on ITV. Ditto her sweet message to Geordie firebrand Laura Pigcock, in which Ash pissed all over the graves of terror victims by including three kisses to symbolise the 3,000-minus-3 infidels who died on 9/11.

Still, the next time she says something the right don’t like it won’t take long for some fascist footsoldier to recall that time Ash Starkers celebrated white people getting stabbed to death with cyber-fruit. At which point thousands of people who don’t recall it will gleefully retweet it anyway, while thousands who know for a fact it’s not true but are too hopelessly embedded to admit it will do the same. Again. And again. And again.

So I hereby urge my liberal brethrens to stop castigating right-wingers and start brainwashing them. Because if they keep beating us at our own game we might all have to join them. And much as I share their passion for lying and abusing strangers I’ll never be seen dead in a crew-cut and braces. Though having just spent a few seconds reading some of the Ash-related threads on brand new Nazi echo chamber Parlez it sounds like alt-right hipsters are having even filthier wanks about her than I am. Hmm. Perhaps it’s time for a change.

Now where did I leave that tiki torch?

 

 

By Ben Pensant

It goes without saying the progressive left were overjoyed when brown-skinned 33-year-old TV personality Jameela Jamelia recently came out as a bender. Her story had everything: victimhood, diversity, and the kind of craven kowtowing to internet lynch mobs guaranteed to delight Bottom Inspectors everywhere. Indeed, Jamelia’s decision to tell the world that she likes fannies as much as cocks – prompted by the justified outrage that greeted the announcement of her new job presenting a talent show for gays or something – was veritable catnip to the modern left.

Jameela, of course, is everyone’s favourite brown-skinned 33-year-old presenter-cum-actress-cum-joyless campaigner for human rights, in particular the human rights of brown-skinned 33-year-olds called Jameela. As a result she finds every aspect of the Trumpian Brexity wasteland of 2020 grossly offensive; her dedication to rooting out problematic behaviour so thorough she not only wakes up outraged but is permanently offended in her sleep, as the binman she reported last week for calling her a ‘stroppy cunt’ during a dream knows all too well.

For the last few years courageous Jameela has been electrifying social media with her unique blend of constant finger-wagging and principled narcissism. In other words: scolding women she doesn’t like for not doing feminism properly and reminding everyone how awful it is to be a beautiful brown-skinned 33-year-old in a middle-aged white man’s world.

She also enjoys impressing faceless online language monitors by haranguing people for using terms she only found out were offensive yesterday. Her most recent attempt at policing words came when she objected to the hyper-problematic phrase ‘blind spot’, having learnt hours earlier that it was deeply triggering to people who cant see, acne-ridden teenagers, and vulnerable Dalmatians (especially trans ones). Word on the woke grapevine is that the brown-skinned 33-year old has spent the last twelve minutes sticking up for both the hearing impaired and the sub-Saharan wild cat community by urging her Twitter followers to boycott Barnsley rockers Def Leopard.

For such acts of bravery – combined with her sterling work fighting for the poor and the ugly by reminding them how pretty and privileged she is – Jameela has become something of a woke figurehead: the Lena Durham it’s okay to have a wank over. So if ever a celebrity deserved to be showered with victim points for coming out as non-binary, it was our Jameela. I mean, just look at her: she’s brown, 33, hates JK Rowland, and spends her life gleefully promoting the same banal platitudes promoted by Lena before she was deservedly cancelled for defending a man accused of rape and stuffing one too many pebbles up her infant sister’s arsehole.

All in all, Jameela’s announcement had the progressive world in a frenzy, and rightly so as there’s nothing we love more than knowing there’s one less straight person in the world. However, it pains me to say this but it seems my fellow leftists have got this one spectacularly wrong. Because as much as I want it to be true I just can’t believe that the brown-skinned 33-year old is genuinely lesbonic. Something smells fishy, and it isn’t Jameela’s fingers.

Why don’t I believe her? How long have you got? First off, she showed a complete lack of respect for SJW ethics when she bowed to the mob. Not the bowing itself, obviously – that’s to be applauded. No, it was the way she sullied the glorious tradition of caving in to social media outrage by following it up with a big-boned lie. All the brown-skinned 33-year-old had to do was issue an insincere apology, promise never to be naughty again, and agree to Do Better by attending seminars on gender, race, and Doing Better After Acting Like An Alt-Right Tit. Job done.

But no, Jameela had to spoil herself by falsely claiming to be a lezza sex-dyke, offending true liberals everywhere with her brazen cultural appropriation of lezza sex- dykery. “How do you know it’s false?” I hear you cry. Glad you asked. Shame you need someone to do your homework but what the hell – how amazing it must be to be so privileged you’re completely unaware of the cast-iron evidence proving conclusively that Jameela is about as gay as ISIS. Because to understand why she is lying you need only look to the brown-skinned 33-year-old’s choice of co-star in vile pro-Christian Amazon ‘drama’ The Good Life. Yes, I’m talking about syrup-wearing barman and serial rapist Charles Danson.

This monster needs no introduction but let’s just say his friendship with the Clintons does nothing to mask his career-long quest to spread vile right-wing propaganda through the medium of television ‘comedy’. Having spent the ’70s and ’80s molesting Shelly Winters as happy-go-lucky serial rapist Sam Maloney in Taxi, he moved on to his most vile creation yet: playing an even more revolting version of himself in fellow baldy Larry Davidson’s Islamophobic shitcom Seinfeld.

Even worse, white Danson was once in a mentally abusive relationship with African-American Whoopi Goldblum, the bigoted slaphead mocking his poor girlfriend at the notorious Friar Tuck’s Roast when he blacked up to humiliate the marginalised Ghostbusters star for the amusement of his toxic male buddies. Yet now we’re expected to accept that a card-carrying queer woman would choose to not only work but be friends with such an animal? Seriously? Clearly Jameela was a right-wing wolf in intersectional clothing all along. I bet she isn’t even brown. Or 33.

I don’t believe her for a second, and neither should any other self-respecting progressive. For these are dangerous, divisive times and we need fascist provocateurs masquerading as brown-skinned 33-year-old lesbians like we need more white men nominated for Oscars. Having said that, I’m nothing if not open-minded. So in the interests of fairness, I’ll happily believe Jameela’s a queer if she can provide me with a video of Kirsten Bell squirting in her face.

Over to you, JJ.

Sadly, she’s not the only celebrity to make headlines this month for stepping out of their lane and pretending to be something they’re not. Indeed, it’s becoming somewhat fashionable to mock the oppressed by jumping on their bandwagon to curry favour with the woke world, a disgraceful trend which must be stopped. Because impersonating a minority without direct experience of the hardships they’ve endured is about as insulting as you can get, almost as insulting as telling a transwoman she isn’t a real lady.

 

So forgive me for not joining in with the bonhomie around ageing Loose Women presenter Paul Schofield ‘bravely’ coming out as a gay last week. Don’t get me wrong, this frank admission by married father-of-two Schofield should be a cause for celebration, as nothing excites modern libs more than knowing there’s one less nuclear family in the world. But the manner in which the silver-maned star told the world he’s gay – and more importantly, his disgraceful behaviour last December – strongly suggests that all is not as it seems. Something’s a bit ‘funny’ about Schofield, and it’s not the way he stirs his tea.

Because in keeping some key details to himself the effeminate presenter committed one of the great cardinal sins of the 22nd century: he didn’t give the full story to people on the internet. Y’know, the folk who actually matter. It speaks volumes about his white male entitlement that he thinks it’s acceptable to publicly declare his homosexuality without satisfying every nosey bastard on Twitter by answering personal questions like: How long his wife has known? Does he have a boyfriend? Is he a top or a bottom? How many policeman has he rimmed on Hampstead Heath?

As if this wasn’t egregious enough, when you look back at decrepid Schofield’s behaviour before December’s rigged election it’s clear to anyone with half a Gender Studies degree that he left out those intimate details because its all one big lie: he isn’t gay and anyone who thinks he is hasn’t been paying attention. Because nice, liberal, homosexual Schofe is a Tory. And as every principled left-winger knows, there’s no such thing as a gay Tory.

Sure, there are right-wing bumboys everywhere, such as hateful posh racist Douglas Murryfield and his partner in grime, rubbish satirist Andrew Doylem. But a cursory glance at their problematic output reveals that these two numpties are nothing more than a pair of cute pencil cases: pink and warm on the outside but cold and blue within. Indeed, it’s highly unlikely these two are same-sex aroused at all, their love of gay romps fuelled not by attraction to men but because it gifts them a free pass to degrade poor black rentboys and flaunt their privilege by stuffing crumpled fivers up the unlucky hustlers’ arseholes.

And in case any right-wing trolls are wondering how exactly I know that Schofield is a Tory: he took a selfie with Boris Johnston. A selfie. You don’t engage in such worryingly chummy behaviour with a politician unless you’re intending to vote for him. As anyone who’s been paying attention knows, Jeremy Corbyn is the only politician with the moral fibre and all round decency to have his photo taken with unsavoury characters despite not liking them, agreeing with them, or having the slightest clue who they are.

And speaking of the Angel of Islington, if anyone’s still in any doubt that Schofield is as blue as they come, I suggest taking a look at the disgraceful interview he conducted with the Greatest Prime Minister Britain Never Had back in December. Only a full-blown Tory would refuse to kiss St Jezza’s arse in such a shocking, disrespectful manner. Schofield doesn’t know how lucky he is – if Labour had won the election he’d have been bundled on to the first plane to Iran and swinging from a crane before his rainbow crocs hit the tarmac. Let’s see how many homophobic Tories want their picture taken with the duplicitous 77-year-old when he’s lying in a hospital broom cupboard dying of AIDS. It’s all fun and games impersonating a gay until their signature disease strikes you down too.

Still, in the interests of fairness and equality, I’m more than happy to be proven wrong if presented with conclusive proof of Schofield’s gayness. In fact, I’ll gladly accept it if someone shows me a video of Rylan Clarke-Neil spunking on Phil’s hair.

Bring it on, lads.

 

 

By Ben Pensant

There are many people to blame for Labour’s electoral defeat: the Russians, Laura Kuntsberg, stuck-up working-class northerners who think the right to vote means the right to vote differently to Paul Maison. I could spend all day listing the bastards responsible, and indeed that’s what I did the morning after Jezza’s humiliation before putting the past behind me and focussing on the future. As soon as I’d written another list of all the gammony-melts I forgot to put in the first one, such as Tracey-Ann Doberman and the bassist out of Pulp who smells like cheese.

But during this period of self-reflection I realised there was a group of traitors more at fault than anyone, whose unchecked power and diabolical influence even surpasses the combined might of Rupert Maxwell and that evil blonde clever-clogs off Fifteen To One. Yes, I’m talking about Hollywood. And to see the full extent to which the movie industry uses right wing propaganda to defame jam-making vegetarians from Islington, look no further than the recently released slice of gangster porn from one of tinseltown’s most distastefully bearded directors.

Marvin Scorsese has made a fortune out of offending people. For fifty years he’s terrorised audiences with his abhorrent blend of racist sloganeering and blood-splattered exploitation, safe in the knowledge that his status as white Hollywood royalty insulates him from the consequences of his crimes.

From The Godfather to The Wolf Of Wallsend, Scorsese’s films are crude celebrations of toxic masculinity, with an unhealthy dollop of eye-popping Italian stereotypes thrown in for good measure. His determination to offend liberals is so pathological he even made a film about Jesus, gleefully erasing superior religions more deserving of a silver screen tribute, such as Islam, Radical Islam, and that nice, peaceful, progressive version of Islam that only exists in Walford-on-Twitter.

Needless to say, Scorsese loves sticking two fingers up at the Muslim community, stubbornly refusing to adapt the Kerrang or make a biopic of Osama Ben Laden. Yep, ‘tough guy’ Marvy is happy to point his camera at greasy-haired clichés eating pasta, shooting each other in the face, and yelling “wadda mistaka to maka!” but when it comes to depicting good violence inflicted upon people who deserve it – Israeli children, British soldiers, adulterous women – this Hollywood ‘hard man’ runs a mile.

Pathetically, he even tried to rectify this in the noughties by making a film about the Dele Alli Lama. Luckily, leftists saw through his vulgar attempt to claw back liberal cred and Kung Fu was a box-office flop. Indeed, it illustrates how out-of-touch Scorsese is that he arrogantly believed he could make up for years of far-right propaganda by eulogising Lama, a notorious anti-communist with a penchant for objectifying women and telling immigrants to fuck off back to where they came from.

The rest of his career is equally problematic: a six-decade spectacle of bigotry and incitement. From smearing immigrants as murderers and thieves because society forced them to murder people and thieve stuff, to directing incel guidebooks masquerading as sitcoms like Taxi and The King Of Queens, Scorsese has long been regarded as the Republican it’s okay to like. Needless to say, his ‘unique’ filmmaking style was a huge influence on The Joker, the River Phoenix hatefest which last month left a trail of destruction so widespread panicky studio bosses hired Mossad to erase all traces of the gang rapes and mass shootings that accompanied every screening. I guess this is what being ‘influential’ is all about.

All in all, you’d think at the age of 87 he’d be retiring the reactionary rhetoric, hanging up his white hood, and shopping for coffins. Think again. Because from Lewis CK to Harvey Wankstain, the entitled white male just can’t help himself. No guilt, no shame, no insincere apology. And with Scorsese’s latest Amazon Prime cash-in The Irishmen traumatising decent liberals and delighting racist arseholes, it seems Marvy has sunk even lower.

I’ve long boycotted Amazon as a result of their fascistic policy of making people pay for films and albums, so when the time came to endure Scorsese’s latest disgrace I was left with no option but to sneak into my neighbour’s flat and watch it on her laptop while she enjoyed her afternoon nap. Unfortunately on this particular day the over-worked single mother had eschewed spending the morning in her goonie drinking White Grenache in favour of taking her infant son to the park, putting my plans into jeopardy with her brazen selfishness. Thankfully, plan B arrived in the shape of a not-quite-past-its-expiry-date Rohypnol I’d been saving for next year’s Labour conference. So after entering her home and depositing the ground-up pill into an open box of wine, I hid under her settee and waited, like a left-wing Chuck Morris. Sure enough, within seconds of getting home she’d downed the last dregs from the carton and was sparked out on the kitchen floor, leaving me free to be offended by Scorsese’s vile movie in peace.

And trust me, there’s a hell of a lot to be offended by. Indeed, the sheer outrage I felt was so intense it drowned out the constant crying from my neighbour’s white male rugrat. First off, despite the film’s title there isn’t a single Irishman in the film. That’s right, vile ‘auteur’ Scorsese is so sophisticated he thinks the best way to offset accusations of racism is to make a film about paddies played by wops. Genius.

So in a foul insult to the good people of Derry, Swansea, and Brigadoon, Scorsese trolls Irish audiences by casting swarthy Latin muse Al Pacino as Gaelic hitman Frank Shearer, caking the grumpy actor’s face in computer generated latex to make him look less Italian rather than giving the role to an authentic, preferably trans Irisher.

Such rank erasure is sickening, and a kick in the teeth to Irish actors such as Chris O’Donnelly, Euan McGregor, and the old bag out of Mrs. Brown’s Boyos. On this form don’t be surprised if Scorsese’s next movie is a Blade remake starring Nicholas ‘Trigger’ Lyndhurst. All in all, I’ve never been so offended on behalf of a minority since that time able-bodied Brian Cranston played a spacka. Needless to say, this disrespectable attitude to the green valleys consumes the film, with nary a shamrock, leprechaun, balaclava, or dead race horse in sight. And the film’s 6-and-a-half hours long!

Predictably, Scorsese tries to keep audiences happy by inserting a few well-known Irish traditions, but it’ll take more than cars being bombed or blokes getting gunned down on street corners to make up for such a shocking lack of representation. But amazingly, the anti-Irish racism isn’t the film’s most offensive feature. Because in a gross distortion of socialist history, Scorsese then has the brass neck to depict Teemster legend Johnny Hoffa as a criminal. That’s right, not content with offending the entire population of Boston, Scorsese decides to smear one of the most beloved left-wing figures of the 21st century. And it’s as clear as the blood on Marvy’s hands that the purpose of this betrayal was to defame Jeremy Corbyn and secure victory for Boris ‘Bastard’ Johnston.

For the uninitiated, union boss Hoffa was a proud firebrand slandered by the press, targeted by the establishment, and repeatedly attacked for being friends with unsavoury, often murderous characters. Sound familiar? Wrongly convicted of fraud, after his release he was hounded by both the government and the organised crime figures he’d spent years fighting to protect his members’ pensions. Needless to say, such principles made Hoffa a marked man and in 1985, after standing up to the bullies one time too many, he mysteriously disappeared.

Predictably, The Irishmen misrepresents all of this. Scorsese’s Hoffa – played by regular collaborator Robert De Niro under layers of ropey anti-ageing make-up – is depicted as a corrupt con-man with a sweet tooth and shit haircut, happy to steal from his comrades by furnishing the Bambino crime family with loans while sharing the profits of their illegal endeavours. Even worse, the left-wing tradition of paying for houses and holidays by dipping into union funds – as practiced by everyone from Arthur Scarsgill to Ian Laivery – is bizarrely presented as a bad thing, Scorsese’s delight at fermenting hatred of Corbyn’s Labour all too apparent.

As you’d expect, the film gleefully depicts Hoffa’s murder, stretching out the tragic rabble-rouser’s final minutes to wring every last drop of joy from seeing a socialist slain in broad daylight. In an act of jaw-dropping chutzpah, Scorsese then has the nerve to expect us to feel sorry for Hoffa’s killer, the pretend paddy played by aforementioned screen legend-turned-jobbing hack Pacino. Well done Marvy – as well as Irish erasure and anti-leftist messaging you’ve squeezed in victim-blaming and hitman-sympathising too. Bravo! Why not go the whole hog and add homophobia too? Oh wait, you already did that by referring to misunderstood Kennedy killer David Ferrybridge as a ‘fairy’. You’re really hitting out of the park here, aren’t you?

Add loud-mouthed Republican Joe Pesky as the grinning mob boss who ordered Hoffa’s execution – replete with appalling CGI wig – and it’s not hard to see how much Scorsese is enjoying himself. But most disturbing is the chilling glimpse of what’s in store for Jezza if he doesn’t keep his mouth shut. That this movie was released weeks before the election is no coincidence, and the lies and misrepresentations it promotes were reflected in the way the British media spent weeks spreading bullshit about the Dear Leader.

And the Tory establishment couldn’t have picked a better bullshitter than Scorsese, a man with so few morals he spent his entire career brown-nosing Italians only to then accuse them of killing Hoffa. The fact that it was actually carried out by the IDS at the behest of crooked Ronald Raygun was apparently lost on an ‘educated’ director too wrapped up in impressing Boris Johnston to read some history.

But ignorance is Scorsese’s forte, illustrated by his disregard for all the people who’ll be inspired by his film to go out and shoot left-wingers. And don’t be surprised if the security detail provided for Jezza conveniently disappears in the coming weeks and months. Because as we know, Italians and Irishers need no excuse to kill people. Thank god there are barely any blacks in the film – who knows what violent depravity it could unleash in those crazy bastards.

There are plenty of Jewish characters though, clearly put there to convince impressionable Zionists to become mob lawyers and put an even bigger target on the Labour leader’s head. But they fucked with the wrong messiah this time. Because Scorsese can recreate the deaths of celebrity socialists all day long, but it’s not so easy to snuff out a living, breathing legend. So don’t be surprised if when Jezza finally becomes PM in 2024 he immediately passes a law stating that no Scorsese film will ever see the inside of a British cinema again. In fact, I’d be happy for no movie not made by Ken Loach to ever see the inside of a British cinema again. Apart from the Dear Leader’s private home screenings of course, which will be exempt from the ban and showcase such Corbyn favourites as A Serbian Film, Thundercats: The Movie, and that 1972 public information film about the dangers of incorrectly sealed manhole covers.

With likeable penny-pincher Ian Laivery adapting to his new role as Jezza’s number two – feeding the PM a steady stream of kale popcorn, organic custard creams, and veggy sausage rolls imported from Gaza – these events will serve as both a warning to dumb Labour voters who defected to the Tories and a stunning rebuke to dark Hollywood forces determined to smear proud leftists as crooks simply because they like borrowing money from union coffers without paying it back.

With his career in tatters, Scorsese will be left with no option but to atone for his cinematic sins by filming Jezza’s long-gestating script on the life of misunderstood extremist Shakey Aamer, The Rage Of Innocence. Records will be broken, awards will be won, and a b-list director will be shown undeserved leniency and allowed to end his days stitching berets on the Thames floating gulag, reflecting on the people he offended and the lives he destroyed.

Now that’s an offer you can’t refuse.

 

By Ben Pensant.

The last few weeks have seen more left-wing bravery than you can shake a shitty duffle coat at. We’ve witnessed St. Greta singlehandedly save the planet by skiving off school to do handstands on a yacht. We watched in awe as Jezza coolly despatched fuzzy-wigged fascist Andrew Neal with the simple tactic of refusing to answer a single question. And let’s not forget brave terrorist Osman Khan, who gave his life fighting off racist bullies who attacked him for no reason while minding his own business carrying out the popular Islamic custom of murdering people on London Bridge.

But even these jawdropping acts of defiance don’t come close to the sheer pluckiness of progressive comic Nish Kular, who somehow escaped unscathed last week after being heckled by a pack of rabid Tories and Brexiteers, one of whom viciously assaulted him with a breadbun.

Luckily, as traumatic as it was the whole sorry incident actually invigorated the left by shining a light on the brutal racism of Tories and Brexiteers, giving a huge boost to Labour’s election campaign. Don’t be surprised if tomorrow morning, thanks to Nish, Mr Corbyn’s loyal footman Owen is spotted stitching the names ‘Lovely Laura’ and ‘Jez Da Bomb’ onto the PM’s official No.10 bathrobes in place of ‘Blonde Bastard’ and ‘Little Miss Bucket Fanny’.

Of course, alt-right trolls were quick to minimise Nish’s ordeal by pointing out that comedians die on their arse up and down the country every night. But the difference is most of them are white and right-wing therefore they thoroughly deserve it, whereas Nish is liberal and Indian-or-something so clearly doesn’t. Sadly, he learnt the hard way what happens when left-wing comics step outside of their safe BBC bubble. They don’t deserve you, mate.

Needless to say, after cracking some clever gags about Brexit which went right over their bulbous heads, the toxic white audience turned on Nish, forcing him offstage with the help of the aforementioned airborne edible: doubly disrespectful when you consider that Islam views doughy baked goods as highly blasphemous. So well done, righties – as well as trying to kill a marginalised Muslim you’ve also condemned him to a bollocking from his Iman for being in the vicinity of a forbidden foodstuff. At least we now know who to blame when he turns up on Have We Got News For You with a missing hand.

Unsurprisingly, all manner of right-wingers jumped to the bullies’ defence. “It was a charity do for sick kids, not an episode of The Smash Report!” they bleated, as if the sickening event at London’s Grossvenor House was some kind of peace summit.  I was about to say I hope the little shits choked on their gastric feeding tubes but as the rug-rats in question were probably the children of IDF generals I’d much rather they got bummed to death first.

Yep, in news that surprised precisely no-one, it turned out that the fundraiser was organised by a shady pro-Israel group, a group so shady and pro-Israel I neither know who they are, what they’re called, nor can provide a scrap of evidence to prove my entirely speculative claim that they had anything to do with the event. That’s how shady these bastards are.

Once aware of this unsubstantiated fact it becomes clear that the decision to ask a practising Muslim to perform was pure provocation, clearly designed to lure Nish into the Zion’s Den so they could humiliate him before fatally wounding the hapless funnyman with flour and dough. Because like all decent liberals, Nish’s only crime is to see the best in everyone, even imaginary Mossad agents using a children’s charity as a front to make Muslim comics look silly. Well if being a principled leftist makes someone a criminal then kindly arrest me now and throw me in a cell alongside an 18-stone bald lifer with fists like wrecking balls and a Top Cat tattoo on his left bum-cheek. Seriously, I’m not kidding. Lock me up and feed me to Big Brenda before I do anything vaguely progressive again. For the love of Sheeva, do it NOW!!

Thankfully the left-wing response was as supportive, compassionate, and transparently partisan as you’d expect, from fellow comics congratulating Nish on becoming the first Asian comic ever to bomb on stage, to concerned authoritarians demanding the savage crowd are arrested for assault with a deadly brioche.

But the reaction of the right was typically disturbing, as not for the first time devious Tory trolls cynically tried to curry favour with the public by masquerading as reasonable, mature adults. Which they achieved by going on Twitter and demanding Nish is sacked and arrested. Who do they think they are? Us?

They even ripped a page out of our playbook by taking a comment Nish made last month and pretending he said it at the Grossvenor to emphasise how thoroughly insulted the bread-throwing racists were and back up the campaign to have him nicked for telling jokes. Unfortunately this petty plan backfired as the gag they were so triggered by was actually edgy and erudite, which explains why it offended the Brexit-Boomers’ misshapen racist ears. Indeed, Nish’s wry suggestion that everyone go home and kill their Brexity parents was as on-brand as left-centric comedy gets, in that it wasn’t funny, contained no discernible punchline, and was a thinly-veiled variation on a far superior joke by a long dead comic. (Evil southern atheist Bill Hickson, in case you’re wondering. If ever a stand-up could do with having his material remixed by a genius like Nish it was this redneck  loser.)

Predictably the righties pounced and accused Nish of incitement, blissfully unaware that left-wingers are incapable of it. Obviously if a Tory comic made the same gag about Remain voters he would want locking up immediately. But that’s because Tory comics are evil. And as anyone with half a Gender Studies degree knows, to suggest that Remain voters should be murdered is the most blatant example of punching down since Traci Ullman appropriated St. Jezza’s beard and mocked his jam-making skills.

And let’s just say Nish was capable of incitement and his comment was a genuine call for white people to slaughter their racist grandmas. So what? Is the fairly mundane observation that Brexit voters deserve to be shot or stabbed to death now considered a bad thing? Have we really come to this?

The same astonishing ignorance could be seen last week after a video emerged showing alt-right blogger Greedo Fawkes tricking an assortment of proud Corbynites into admitting that Jezza was an antisemite. What the brick-thick bigots rejoicing at this supposed ‘gotcha!’ failed to realise was that there is a simple reason these left-wing warriors thought the Corbyn quotes Fawkes read to them were antisemitic when they believed they were said by Boris Johnston: Jezza has been fighting racism all his life while Boris is a cunt. End of.

Because like Nish, Jezza is incapable of racism. He can’t do it. It’s literally the only thing he’s shit at. He’s not just anti-racist: he is Anti-Racism. (As well as Love, Tolerance, and Forgiveness.) You could spot Jezza at a Klan rally or a Mauricey gig and he still wouldn’t be racist. He doesn’t know how. Bojo on the other hand – more like BOZO! – just has to make a silly comment about letterboxes or use the langage of imperialism to mock Tony Bliar’s white saviour complex and he’s the most racist man on the planet. And a cunt. End of.

But this is what we’ve come to expect from the far-right: stealing our best moves and behaving as hysterically censorious as the most dedicated left-wing SJW. Luckily, they’re so stupid they don’t realise that this actually helps the left. Because right-wing internet warriors with a hard-on for hypersensitivity are basically leftists-in-waiting. Like us, they don’t really care about politics but they absolutely love being part of a group who hate another group. In other words: indescribably easy to mould.

Luckily the internet is chock full of people who get off on discussing politics despite knowing sod all about it, and they all love nothing more than an opportunity to send death threats to journalists. Latching on to this group over there as a means to be nasty to that group over here is practically a rites of passage in the infantile warzone of Political Twitter. And brilliantly, there are new converts every where you look.

Because with a bit of tweaking, even the very worst people – Tories, Brexiteers, lesbians – can be just as deranged as us. It’s not their fault they’ve chosen the wrong side, the poor saps, and we should treat them with the same compassion we would afford anyone else whose brain we’re planning to rinse. Which is a piece of piss when the thick twats you’re trying to turn have all the intelligence of an empty crisp packet. Thankfully, after Jezza cruises to victory tonight the indoctrination can begin in earnest, and any right-wingers whose tiny minds remain unswayed after six months of Labour rule will be put to work cleaning the Hide Park gulag or hung from a lamppost on Downing Street.

And the beautiful thing is it’s liberals like Nish – poor, traumatised Nish – who’ll reap the rewards as hordes of fresh-egg leftists flock to his gigs and laugh their backs off at his daring jokes about how frightfully awful Leave voters are. He may have to be quick though, as my Labour mole informs me that within weeks of reclaiming the No 10 throne Jezza plans to ban stand-up comedy altogether. It was only a matter of time. Apologies, Nish. In a perfect world we’d happy for the likes of yourself and Francesca Martini to carry on performing but the possibility one of you might revolt and crack a mild joke about Corbyn’s beard or change your mind about his bold economic policies once you’ve been forced to eat your own children is just too risky. Sorry, pal. I don’t make the rules, I just follow them.

However, all is not lost. Rumour has it that while Jezza has no intention of ever lifting the ban, there will be ample opportunities for ethically correct comics to perform at private banquets in Lord Jezza’s court, free from the prying eyes of the impressionable public who are so wild and unpredictable they’re liable to rob a takeaway or murder their own children if they hear so much a knock-knock joke.

Fear not though, Nish. I’m sure jezza will remember the sterling work you’ve done promoting left-wing ideology, as well as being eternally grateful for the way you selflessly swung the election in Labour’s favour by getting twatted on the head with a crusty roll. I’ve no doubt in time the honour of giving an intimate, behind-closed-doors show for the the Supreme Leader of Ukasia will become a sought after privilege. Indeed, give it a year and I’m certain these star-studded gala nights will be spoken about by leftist comics in the same reverential tones as Malcolm X’s famous “I have in my hand a piece of paper” speech. So keep your chin up, Nish. When the time comes to start hiring cooks, dishwashers and car valets I’m sure you’ll be at the top of the list.

It’s no less than you deserve.

By Ben Pensant

There’s never been a better time to be a leftist. From Twitter to Facebook, progressive ideology is EVERYWHERE. But for all the great work done defending terrorists and indulging men in dresses – and despite the exciting prospect of Jezza seizing No.10 in time to cancel Christmas – the modern world remains a dangerous place. And nothing is more dangerous than US drama, an arena which should be brimming with more liberal values than a Holland & Barratts trolley dash. Sadly, despite living in a supposed golden age, American telly loathes the left. And recently two popular, critically acclaimed shows – one brand new, one mercifully finished – have grimly illustrated how intense this loathing is.

For anyone lucky enough to have avoided it, HBO’s The Affairs has been terrorising audiences since 2013. Over six seasons it followed the exploits of Dominic Cooper’s Noel Solloway and Kevin Pacey out of Dawson’s Creak as they wandered around the Hamptons drinking, fighting, and sexually assaulting mentally ill waitresses in sand-dunes. Women barely got a look-in – of the four leads only a derisory TWO were female – and the show never featured a single trans character. Indeed, to get an idea of how poorly it fared on diversity consider this: that the only penises in The Affairs belonged to men wasn’t even the tenth most offensive thing about it.

From episode one it deployed a crass framing device: splitting episodes into two and replaying the same events from different perspectives to explore the unreliability of memory. It doesn’t take Rose McGovern to tell you how problematic this is, and the swansong sixth season violently exploited the gimmick to stick two fingers up at #MeeTo.

But this was merely the show’s latest disgrace. From celebrating toxic masculinity to mocking campus culture the writers repeatedly courted fascists. They even promoted slavery by depicting privileged white Noel stepping out of his lane to date a black woman, though thankfully she came to her senses and dumped him for her militant ex-husband. I bet his cock was bigger than Noel’s too. (Of course it was: he’s black.)

The Affairs’ other crime was to suggest that adults commit adultery because they’re flawed and impulsive, when anyone with half a Gender Studies degree knows they do it because of the patriarchy or something. Especially women, who are so at the mercy of men they’re physically incapable of keeping their knickers on. Instead they’re brainwashed into casual sex and extra-marital trysts, forced to satisfy male desires on pain of death, divorce, or being made to wear a silly white bonnet. You thought being a Grid Girl or voting Tory was the epitome of internalised misogyny? Think again.

As well as making excuses for cheaters, the show also sneered at non-conforming relationships by promoting the outdated and deeply offensive concept of – urgh – family. So one minute it pretended it’s perfectly okay for men to plant their seed wherever they like, the next it suggested the world would be so much better if we were all straight and married with four white children. Cognitive dysentery much? Of course, such hypocrisy is commonplace in right-wing TV. Just look at racist sitcom Love My Neighbour, with its dishonest suggestion that an actual socialist would ever dream of ranting about “the sambo next door”.

Needless to say, the picture book Solloway clan – or rather, ‘klan’ – were as inclusive as a Tommy Robertson lookalike contest. The writing team pathetically tried to confect diversity by making one of the sons a noofter, blissfully unaware that no-one in the gay community wants to see themselves represented by a fat speccy kid. I’ll wager the privileged brat playing him was neither myopic, overweight, nor bent either. And people wonder why non-binary children get bullied. Contemptible.

But the final season was the most vile yet, the last three episodes dropping any pretence of liberalism and going all-out to promote a rabidly alt-right agenda. First it mocked #BelieveWomen, centring Noel in a storyline about historical abuse. Needless to say, it took potshots at internet outrage and cancel culture, siding with the abuser and demonising his victims. It did this by confirming that Noel had behaved in a creepy, abusive manner but also – shamefully – acknowledged that some of his accusers may not have had the best intentions. Disgusting.

The writers then insulted feminists everywhere by suggesting that while all accusations should be taken seriously, sometimes women lie. In 2019. Needless to say, one of Noel’s accusers was the ‘snowflake’ student who triggered him in season three. Sadly, she never got to say ‘screw you, Mr Rapeypants!’ as the writers instead punished her by suggesting she acted out of spite because he wouldn’t shag her and thought her writing was rubbish. Clearly HBO were desperate to claw back some alt-right cred after the attacks they received from nonce-apologists enraged by fictional Michael Jackson documentary Finding N$v$rland.

Which also explained their decision to fly in the face of science, reason, and James O’Brian by suggesting that traumatic experiences are inherited through DNA and this is why people behave badly. A shameful theory which conveniently ignores the much bigger role played by right-wing newspapers, right-wing politicians, and right-wing films about clowns. As you’d guess, the final season also saw the writers stick the boot into Hollywood and homeopathy, pausing briefly to mock the art and publishing worlds. Hmm, I wonder what it was about these staunchly left-wing industries that so bothered a gang of conservative hacks penning weekly love letters to fascism? It’s a fucking mystery.

 

Depressingly, the final episode ended with Noel’s ageing white male dancing on a cliff edge like a tit, consequence free, entirely ignorant of the damage done by his sex-crazed antics. So ignorant, in fact, he had no idea his old man make-up was about as convincing as the BBC’s attempt to smear Jezza as an antisemite by cropping the Thundercats sticker on his BMX so it looked like Eva Brown.

All in all, it won’t be missed. The Affairs is from a bygone era, before the world was destroyed by Trump and Brexit and put back together by St.Greta and Hannah Gatsby. A relic of the pre-woke world, its undignified climax was fitting for a show utterly devoid of dignity. Which made it all the more exciting that in the same week it ended Netflix launched its big budget comic book series Watchman. 

On paper this adaptation of Bobby Moore’s graphic novel ticked every box: multicultural cast, diverse writing room, a hard-hitting story of resistance and white supremacy. What could possible go wrong? Everything. Because five episodes in it’s painfully clear this show is nothing but a trojan pony: the most sneaky piece of alt-right propaganda since The Colbert Show. And while the titular Watchman is yet to make an appearance, you can bet your bottom dollar what colour and gender he is. Because this show is so in thrall to Caucasian males it might as well be called Whiteman.

Sure, lead character Amanda is a black woman but this bold move is cancelled out completely by the decision to give her white children. Adopted white children. Yep, in Damien Lindelof’s twisted universe, marginalised minorities regularly invite packs of white supremacists-in-waiting into their homes because well, that’s what black folks do. Things take an even worse turn when we learn that not only is Amanda a police officer but the milky brood are her murdered partner’s kids. Because as we know, black women are just here to wipe the arses of white orphans whose biological parents are too lazy and dead to do it themselves. “Dem white folks was oh so kind, I jus’ cain’t wait to work three jobs so I can bring up dem poor lil’ mites! Massa’ Lindelof’s gon’ be so proud of me!” That Emmy-winning star Regina Queen would agree to star in such offensive tosh is obscene. Her character is also a masked avenger who goes by the name Night Sister but they should have just called her Mammy Marvel.

Needless to say, no prizes for guessing which actor from Miami Voice was offered a plum role. Clue: it wasn’t the brown fella. He had his day thirty years ago, that’s enough gainful employment for one black lifetime. Netflix are happy to make glossy TV shows about African-Americans but they can’t be giving them meaty parts when a hunky honky like Ron Johnson needs a job. Predictably, the show’s craven cheerleaders claimed that Johnson’s character’s whiteness is an integral plot point because the is-he-or-isn’t-he-KKK? narrative would make no sense if he was black. Whatevz. Clearly they never saw BlAcK kLaNsMxn, which proved conclusively that black actors are more than capable of playing white supremacists, thank you very much.

They’re more than capable of playing cops too, a slap in the face to POCs whose lives were destroyed by the pigs, such as Roddy King, Jessie Smollett and OJ Simpson. So bravo Netflix, you create a black character then completely undermine her blackness by foisting bigoted white kids on her and making her a rozzer.

Elsewhere, the show features a gang of mysterious cop killers but warps reality by making them white racists rather than misunderstood muggers or proud Antifa streetfighters. Like the Joker’s green hair, the killers’ iconic Scream masks have already inspired copycat attacks, but don’t expect Lindelof or Netflix to take any responsibility when the assaults, dead bodies, and hysterical CNN articles start piling up.

As offensive as that sounds, it doesn’t come close to Watchman‘s ableist, transphobic supervillain Doctor Hollywood. The giant bald alien has so far remained offscreen, though his problematic presence looms large, as does his enormous blue cock. It beggars belief that not one writer on this supposedly diverse show considered how his superpowers and enormous blue cock would exclude those of us with neither superpowers nor enormous blue cocks.

We are yet to see Hollywood’s enormous blue cock but have been treated to the sight of his promiscuous ex girlfriend marvelling at a not-quite-as-enormous dildo modelled on it, which is arguably worse. Because not only does it promote rapey consumerism to film someone using a sex toy shaped like an enormous blue cock, but the very existence of dildos is deeply offensive to transmen with drawers full of fake penises. None of which are blue or enormous. Or cocks.

So, having shoved the bad guy’s space-knob in our faces, the writers then sink even lower by reimagining the hero of the original comic as a posh psychopath with a penchant for birthday cake and mass murder. Alan Veidt – AKA blonde explorer-cum-crimefighter Ozymandela – successfully brought peace to the world by dropping a giant octopus on San Francisco and killing millions, a brave act admired by leftists as it confirmed our principled belief that the best way to bring people together is to slaughter them. But the TV show has sold Veidt out, making him in a privileged lunatic who spends his days riding horses, fishing for babies, and stabbing his servants to death. Yep, this is how Netflix repay the genuinely committed leftist who saved the planet: they turn him into a nutcase. Slow hand-claps, pricks.

And on it went, offending progressives, putting minorites at risk, and pissing all over the legacy of the book, which I haven’t read but know for a fact is waaaay better than the series. Luckily, this appalling adaptation is unlikely to endure as I’ve heard that among comic geeks the TV the show isn’t considered canon. It’s not even Ball.

Though considering the sorry state of US drama, don’t be surprised if it runs for seven seasons like The Affairs. No doubt Lindelof was emboldened by Dominic and co’s vile misogyny, his embrace of far-right ideology currying favour with President Pussy-Grab to ensure he personally greenlights another twenty seasons. And make no mistake, the white male TV scribes of the future are paying attention: taking notes, typing by tiki-light, and admiring Doc Hollywood’s enormous blue cock. The puffs.

In the meantime, like Watchman’s misunderstood socialist Roy Shark, all we can do is warn the world about the dire consequences of allowing these programmes to continue. Though fingers crossed that unlike the masked tramp-crusader we manage to tell humanity of its awful fate before before being vaporised by a giant blue Nazi. Or alternatively we could just tell Twitter how rubbish the show is and call anyone who likes it a Nazi.  Yeah, let’s go with that.

‘Who watches the Watchman?’ Alt-right shitbirds, that’s who.

 

 

 

 

By Ben Pensant

I hated The Joker. That’s right, I went there. Get me arrested for hate speech if you must. I’m past caring. Because if the last few weeks have taught me one thing it’s that there are times when speaking your mind isn’t just important, it’s absolutely vital. And after a month living in fear of abuse, cancellation, and burning dogshit posted through my letterbox, the time has come to say it once and say it loud: I hated The Joker and I’m proud.

That felt good. Not as good as watching Jezza demolish the Tories by losing an election to them, but definitely the second best experience I’ve ever had fully-clothed. After weeks of biting my tongue, to finally stick it to the haters is the definition of liberating. Now I know how self-help guru/professional mental patient Matt Hague felt when he risked ridicule by telling Twitter: “I don’t believe in astrology and couldn’t give a fig who knows it!”.

To go against the grain takes courage, the kind unique to social media liberals willing to say the unsayable no matter how many fascists they offend. And as everyone who read the bootlicking reviews knows, to even suggest that The Joker may not be the masterpiece the establishment tells you it is practically guarantees pile-ons, death threats, and funny looks at Klan meetings.

The silencing of those who saw through this vile film was so thorough that barely a dozen negative reviews were published. Indeed, the journalists who dared to speak out have been quietly ‘disappeared’, so determined are the alt-right to promote rabidly conservative propaganda via a sombre character study about inequality and mental illness. And judging by the media whitewash it seems they’ve succeeded. Indeed, if you didn’t know better you’d think critics and audiences loved the film. Which is why, after keeping shtum since its release, the time has come for those of us who detested this offensive flick to finally have our say.

And zoy, is there plenty to detest: gratuitous violence, culturally insensitive colour schemes, and aggressive demands that the audience feel sympathy for ‘comedians’ – currently the most dangerous people on earth. But the most hateful thing about Ted Phillips’ love-letter to fascism is the way it suggests that society turns white men into killers, when any idiot knows the thing that turns them into killers is movies like The Joker.

Not that you’d know this from the biased press coverage. Indeed, the average idiot on the street would probably tell you The Joker has inspired zero hate crimes or mass shootings and swear blind that since early October the streets haven’t been awash with blood, facepaint, and fake flowers filled with sleeping gas. For a whole month cinema goers have been routinely slaughtered during screenings of this terrible film yet do The Scum report it? Do they balls. At the performance I sneaked into twenty people were shot dead but surprise, surprise, the Murdoch empire smothered the story so efficiently even I didn’t notice. For all I know they shot me dead too.

But let’s ignore that and blame ‘poverty’ and ‘mental illness’ for making privileged white men kill, as opposed to movies about far-right supervillains. And newspapers. And ‘Go Home!’ posters. And big red buses. And all of those things the modern left used to hold dear but have now decided are bigoted, like free speech, democracy, and women having their own changing rooms.

Needless to say, the crass deflection and glowing reviews prove once and for all that the MSM has been hijacked by right-wing misogynists, such as the woman who gave it five stars in Premiere. It’s also been a box office hit, meaning everyone who paid money to see it has blood on their hands too. Yes, in 2019 there are still people who think it’s perfectly okay to enjoy a movie in which bad people do bad things. All the more reason then, to salute those brave journalists fighting for decency by praying The Joker will incite far-right violence so they can say ‘I told you so!’ the next time someone shoots up a cinema.

That the politics espoused by Phillip’s hatefest are pretty left-wing is irrelevant. The film’s message – that inequality and alienation can lead to antisocial or psychotic behaviour – may well be the same one promoted by everyone from Occutipy to Bernie Saunders but as all good leftists know, it becomes null and void when the antisocial, psychotic behaviour is carried out by straight white men. To suggest that marginalisation can provoke people into killing is deeply problematic in 2019, despite the fact that we’ve spent decades saying the exact same thing about jihadists.

And while reports of mass shootings and green-haired violence since the film’s release have been thin on the ground – ie ‘covered up by Mossad’ – the knock-on effect is everywhere. One only has to look at how the film’s most contentious scenes inspired the awful events of the last four weeks to understand the horrors this movie has unleashed.

Take the pivotal sequence in which our hero kills three men on the Metro. Critics went gaga but none of the privileged bellends praising Phillips ‘directorial flare’ or River Phoenix’s ‘acting chops’ considered the impact the scene would have on the impressionable public. Needless to say, weeks after the film’s release a pack of cockney thugs brutally assaulted a harmless Extinction Renegade protester for trying to save the earth by pissing about on top of a train and disrupting their precious commute. Yep, in the warped minds of greedy bankers and brainless Leave voters the destruction of the planet is nowhere near as dreadful as being late for work. We can’t upset bossman just because people who care have decided that combatting global warming is more important than capitalist drones losing their bonuses for bad time keeping.

At one time these animals would’ve simply tutted, spat on the floor, and written an angry letter to The Daily Fail. Now, thanks to The Joker they’ve been emboldened to deliver street justice in the most fascistic manner imaginable. And who can blame them? If the mumbly dead fella out of Brokeback Mountain can dress as a clown and assault people on trains why can’t they?

But it didn’t stop there. Take the sad story of the 49 Japanese tourists who froze to death after being trapped inside a truck by a gang of Scum-readers trying to make a quick buck selling their organs to racist butchers. A horrifying story which led many to ask: what could possess a human being to do such a cruel thing?

Not me. Because I knew fine well what had possessed them. Like most sensible people, I instantly remembered that at no point in the film’s two-hour running time does a Chinee or Jap appear onscreen. Not only that, at one stage the clearly non-Asian Joker eats a ready meal which looks suspiciously like it contains noodles. In 2019. Sickening.

It doesn’t take a genius to make the connection. Erasure of Asians + cultural appropriation = Essex truckers murdering a wagon-load of orientals. It’s painfully clear these horrible bastards watched The Joker before embarking on their foul body-smuggling enterprise but will this be brought up in court? Will it knackers.

But it isn’t just normal folk who’ve been inspired by The Joker: world leaders are taking cues from the sharp-suited bigot too. The extrajudicial slaying of misunderstood ISIS leader Apu Bangra El Baggio initially seemed like a normal day at the office for the racist Trump administration. After all, it’s not like the US government need an excuse to murder brown-skinned men with beards and funny names. But the timing of this latest atrocity is deeply suspicious. Indeed, it’s obvious to anyone with half a brain that Trump was inspired by the scene in The Joker where the titular fascist mocks a dwarf.

Because what few people know is that brave El Bagdaddy was a somewhat small fella. Consequently, it doesn’t take Jessica Fletcher to deduce that Trump’s decision to take him out was influenced by Phoenix’s sick protagonist giggling uncontrollably while a work colleague mocks some poor little bastard. Clearly President Pussy-Grab loved this awful scene so much he just had to get in on the act, complimenting his love of bullying with a healthy does of Islamophobia by slaughtering the most high profile short-arsed Muslim he could find.

But it isn’t just the current POTUS who’s been prompted into evil by a mad midgetphobe with a deadly hand-buzzer. Last week St Barack of Obama sold out both his party and pigmentation when he attacked woke culture, breaking left-wing hearts by talking the kind of common sense that infests the grim wasteland known as The Real World.

Oh, Barry. We were happy to ignore all those immigrants you deported and Muslim countries you bombed but this ‘speaking the way normal people do’ stuff is beyond the pale. Though frankly, what did we expect? You’re a 59-year-old black man who desperately wants to be accepted by the establishment: even your baby mama was white. You’re a relic, too out of touch to function in the intersectional world. And unless you’re determined to tarnish your legacy for good I suggest keeping your right-wing rants to yourself. Okay ‘Bama?

Because for a supposed POC to take inspiration from such an abhorrent film is unforgivable, especially one which completely erases black women by giving roles to three of them. Even worse, Phillips thinks so little of these queens he kills one, objectifies another, and makes the third a cold-hearted therapist so uncaring she might as well be white. That Rocky & Bullwinkle star Al Pacino would co-star in such racially problematic filth makes a mockery of his much vaunted fondness for African-American ladies. Threatening to sock Trump’s jaw and telling Foxy News to go fuck themselves on breakfast television seems an awfully long time ago.

Of course, Obama was clearly emboldened by Ted Phillips’s identical rant in the jaw-dropping Variety Fair interview that offended liberals everywhere, some of whom had even read it. In the piece – a River Phoenix feature in which Philips’ comments took up roughly two paragraphs – he bemoaned woke culture and responded to a question about why he decided to make a serious drama by pointing out that nobody in Hollywood wants to make comedy anymore because they can’t be arsed with offended progressives on Twitter.

Cue an avalanche of criticism from offended progressives on Twitter, proving the shite director wrong by listing all of the great sitcoms currently being made in spite of ‘cancel culture’, cleverly ignoring the fact that Phillips was specifically talking about comedy movies, which they’d have been aware of if they’d actually read the article.

Well, guess what, Ted? You got your wish. The crawly-arse critics loved your movie, those of us who hated it are terrified to speak out, and the last month has seen your film inspire enough right-wing violence to guarantee a megabucks sequel is personally greenlit by Agent Orange. They’ll probably throw the wrap party at Trump Tower. And just yesterday it was announced that your magnum opus is the most profitable comic book adaptation ever. Well done! Keeping Lady Marvel off the top spot is the icing on the cake! Congratulations!

Thankfully, as the existence of this blog demonstrates, some of us are still fighting the good fight. Which is why I’m taking a rifle to the next available screening of The Joker so I can shoot the first white person who laughs. Sorry, is that not what you had in mind? Is it only women, minorities, and dwarves we’re supposed to kill? Silly me. Oh well, too late now, I’ve bought bullets and everything. Never mind, there’ll be as much chance of this being reported as Jacob Rees-Mug growing a conscience. I guess the only question is: how did you expect the public to react to a film which instructs them to kill people?

Riddle me that one, Twatman.

By Ben Pensant

There are many things to admire about pint-sized eco-warrior Greta Funbag, such as her courage, intellect, shiny locks, and cute-as-a-button nose. She also has an appropriately finger-wagging demeanour which is beautifully complimented by a cold stare so piercing it could make an make an organic onion cry.

But her two most impressive features have little to do with pigtails or principles. In fact they have little to do with Greta at all, as they exist purely to gift middle-class liberals a cast-iron reason to pretend environmentalism is the most important political movement of 2019 and anyone who disagrees is a cross between David Ike and Norman ‘Ripper’ Stebson. Because as we all know, the two bestest things about Greta are the fact that she’s a) 16. And b) a disabled. And not just any old disabled, but a mental one. Perfect!

At least it is for now. The older she gets the harder it is to suggest that criticising her is akin to punching a toddler, which should make us all the more grateful that her incurable autism will probably afflict her for the rest of her life. Phew!

But times change fast and one day her PR team may have to take steps to remain relevant by upgrading her disability and buying her a hearing aid or wheelchair. It’s not as guaranteed to boost her victim cred as losing an eye or a leg but Milan wasn’t built in a day: we can always wait until she’s finished having a protracted public breakdown before disfiguring and mutilating her.

In the meantime, the fact that she’s still a child – and a weirdo to boot! – is more than enough for left-wing radicals and salivating media figures determined to make her the public face of a movement more interested in promoting pie-in-the-sky socialism than saving the planet.

Because putting Greta upfront and centre has nothing to do with giving a voice to disaffected youth: the entire purpose of her elevation is to ringfence Climate Change activists from criticism. And it’s part of a long noble tradition that existed long before Ms. Funbag became the poster girl for vacuous green platitudes. Indeed, critics of environmental alarmism have been getting shut down and labelled right-wing shills or gas-guzzling lunatics since at least 10 years BG (Before Greta).

So you could 100% believe in Climate Change. (Or as it used to be called, ‘Global Warming’, a term quietly ditched around 2016, presumably after activists got sick of ignoring awkward data showing that parts of the earth were getting cooler.) You could be a passionate supporter of green policies. You could even be a decorated scientist who 100% believes in Climate Change, is a passionate supporter of green policies, and spends his days commuting by mountain bike and drawing knobs on the bonnets of Ford Transits.

You could be all  of the above and more. But if you point out that numerous catastrophic predictions have failed to materialise then you’re a denier. Believe that much of the supposition-based alarmism is a tad over the top? You’re parroting right-wing propaganda. And dare to suggest there is still much debate in the scientific community about the extent to which human activity affects the climate and you might as well say the earth is flat, the sun isn’t real, and Stanley Kubichek filmed the moon landing on Blyth beach using Star Trek figures and paper aeroplanes.

Fortunately, thanks to relentless doom-mongering by the likes of former First Lady Al Gore and principled Guardian hack George Mondeo – whose desire to save the planet is matched only by his hunger for freshly-squashed M25 hedgehog – it was decreed long ago that Climate Change discussions must be conducted in the most intolerant, hysterical manner imaginable. A perfect backdrop, in other words, for the widespread movement to defend Greta – or rather, what Greta represents – at all costs.

Of course, when bigging up her crusade to save the planet by scowling at politicians and fannying about on a yacht, it’s important to remember which Greta you’re going to bat for. Because as anyone who’s observed the passionate, ultra-creepy way she’s discussed online knows, she’s either a sophisticated young adult perfectly at ease with her new found fame, or a vulnerable adolescent being harassed by nasty middle-aged white men like Julia Hartley-Brexit.

Luckily, she has an impressive roster of A-list support, with all manner of thick actors, thick musicians, and thick politicians gleefully shrieking “stop picking on the teenager!” the second anyone suggests her stroppy hellfire sermons are a wee bit extreme. Even more brilliantly, many of the blue tick liberals admonishing right-wingers for piling on a teenage girl were more than happy to pile on a teenage boy in January after a race-baiting lunatic banged a drum in his face.

Which taps into what it is about Greta that so excites both her allies and detractors. It’s not because she’s a young rebel with a cause: it’s because she’s a young rebel with the right cause. Or the wrong one, if you’re a Nazi. As a result, her treatment at the hands of internet trolls generated considerably more condemnation than that dished out to the smirking red-capped racist who melted fascist hearts eight months ago. And it’s patently clear that the alt-right cretins mocking Greta would put aside their uneasiness about child exploitation if she were supporting Trump, fighting for Brexit, or invading Poland. Similarly, if Greta were campaigning for any of the above her leftist cheerleaders would be demanding her parents’ arrest, insisting she’d been brainwashed by The Scum, and calling her a sour-faced slag with a voice like petrified sandpaper. (I know I bloody well would.)

Either way, whatever side of the aisle you’re on – decent liberal or right-wing shithead – we can all agree that exploiting, attacking, or unnaturally obsessing over children for political gain is undoubtedly a Good Thing. Indeed, it’s a shame the people who hate Greta and the people who think she’s Lady Marvel can’t put aside their differences and bond over how much they all want to fuck her. Or at the very least, stick her on stage  dressed as a bright green vagina surrounded by 58-year-old male lesbians throwing crumpled fivers at her. Anything to avoid the boring stuff your average braindead teenage girl gets up to, like riding bikes, playing netball, and being force-fed vodka and roofies by marginalised Muslims in northern kebab shops.

Thankfully, Greta has avoided such humdrum rites of passage thanks to a principled cabal of politicians and public figures who’ve decided that, like non-binary child stripper Desmond Does Dallas, her every waking minute should be spent in a hyper-politicised bubble designed by her proud-as-punch parents. Because the modern left love nothing more than using children to score a point. Indeed, Twitter and Facebook are awash with mams and dads recounting heart-warming anecdotes about sage-like kids spouting the same bland orthodoxy as their kale-munching parents. “Look, even my 2-year-old daughter thinks Boris and Trump are Nazis! And she has a COCK too!”

Children also provide a perfect excuse for liberals to indulge their favourite subject: The Future. Because whether it’s post-Brexit Britain, post-apocalypse earth, or post-Handmaiden’s Tale America, progressives never tire of issuing warnings about stuff that hasn’t happened and probably never will. And why not? It’s far easier than addressing what is or isn’t happening now. Why run the risk of looking silly when it’s revealed that the modern western world is nowhere near as hellish as we want it to be? An awful future is way more politically useful than a fairly-okay present.

Still, we might obsess over The Future but that doesn’t stop us romanticising the past, particularly those mythical years leading up to the horror of Brexit and Trump, when no-one was ever racist and life in the developed world was one long multi-coloured Mardi Gras where everyone’s face was painted EU-blue and families celebrated each new day by holding hands and saying a prayer to St. Barack of Honolulu.

Which is why now more than ever we need young activists like Greta to make old activists feel relevant. And the fact that she’s gone way beyond mere environmental activism to become a bona fido far-left figurehead speaks volumes about how successfully she’s been programmed. But it shouldn’t stop here, as there are a plethora of other progressive causes that could benefit from Greta’s endorsement. Rest assured, if she ever gets bored of being a human shield for the most privileged protest movement on the (dying) planet, I’m sure she’d be more than happy to incite a gang of Islamic gents from Rochdale into grooming her. Why should dumb working-class girls from care homes get all the cred? She could even give a speech to the UN about her experiences and tell them how empowered she felt after her third abortion. I wouldn’t put anything past this formidable young lady.

It’s this kind of selflessness that has elevated her to star status. And the way her people have thrust her into a limelight she seems woefully unprepared for without considering the potential mental health implications amply demonstrates their deep love for this wonderful child. Because what happens to her when she’s older is unimportant: all that matters is what’s happening to her – and who she’s helping – now.

The Future of the planet – and more importantly, The Future of left-wing activism – will always trump the future of a disabled teenager.

 

 

By Ben Pensant

Is it possible for Britain’s so-called Prime Minister to sink any lower? It’s a question I’ve asked myself repeatedly over the past two months.

Like most people I assumed beastly Boris had reached his nadir when he defied democracy and prorogued Parliament, a move so horrifying I immediately did a quick Google to find out what it meant. Needless to say, I was even more disturbed when I learnt that a ‘prorogue’ is neither a sex-toy nor that dinosaur thing out of Games Of Thrones that chins sheep and fucks farmhands.

But amazingly, the bigoted buffoon keeping St. Jezza’s toilet seat warm went one better, out-viling himself by having the blonde balls to lie to the Queen. Yes, really. This disrespectful act outraged all manner of leftists, who temporarily forgot their longstanding republicanism to howl in disgust at Johnson for telling porkies to some miserable old hag they’d happily behead if it meant putting the Dear Leader on the iron throne.

You’d think this foul behaviour would represent Boris at his absolute worst. Surely even he couldn’t scrape the barrel more than fibbing to a monarch? Think again. Because last night he plumbed depths that were disgraceful even for him, traumatising Parliament and shaking the House of Commons to its core. Yes, fresh from brutalising his child bride by arguing with her in earshot of a pair of Guardian readers, the same vile specimen who grossly offended liberals everywhere with his infamous ‘picaninnies’ column that none of them read pulled off his most disgusting trick yet:

He said the word ‘humbug’.

Yes. Humbug. HUMBUG. In 2019. On live television. To a Labour MP whose life is such a non-stop fright-fest she spends every waking hour in Westminster terrified that the Thatcher statue might come to life and eat her up. This is our Prime Minister, people.

But that’s not even half of it. Because he didn’t merely drop the H-bomb: he said it in response to being bravely called out for crudely calling the Mr Benn Brexit Bill the ‘Surrender Act’. That’s right. SURRENDER ACT. He went there. For shame.

And he wasn’t merely sticking two fingers up at brave Labour MP Pauline Sherriff for exposing his attempt to incite fascists into killing mediocre backbenchers by deploying the notorious alt-right dog whistle of stringing together two inoffensively beige words. No, he was also scoring a cheap point against people he disagrees with by exhuming the cadaver of Joe Cox. And as everyone knows, only left-wingers are allowed to do that.

Of course, the fact that he reached for the vile racially loaded term ‘humbug’ when replying to Pauline not only demonstrates his commitment to Nazi principles but also his complete lack of imagination. Because while progressives pride themselves on their ready wit, Johnston completely missed the easy tap-in, blissfully unaware that Sherriff had gifted him the chance to crack a joke about whips, horses, or running her out of town. He can’t even get his puns right.

Instead, he showed his true colours by turning to the catchphrase made famous by Ebeneezer Goode, the protagonist from Charles Darwin’s Great Expectations. Needless to say, it’s no surprise that Johnston is a huge a fan of this problematic tome, which revolves around the insanely silly idea that an evil capitalist deserves to be redeemed and forgiven for his past misdeeds, as opposed to shunned, cancelled, and imprisoned for crimes against humanity.

The book also takes place at Christmas, which no doubt filled notorious Islamophobe Johnston with glee as he read about Baabar Cratchitt’s marginalised family being force-fed non-halal turkey during the climactic diner scene: finally free from poverty but forever in debt to their tyrannical white saviour and his insistence on inviting the kids around to listen to Cat Stephens records and chat shit with Mohammad’s ghost. I’m surprised the toffee-nosed twat hasn’t made it compulsory reading. Give it time.

It shows his desire to reach the sizable minority of homicidal fascists who take their cues from posh politicians that he chose a word as inflammatory as ‘h****g’ to deliberately piss all over Joe’s legacy. And deliberately piss all over it he did, despite the fact that it was Sherriff who brought her up first. Indeed, it’s always Labour or Remainer MPs who bring her up, such is their commitment to honouring Joe’s memory by using her bullet-ridden corpse to win an argument. She’d be soooo proud.

Thankfully, no left-wing or pro-EU politician ever uses provocative language, and the multitude of comments calling Brexiteers ‘fascists’, ‘dictators’, and ‘worse than Nazis’ should be flatly ignored and filed away in the same memory hole as David Lamby’s expenses receipts.

Similarly, no left-wing journalist, activist, or whateverthefuckOwenJonesis-ist has ever accused their ideological foes of murder, or wrote a single syllable suggesting they deserve to be punched, imprisoned or decapitated. And if you do find evidence of any of the above then in no way whatsoever can it be classed as ‘incitement’, no matter how many alt-right loons say otherwise. We’re talking about people who are so wrapped up in bigotry they think a religious text explicitly instructing its 1.8 billion followers to commit murder is more likely to inspire violence than a Daily Fail headline calling a bunch of judges ‘traitors’. They’re insane.

Basically, when you’re on the Good Side you can be as inflammatory as you like without having to worry about lowering the tone. Indeed, the one good thing to come out of President Pussy-Grab’s administration has been the way he’s inspired mild-mannered politicians of all hues to unleash their inner Trump, in all its drunk-tweeting, shite-talking, dead-mother-and-wife-exploiting glory.

Needless to say, this is why left-wing politicians are so beloved on social media, and why last night’s brave, ballsy, cynically opportunistic performances by Pauline Sherriff et al caused ripples all the way from Facebook to Twitter. Of course, in the real world most people find words and phrases like ‘humbug’ and ‘surrender act’ about as inflammatory as the scene in the Downtown Abbey movie where Bertie says “oh hang!” after spilling brandy on Cora’s tits. But that’s because people in the real world are the ones most likely to be brainwashed into killing left-wing politicians by such foul language.

In the defiantly middle-class world of TV studios, newspaper offices, and mammoth Twitter threads exploring how murderous right-wing psychos are radicalised by Rod Lidl’s hair, the threat is very real. And it’s down to us to keep reminding each other exactly how real it is in order to convince ourselves there’s actually a point to spending every day waving our dicks at complete strangers like any of it actually fucking matters.

The only worry is what Johnston might say next, and what foul acts he’ll inspire the dumb public to carry out in his name. Having already shifted the Ovaltine Window so far right we can’t see it anymore, it’s time to buckle up and be prepared for the barrage of Brexiteer violence set to erupt the second Johnston drops his biro at the despatch box and screams “knickers!” .

A terrifying prospect but these are terrifying times. The best way to be ready for the onslaught is to watch the PM like a hawk and analyse his speeches for secret shout-outs to alt-right assassins. I’ve been doing this for some time and it’s repeatedly paid dividends, especially since discovering his sick habit of dropping offensive terms into every sentence.

For further evidence of what we’re up against I’ll leave you with the painful memory of Johnston calling St. Jezza a ‘big girl’s blouse’. Or so we thought. I myself wasn’t convinced. So, petrified of where this revolting government’s abusive verbal attacks could lead, I hired Aaron Pastrami’s personal lip-reading specialist to analyse the footage. Needless to say, I was shaken, outraged, but not remotely surprised when he confirmed to me that what vile Johnston actually said was:

“Cunt, bitch, kike, dyke, paki, paddy, nigger, faggot, retard, spastic, towel-head, moron, chinky, guinea, dago”

The man’s a menace. The war on words starts NOW.

 

 

By Ben Pensant

Knowledge is valuable. It wins arguments, defeats enemies, and gifts modern leftists an arsenal of truth-bombs in the fight against fascism, such as “Transwomen are women”, “Jeremy has battled racism his whole life”, and “Leave voters are uneducated morons with hands for feet”.

Sadly, for every good piece of knowledge there’s a bad one that destroys everything progressives pretend to treasure, like “People with PHDs voted for Brexit”, “The anti-racist Labour leader has spent his career supporting racists”, and “A bearded plumber who thinks he’s a woman is as ‘female’ as a plant-pot in knickers”.

But the most noxious dollop of knowledge to stink up 2019 peaked in March, reappearing last month via a crudely-doctored YouTube film. Yes, I’m talking about the scandalously true rumour that heart-breaking Michael Jackson doc Finding Neverland has all the journalistic integrity of a National Examiner scoop by Johann Hairy.

To be fair, the film omits so much info about Jimmy Robson and Wade Safechuck you’d be forgiven for thinking director Dan Reid had something to hide. Fortunately, to know he concealed important details casting huge doubts on Robson and Safechuck’s credibility, you’d have to know there were important details casting huge doubts on Robson and Safechuck’s credibility. And as anyone who’s read an FN Twitter thread knows, people who are utterly convinced by the film usually know as much about Jackson’s accusers as I do about quantum mechanics. Indeed, it seems most viewers’ experienced FN the following way: Watched film. Signalled disgust on social media. Forgot about film, safe in the knowledge that the sky is blue, the grass is green, and Michael Jackson fucked little boys.

That none of the allegations were corroborated is irrelevant, as are the film’s glaring inconsistencies, illogical scenarios, and demonstrable lies. Because unless you’d spent an hour researching them you’d have no idea there were any glaring inconsistencies, illogical scenarios, and demonstrable lies. And for god’s sake, it’s 2019: if a man says a celebrity finger-banged his arsehole, a celebrity finger-banged his arsehole.

Still, despite widespread refusal to investigate the full story, a small army of MJ-obsessives, paedo-apologists, and weirdos who believe in due process have started playing dirty. Their sneaky MO involves flooding the net with all manner of sworn statements, court transcripts, and grubby propaganda videos proving conclusively that Robson and Safechuck have a long history of telling wildly contrasting stories depending on who they were talking to and how much money was on offer.

Much of this ‘evidence’ concerns the lawsuits they’ve been filing against the Jackson estate for six years. Unsurprisingly they all failed thanks to the sinister influence of the dead singer’s empire, and nothing whatsoever to do with the unreliability of the complainants. Thankfully, most viewers know nothing of these lawsuits as Reid wisely avoids mentioning them. But that hasn’t deterred the nonce-lovers, whose most recent half-hour hit-job included a 2016 deposition video featuring Robson admitting to perjury and contradicting himself by giving a description of the first time Jackson abused him vastly different to the version he recounts in Finding Neverland.

I’ll spare you the sickening details. The film and others like it are on YouTube: you can ignore them for yourself like everyone else has. Suffice to say, as well as being narrated by a robot, it makes several shocking claims about the two men, each more shamefully factual than the last.

Sticking the boot into Safechuck from the get-go, it rubbishes his story about Wacko abusing him in a train station on Nevermind Ranch early on in their relationship – which lasted from 1988 to 1992 – on the flimsy grounds that the station wasn’t built until 1994.

Jesus, where to begin? Well first of all, there is ZERO evidence that the station was built that year, apart from time-stamped photographs, time-stamped video, and time-stamped construction permits, all of which were clearly doctored by Jackson’s crack team of Zionist lawyers.

Secondly, as Dan Reid eventually conceded (after initially accusing the Jacksons of lying about the year the station was completed): “Yeah, there seems to be no doubt about the station date. The date they have wrong is the end of the abuse”. Which makes perfect sense, if you ignore the fact that to suggest the abuse ended years later than Safechuck claimed in FN completely undermines its key narrative: that Jackson cut off contact with the boys as they matured because he didn’t fancy them anymore.

Thankfully, this is easy to ignore. All you need to do is convince yourself it’s entirely possible Safechuck got mixed up between his prepubescent and 16-year-old selves, and that two/three/four/five/six years after Wacko shunned his victim, he temporarily forgot he was a paedophile and invited a older, taller, hairier Safechuck back to his lair for one last fiddle. Simple.

The film then sinks even lower by claiming a key FN sequence  – where Safechuck horrifies Guardian and Sun-readers alike by producing a ‘wedding ring’ Jackson gave him – was filmed eighteen months after the rest of the interview. Predictably, the MJ-cult accused Reid of audience manipulation, a charge they also levelled at him for including footage of Jackson’s lawyer Mick Geragos threatening the singer’s accusers, when in actual fact Geragos was talking about an airline company who secretly filmed Wacko on a private jet. That’s right, apparently documentarians are now required to tell the whole story, as if Bowling For Columbus auteur Michael Moore’s entire career never existed. Unbelievable.

They even accused Safechuck of lying when he claimed Wacko tried to bully him into testifying at his 2005 trial, despite the fact that the judge had already decided not to call Safechuck. It shows how demented these crazies are that they think this illustrates Safechuck’s dishonesty rather than the Jackson team’s penchant for mind-games and bribery.

The YouTube flick also laughs in the faces of survivors by mocking the timing of Safechuck’s realisation that he was abused by Mr. Creepyface, a memory which suddenly came back to him when he saw Robson on telly in 2013, not long after learning his parents were facing financial ruin due to ripping off their company’s shareholders for millions. Yep, the MJ cult actually believe there’s something suspicious about a broken man recalling with pin-sharp clarity a six-year ordeal that he completely forgot about until he was 35 and his family were about to go bankrupt.

They also claim Safechuck is untrustworthy because, despite saying in a sworn statement that he didn’t remember he’d been abused until 2013, he also said he’d told his mother about it in 2005. Indeed, Ma Safechuck claimed she was so happy when she heard about Jackson’s death that she danced. All of which sounds perfectly reasonable but not to the trolls. So they accused Safechuck of lying again after he appeared on Oprah! in February, his story having changed once more as he went back to saying he didn’t remember the abuse until 2013. That these losers think this proves his duplicity illustrates their ignorance of the confusing impact grooming has on victims, especially ones who can’t lie straight in bed.

But if you think the MJ-cult have it in for Safechuck, wait ’til you see their vendetta against Mr. Robson. One of their batshit theories concerns Robson’s claim – made in both Finding Neverland and his unpublished misery memoir – that Jackson first abused him at the Nevermind Ranch while his parents and siblings were at the Grand Kenyon, an incident he is on records as saying he “never forgot one moment” of. However, during a 2016 deposition months before FN was filmed he appeared to have forgotten several moments as he was asked about the memoir’s version of events and replied that he couldn’t remember when he was first abused. This is further complicated by two separate sworn statements from Robson’s mother which stated he was never alone at the ranch until 1993 and the whole family went on the Arizona trip.

On the surface this suggests the Robsons are incapable of keeping their story straight and making stuff up as they go along. Indeed, according to email records the aforementioned manuscript appears to have been cobbled together from news reports about the porcelain-faced ghoul’s previous victims. However, only someone devoid of critical thinking skills would make such an idiotic judgement. Because Robson’s ever-evolving story demonstrates how the abuse he suffered damaged him so much he’s incapable of remembering it. Or at least he was, until he recalled it perfectly in Finding Neverland.

Luckily, unsuccessfully hawking his painful memoir to uninterested publishers in 2012 had a profound effect on Robson, who used the setback as a catalyst to finally let the world know the truth about Jackson. Via a privately filed $1.5billion lawsuit. Needless to say, trolls suggest this proves Robson is only out for money, pointing to his earlier failure to land a big-money gig choreographing a Jackson estate-produced Cirque Du Solero musical featuring Wacko’s music, a crushing blow which just happened to come not long before Robson decided to write his book.

This cruel rejection exposes the Jackson estate’s determination to punish his victims, taking the same sadistic glee in destroying their dreams as the depraved pop star did in forcing them to wank him off. Happily, their plan backfired, as the combined effect of losing a potentially lucrative job finally made the precocious dancer remember he’d been abused.

Not that that stopped the MJ-cult. The latest YouTube film delights in assassinating his character, focussing on Robson’s appearance at Wacko’s 2005 trial, in which he confidently faced down three prosecution attorneys as he stated unequivocally that Jackson was innocent.

Of course, we know fine well that Robson only testified because he was forced to. As explained in FN, he had no choice but to give evidence as he’d been subpoenaed. Naturally, Robson has never produced this subpoena and the office who would’ve served it have no record of it either, which is both deeply suspicious and completely irrelevant. That a terrified Robson still took the stand to lie so convincingly demonstrates the mortal fear instilled in him by a filthy rich – and filthier fingered – pop star.

All of which makes the cathartic FN sequence when Robson burns his collection of MJ memorabilia so uplifting. Needless to say, the apologists declared the scene a sham as he’d flogged the collection on an upmarket auction site years earlier. They even attacked him for selling the items anonymously, as if withholding your name from the public while purging a lifetime of trauma is a bad thing. The fact that he netted a tidy sum before symbolically burning the collection he didn’t own seven years later is neither her nor there.

Indeed, selling valuable tat isn’t the only thing Robson did on the quiet: his original lawsuit was filed under seal – ie non-publicly. Which is entirely understandable, and in no way devalues his claim that he filed the suit to raise awareness of child abuse. Nor does it support the fallacious theory that the reason the accounts detailed within are completely different to those outlined in FN is because he assumed the Jackson estate would simply hand over the money and no sod would ever hear them.

Sadly, while Robson and Safechuck have successfully fooled the world and kept the trolls at bay, they’re not the only ones in the firing line: the MJ-cult are gunning for Jackson’s other victims too. Luckily, lack of knowledge about the Geordie Chandler and Gary Arvizo cases is even more ubiquitous than ignorance of Safechuck and Robson.

Indeed, to this day the $25m payout to the Chandler family is seen as proof of Jackson’s guilt, despite evidence that he was forced to make the settlement in order to avoid a civil hearing which would’ve prejudiced the criminal trial scheduled to take place afterwards. That Geordie decided he didn’t want to participate in said criminal case once his family had pocketed the money is largely unknown, as is the fact that a grand jury had already ruled there was insufficient evidence to proceed.

Similarly, most people are completely unaware that Geordie’s dad Evian – a Hollywood hanger-on who committed suicide in 2009 – was recorded all-but confessing his plans to fleece Wacko for millions. And even fewer know that Geordie was legally emancipated from his mother a year after the trial and obtained a restraining order against his father after he tried to kill him with a barbell.

Likewise, it’s vital to know as little about the Arvizo family and the farcical 2005 trial as possible. Indeed, the only relevant facts about the car-crash court case are a) it happened and b) Jackson won. Minor details, such as how multiple members of the Arvizo clan descended upon the Nevermind Ranch, stayed for months, then accused Wacko of child abuse after they were asked to leave, are unimportant. Ditto the fact that Arvizo’s mother only pursued the criminal charges because her lawyers told her she had to secure a conviction before she could launch a bumper civil suit.

Very little is known about the actual proceedings either, which heard zero evidence of Jackson’s guilt, saw witness after witness thoroughly discredited, and were largely ignored by the media who chose to report on the lurid details of the allegations rather what actually happened in court.

Fortunately most of these easy-to-find details are largely unknown thanks to the press maintaining a 14-year de facto news blackout to preserve the bankable narrative that Jackson is a paedophile. And what a blackout it’s been, the same people who bemoan tabloid gossip and ‘fake news’ swallowing it wholesale, unaware that this narrative only exists because it generates more clicks than boring puff-pieces about how his accusers are full of shit.

Even better, it’s now reached the stage where the media know fine well the accusations are rubbish but won’t report it because that would be an admission of complicity. Perfect! I rarely have anything good to say about the press but the way they contributed to Jackson spending the best part of twenty years denying he was a child-molester is something they can all be proud of. And we should never forget the key role the allegations played in Jackson’s growing addiction to prescription drugs, such as the infamous ‘milk’ that killed him. It just goes to show what the media can achieve when it puts a shift in.

Unfortunately, despite keeping the truth under wraps there will always be smug contrarians who insist on arguing Wacko’s innocence, arrogantly declaring themselves ‘experts’ on the allegations just because they’ve studied them.

So when you inform them child porn was found in the predator’s home they respond with a shaggy bull story about how the sick stash was actually a few harmless, entirely legal photography books, freely available from Amazon and stored unopened in Jackson’s house with an assortment of junk he’d bought and forgotten about.

Yep, that’s right: because this tall-tale is backed up by court transcripts it’s somehow more reliable than the frontpage of The Scum. Also, according to the apologists the fact that the books were sealed proves Jackson never looked at them, when actually it’s clear he kept replacing them because the pages were stuck together with Jesus Juice. The fact that the only actual pornographic items found were a few legal scruff mags like Rustler is irrelevant.

As is Dan Reid’s omission of Robson’s seven-year relationship with Jackson’s niece. And the repeatedly debunked claim that Geordie Chandler ‘accurately described’ the Thriller-Killer perv’s penis. And the barely known but demonstrably true fact that every one of Wacko’s accusers initially went to lawyers rather than the police. All of the above – and indeed anything casting doubt on Wade and Jimmy – has no bearing on Jackson’s guilt or innocence.

Which is why it’s vital leftists carry on doing the decent thing, Believing Victims, and watching out for right-wing trolls turning our wokeness against us. So ignore anyone who points out the hypocrisy of people who bang on about ‘white privilege’ willingly taking the word of two white men with a shared history of perjury over an African-American found unanimously not guilty 14 years ago.

Give short shrift to people who attack liberals for condemning harassment of minorities while indulging a media that relentlessly harassed a black man because he was an odball who looked funny.

And respond with an ‘up yours, Savile-chops!’ to those who suggests calling Jackson defenders ‘conspiracy theorists’ is a bit rich considering the #JackoWasANonce crowd believe the reason the multi-platinum monster evaded jail was because his crooked lawyers paid off judges, hobbled witnesses, and dazzled the jury with their client’s fame, fortune, and penchant for moonwalking into court with a monkey on his shoulder. (Heaven knows what foul depravities poor Pebbles was subjected to.)

Luckily, judging by the reaction to self-hating black man Dave Shapiro’s latest ‘special’, it seems unwillingness to learn basic facts about the Jackson allegations remains widespread. Indeed, while his awful show was a huge hit in the Real World, it went down like a bucket of sick in Internetland, with almost ten writers for principled clickbait sites like Buzzkill penning savage reviews of the hour-long hate-fest, delivering a huge ‘screw you!’ to the alt-right bigots who gerrymandered a 99% rating on Netflicks. It seems not believing those motherfuckers has done wonders for your brand, baldy.

To compound the shitty special’s failure, I suggest you follow my lead and refuse to watch it. Because we know its transphobic, we know it’s misogynist, we know it spreads disgusting rumours about the two most fragile men on earth. What would watching it achieve, other than confirming what we already know about this POC-turned-SOB? Dave might as well bleach his skin like Wacko and stop pretending to be a brother altogether. Brother? He’s barely a sister.

Conversely, Robson and Safechuck are blacker than Shapiro will ever be. And if one good thing has come from his offensive routine it’s the empowerment of people who are 100% certain Jackson is guilty despite knowing as much about the allegations as they do about animal husbandry. As former songwriting genius Mick Kozelek sang of Wacko on one of his recent unlistenable albums: “He’s bad, he’s bad/He’s dead, and I’m glad”. Now THAT’S knowledge.

Anyway, I must dash. There are some ugly rumours circulating on Twitter about the dubious conviction of misogynist golfer Jeff Boycott which I intend to spend the next few hours avoiding.

Howzat!

 

ADDENDUM 1. 

As well as the dreafdul films ‘Lies Of Leaving Neverland’, ‘Leaving Neverland: The Aftermath’, and ‘Michael Jackson: Chase The Truth’, many of the inconvenient facts compiled above were sourced from a variety of books, reports, articles, investigations, and in-depth social media threads written by so-called journalists Charles Thompson, John Ziegler, Mike Smallcombe, Damien Shields, Joe Vogel, and Ryan Michaels; Twitter accounts ThinkFathers, VP_Advocacy, Leaving Neverland Facts, and Justice For The Falsely Accused; and a whole host of other deluded MJ apologists who think a person’s guilt or innocence should be determined by the legal process rather than a brazenly one-sided documentary. I take the threat posed by these lunatics VERY seriously – I’ve spelled their names right and everything – and so should you. I urge you to mute, block, report, stalk, harass, or threaten them immediately. And whatever you do, don’t even THINK about reading a single syllable of their deeply immoral ‘research’. 

ADDENDUM 2.

Jacko’s a kiddy-fiddler. Pass it on.

 

 

 

 

 

By Ben Pensant

Few things are as painful as a disappointing cinema visit, especially one you’ve avoided paying for by hiding under a seat pretending to be a shadow. Sadly, it’s a trauma all-too familiar to liberals, such is the volume of alt-right propaganda produced by the most left-leaning industry on earth. And while I haven’t paid for a film since 1999, there’s little consolation in knowing the racist trash I’m forced to sit through cost nothing. (Oh and fuck UCI and the fascist bouncers they hired for the opening weekend of Star Wars: Phantom Lord. I hope you choked on my bastard fiver.)

The sad thing is I was under the impression Hollywood had finally embraced modern progressivism and started allowing million-dollar decisions to be routinely dictated by outraged virgins on Twitter. Instead I regularly arrive at my local arthouse for the latest ‘wokebuster’ only to find it’s anything but. Even worse, most of what masquerades as SJW cinema doesn’t merely fail to espouse left-wing ideology: it pisses all over it.

Like cis-gendered wolves in non-binary clothing, Tinseltown has decided the best way to remain relevant is to churn out movies that appear stuffed with progressive values but on closer inspection brim with far-right fury. Exactly the kind of deception you’d expect from an industry run by Nazi Jews and faumosexual rapists.

And in 2019 this dark trend is spreading like cancer, with fresh dollops of fascist dogma stinking up multiplexes weekly. Hence this damning report, which is in no way whatsoever a lame excuse to paste together various stray observations too half-arsed to warrant a whole article.

Which brings me to Lady Marvel. After respectfully waiting a month in order to give the female comic-geek community of Newcastle a chance to see it first, I eventually took the plunge in April, satisfied that the fat goth from Presto and her ugly mate who wanked off my cousin on the X25 had seen it twice. As I made my way into the auditorium disguised as a cleaner I was giddy with excitement. And with good reason, as Mrs. Marvel ticked every box: female lead, women chinning blokes, and virtually no white men apart from that English baddy with the girl’s name. Star Brie Lawson also got me in the mood before the movie’s release with a series of interviews stuffed with brave, ballsy platitudes about gender and empowerment or something.

But having duped the usher with a soggy jay cloth and two popcorn cartons taped to my chest, what unfolded over the next two hours shook me to my core. Because far from being a switched-on celebration of victimhood, the film essentially says ‘up yours!’ to modern feminism. Indeed, the internalised misogyny of Lawson’s Karen Danvers finally confirms that summer blockbusters are now completely controlled by the Trump administration.

Consider this: After finding out Danvers isn’t a Martian, we learn that she became a brilliant pilot after working hard and proving herself rather than being parachuted into a job to satisfy diversity quotas. We then see her beating up men because she’s better at fighting than them, and not because they let her win for the sake of intersectionality. And most egregiously, after Danvers saves the day she has the chance to punish crap Caucasian villain Judy Law. Does she do what any self-respecting progressive would and pen a searing blogpost about toxic masculinity? Does she get him sacked because his foot brushed her fanny while she was kicking his head? Not quite. She decides the most fitting punishment for a space alien is to…send him into space. Wow. Why not just give him a farewell nosh while you’re at it?

This is Hollywood. A supposedly PC blockbuster with a female lead who makes her own luck without asking for special treatment and lets a privileged white supervillain off with a slap on the wrist. Basically, the complete opposite of everything modern feminism represents. And as if such tone-deaf chauvinism wasn’t vile enough, five minutes before the end I suddenly realised that Karen Danvers doesn’t have a cock. Yep, after giving leftists the come-on for two hours it turns out the film’s protagonist isn’t even a real woman: she’s a sodding menstruator. With tits and a functioning fanny. Way to alienate your audience, DC.

But this is typical of a film with the most ill-judged casting since HBO denied drug-dealing Maths teachers the opportunity to represent themselves by hiring Brian Cranston to star in Breaking Saul. And it started so well: I was initially blown away by how much the actor playing young Larry Fishbone looked exactly like young Larry Fishbone. “Wow” I thought. “They gave the role to someone who actually resembles the Reservoir Dogs star, rather than just hiring a teenager with the same colour hair!”

Sadly, it soon became clear that I wasn’t watching a member of the Larry Fishbone lookalike community at all. No, the DC suits had gaslighted the real Larry Fishbone into taking the white man’s dollar on the promise that they obscure his wrinkly face with cheap make-up and rubbish GCI. Needless to say I stormed out the second the credits rolled, not even pausing to spit on the usher like I usually do when I’m short-changed by a film I haven’t paid to watch. But the sad thing is, in any normal year a movie as eyepoppingly right-wing as Marvel Girl would be an anomaly, roundly mocked and boycotted by people who’ve never seen it. Things are far from normal in the post-Trump world however, as 2019’s roster of cinematic duplicity demonstrates.

Take Ian McKay’s The Vice, the Dick Chaney biopic that appears to hit all the right notes before disgracing itself in the third act by promoting the most luridly right-wing ideology this side of The Green Hornets. Which is a huge shame as the film gets so much right, spending most of its running time pretending the last two Democrat governments didn’t exist and ignoring the fact that their foreign policy was remarkably similar to the evil Bush regime’s. And naturally Bush and co. are held uniquely responsible for every bad thing the USA has ever done, even though their love of torture and bombing Muslim countries was adopted with gusto by St. Barack.

Chaney’s tyrannical use of executive orders to push through diabolical policies is also attacked, the film suggesting this directly lead to the obscene powers now enjoyed by President Pussy-Grab. Luckily the film avoids mentioning that no President has pursued executive power as hungrily as Obama, who made a hobby of extending his reach throughout his glorious 8 years as LOTUS. Indeed, in line with the modern liberal trend for pretending Obama’s presidency never happened, the script virtually ignores his two terms, McKay jumping straight from Dubya to Trump and standing up for liberal values by erasing one of the most important black men in American history. In fact, Obama and Mr. Hillary Clinton get so few mentions you’d think they’d never been in power. You’d certainly never guess they were responsible for a multitude of reckless interventions every bit as hawkish and warmongery as those carried out by the awful Republicans.

Elsewhere, the film makes much of Chaney supposedly advising his daughter not to back gay marriage when she ran for the senate, causing a longstanding rift with her gay sister. Naturally, we have no way of knowing if Chaney caused the fall-out by talking her into betraying her sibling for political capital. But that doesn’t bother McKay, who decides he must have done because well, as the director is somewhat keen to point out, Chaney was Satan. He even cheekily inserts a false ending which implies that if Chaney weren’t Satan he would have resigned years earlier and kept his daughter’s sexuality a secret. Perfect. And while it may seem strange for a liberal to argue that gay people should keep their gayness to themselves, one of the greatest things about modern leftists is our ability to wilfully contradict ourselves and still be the most progressive people in the room. This is also apparent in the film’s puritanism, with Chaney repeatedly shamed for being fat, unhealthy and – the horror! – liking a drink. A sure-fire sign of diabolical evil, as anyone who’s seen Nigel Farrage swig a pint knows.

Sounds great, eh? And it is. Until the film turns its attentions to terrorism and shits its brains out. Because in an act of cowardice on par with Steven Soderbergh depicting Black November as cold-blooded killers simply because they killed people in cold blood, McKay destroys his good work by suggesting that Islamic extremism is a bad thing. So while every proper leftist knows fine well that the jihad against the West is fully justified because of Islamophobia or something, McKay bottles it and merely blames the US for creating the conditions which allowed Islamic extremism to flourish, acknowledging that we created vacuums and grievances that were exploited by bad people but failing to defend those grievances or side with the bad people.

McKay even highlights the terrorist attacks that have occurred since the Iraq war but chickens out of saying that the victims deserved it. Pussy. He then pathetically tries to make up for it with a half-hearted title card stating that 600,000 deaths were caused by the Iraq War – wisely neglecting to mention that those nice Iraqi Resistance lads were responsible for a big chunk of them – but it’s too little too late. Depressing stuff but I’m not sure why I expected better from a director who put Gareth Bale in a fat-suit rather than giving the role to an actual porker.

A similar desire to court the alt-right pervaded U.S, the smash-hit horror that should have cemented John Peele’s reputation as the hottest new filmmaker in town but instead merely proved that he’s quite happy to betray his people if it keeps whitey happy.

I expected great things from Peele, whose disturbing debut Get Away pitted wealthy white liberals against a self-hating black determined to scupper their plan to empower African-Americans by implanting Caucasian brains into their heads. The thoroughly bleak climax saw Peele bravely eschew happy endings, as the deranged villain slowly wipes out the brave white family, before driving off in search of more middle-class leftists to slaughter simply because they value black people for their skin instead of their minds.

Sadly, U.S offers no such intersectional principles, with its tale of an abandoned underground facility teeming with a shambling army of uncultured, murderous clones desperate to experience life up top. Because what Peele is implying is that it’s not just race that divides America but class, as if social and economic issues affect all groups rather than just the ones the contemporary left have placed at the top of the Oppression League Table. But this is a filmmaker who sells out his brothers by demanding liberal audiences root for a black family who are best friends with a white couple. Sick. My guess is if you were to ‘Peele’ this so-called auteur there’d be nothing but vanilla ice cream underneath.

Still, at least he prepared me for If Beale Street Could Walk. Featuring an all black cast, directed by black Moonlight Mile helmer Barry Tomkins, and based on a book by black crime novelist Mike Baldwin, to all intents and purposes it’s the wokebuster to end all wokebusters. Until it takes a sharp rightwards turn halfway through, sticking two fingers up at #MeMe by suggesting that a man accused of rape might be innocent. Yep, in 2019 a movie is actually indulging the misogynistic myth that sometimes women lie. Subhuman. And to add insult to injury, despite copious black talent on both sides of the camera the film is piss-poor on representation. I mean, would it have killed Tomkins to cast an actual black rapist as the man accused of rape? It’s not as if there aren’t plenty to choose from.

But this is the new normal. As Marvel Woman illustrated, it’s the summer blockbusters that are raising the bar for right-wing messaging. Avengers: Ender’s Game raked in millions despite its rank fat-shaming and racist belief that the world’s problems can be solved by rich white men with magic spacesuits, while Godzilla: King Of The Munsters was a huge hit even though it demonised the entire green movement by making its baddies eco-warriors. Brilliant. Why not just have a 300ft Greta Funbag stomping skyscrapers and destroying the planet with her radioactive farts?

And don’t get me started on X-Men: Pat Phoenix, with its hateful lie that women are too flighty to handle superpowers without causing car crashes and killing their parents. Or Spiderman: Homeward Bound, which undermined its commitment to diversity by having progressive heroine Mary Joan spend the whole film swooning at a creepy white cis-boy in tights.

But the most disturbing part is that all of these films were box office hits despite uptight singletons complaining about them on social media, opening up the terrifying prospect that people who spend their lives moaning on the internet don’t have quite as much influence as we thought. And with Chris Tarantino’s Once Upon A Time In LA about to open and offend decent liberals everywhere with its sordid orgy of bare feet, ‘bitches’ and bigotry, it seems the Ovaltine Window has significantly shifted: they’re not even pretending to be woke anymore. Shameful.

All we can do is pray that the few out-and-proud liberals who haven’t been banished from Hollywood will continue making their voices heard. So three cheers for the brave producers who put principle before profit and internet outrage before common sense by firing edgy comic Sarah Silverwoman after footage emerged of her dressed as Diane Abbott.

Much like Brie Lawson, Sarah had spent years fooling the world into thinking she was one of The Good People, though in this age of antisemitism smears and shady Zionist lobbies, one look at her surname should have been enough to tip us off. No doubt whoever binned Sarah will end up like Brian Epstein once the FBI find out but Christ, at least they did something.

Anyway, exposing all of this bigotry has made me quite nauseous. Time to take a break from the racism and sexism and occupy my mind with something altogether more progressive. Thank god I have a column to write on Carolyn Lucas’s all-white, women-only anti-Brexit cabinet. I hear her brother George is already planning a film about it. Now that’ll be worth hiding under a chair for.