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.
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:
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.
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’.
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. Marvelticked 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 debutGet 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 Womanillustrated, it’s the summer blockbusters that are raising the bar for right-wing messaging. Avengers: Ender’s Gameraked 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.
The modern left love a good fantasist. And fortunately 2019 has been ram-packed with them, melting progressive hearts with their principled activism and severe mental illness. We swooned at Apache brave Nathan Philippe and his belief that banging a drum in a teenager’s face makes the teenager racist. We prayed for Jessie Smollet after his assault at the hands of two Trump supporters disguised as invisible Nigerians. And we wept as James Robson and Wade Safechuck detailed how they were abused by the Paedo of Pop in a train station that hadn’t been built yet.
There’s been plenty of make-believe this side of the pond too, from Boris Johnston’s courageous neighbours deciding it’s in the public interest to know a blonde buffoon rows with his missus, to die-hard Remainer Otto European’s fervent belief that turning your back in protest means you’re a Nazi. And let’s not forget David Lamby whose flights of fancy are so potent he can look at a photo of a Tory hustings and conclude that no women were allowed in, even when there are about ten of them in the picture.
Coupled with the enduring mythology of hate crime spikes, gender pay gaps, and Sean King’s pigmentation, it’s safe to say that if you have an engrossing, fictional, career-destroying story to tell, the left has your back. Or so I thought.
Sadly, it seems prominent left-wing voices have been actively shunning the delusional narcissists they previously pledged support to. Which is why feisty trans activist Jessica Yavin’s story is so shocking, the silence from high-profile champions of gender self-ID so deafening. Because it was their mantra that ‘transwomen are women’ and their insistence that any man can become female simply by saying he is that led to Yaniv demanding women wax her knackers in the first place.
That’s right, Jessica Yavin has testicles but thinks she’s got a fanny. GET OVER IT. Jessica has, her family has, and the schoolgirls she allegedly stalked, bullied, and offered to share ‘kid porn’ with certainly have. The only people struggling with it are the transphobes who refused to touch Jessica’s cock and the army of TERFs smearing this gorgeous lady as an entitled, misogynist sex-pest.
Because Jessica is merely one in a long line of beautiful women cruelly assigned ‘m**e’ at birth by bigoted doctors too consumed with hatred to look beyond the boyish genitalia and see the pretty foo-foo within. No doubt the quacks responsible would claim they made their choice via science, reason, and the human eye, as if a tiddler and two sacks of meat are a better indicator of someone’s gender than an imaginary clout. And who’s to say these negligent bullies were correct anyway? Errors can be made, and as anyone who’s watched enough non-binary porn knows, it’s very easy to mistake a transwoman’s clit for a stubby baby-cock.
Naturally, Jessica has experienced brutal transphobia. So brutal that when she decided to learn how to insert tampons into the minge she doesn’t have, she was left with no option but to impersonate a girl-band manager and hang out in Facebook groups asking children for advice on the best way to shove a sanitary towel up her shitty arsehole.
Jessica was also recently left heartbroken when a topless swimming event for 12-24 year old non-binaries in Toronto was cancelled. Thirtysomething Jessica even applied for permission to attend the event, which had a safe, sensible, and not-at-all sinister ‘no parents or guardians allowed’ rule. Happily, rumours suggest Jessica is currently organising an alternative, to be held in a remote warehouse not unlike the one in Hostel 3, where the lack of nubile flesh will be compensated for by a twenty-strong gang of middle-aged social workers dressed as babies.
But let’s focus on the real reason for Jessica’s new-found fame: her principled campaign to put waxing salons out of business, a plan hatched after she was ostracised by sixteen transphobic waxologists who refused to accept her custom on the grounds that because it looks like she has a cock and balls, she must therefore have a cock and balls. Even worse, having told the ladies upfront that she was a woman with a vagina, they then turned on her after learning she is actually a man with a penis.
“Never mind” you’re probaby thinking. “At least Jessica had plenty of backing, especially from all those gender self-ID proponents in The Guardian and that”. ERR-ERRRR! Shamefully, the pundits and politicians who’ve spent years arguing that a man who says he’s a woman is as much a woman as an actual woman were strangely silent on the thorny subject of Jessica’s bollocks, leaving her to fend off the torrent of abuse alone.
So Jessica received zero solidarity from Lorry Penny, OJ Jones, or Ash Starkers, three people at the forefront of promoting the idea that transwomen are women and anyone who disagrees is a disgusting Nazi who can shove their bigoted hate speech up their loose furburger.
Similarly, new SDP leader Jo Swinton failed to stick up for Jessica, despite being a firm believer in gender self-ID and allowing men to piss, shower, and masturbate wherever they like. Ditto Labour’s Steven Doughty, who has attacked all manner of far-right feminists for objecting to creepy men exploiting trans ideology yet has so far failed to defend Jessica with the same pride, passion, and naked opportunism with which he attacked evil hatemongers like The Daily Fail’s Janice Taylor.
Dr. Christian Jensen and Not-A-Dr. Adrian Harrods have also been noticeably silent on Waxgate, somewhat curious given their history of celebrating gender self-ID and grassing women up to their bosses for disagreeing with them on Twitter. Fingers crossed they were simply pre-occupied with other important work, such as doxxing women, defending sex with 12 year old girls, or examining swollen bellends in Magaluf. (Thank Allah we aren’t all irrationally averse to handling the naughty bits of half-naked horndogs.)
All of which begs several questions: Could it be that fighting fascism and saying ‘bollocks’ to Brexit has consumed the left so much they’ve taken their eyes off the unwaxed ball and temporarily neglected the trans-creep community?
Or could it be, as Tory trolls speculate, that they know fine well Jessica’s behaviour is unjustifiable, but to say so would both make a mockery of the ideology they’ve thrown their lot in with and increase their chances of getting twatted by a plumber in fishnets on Speakers’ Corner?
Or perhaps there’s an even darker explanation. Because I can’t be the only principled leftists to note similarities with the recent treatment of Carl ‘Nasty Nick’ Beecham, the freedom fighting fantasist who wowed the left with his tales of VIP sex rings and drug-addled snuff parties. And needless to say, now that it’s finally been conclusively proven that Carl’s claims were utter horse-shit his celebrity cheerleaders are nowhere to be seen.
Of course, to anyone who spent five minutes researching his disturbing and highly implausible allegations it’s been pretty obvious for years that Carl had as much credibility as that bloke who hangs around Haymarket Bus Station telling old ladies he works for the CIA, chasing crisp packets, and arguing with pigeons. Indeed, the crooked BBC even aired an episode of Dramarama in 2015 which exposed Carl’s story – promoted by pioneering conspiracy blog Exaro Media – as unfounded nonsense. Luckily, Carl’s famous champions either didn’t see it or pretended they hadn’t, allowing the myth to flourish in it’s natural habitat: the internet.
Indeed, left-wing dupes on Twitter still talk in hushed tones about Satanic sex-cults involving murderous MPs, blissfully unaware that neither exist. Even Carl’s conviction and 18-year sentence hasn’t deterred them, with conspiracy loons worldwide insisting the hapless nurse was ‘set up’ by sinister establishment forces who destroyed vital evidence and forced him to flee to Scandinavialand after child porn and toilet-spying technology were planted on his laptop.
All of which successfully destroyed Carl’s veneer of credibility, previously maintained by the high-profile cheerleaders bowled over by his tales of devil worshipping Tory nonces. So bowled over that they continued to believe him long after it became clear to anyone who’d looked into it that Carl was a deranged lunatic who couldn’t lie straight in bed.
These included Tom Watkins, who publicly repeated Carl’s claims about dead Tory Len Brittan, stating repeatedly that he fully believed the entirely convincing story told to him in person by the wild-haired, socially awkward weirdo . The fact that there was zero actual evidence was irrelevant, and Tom should be applauded for being an early champion of #BelieveVictims, the international craze that would erupt in glorious technicolour two years later to ruin careers, destroy families, and tarnish the reputations of innocent men worldwide. Go Tom!
Other politicians included former Labour MP Simon Dhansak, whose work exposing the sexual exploitation of young women by politicians was unfairly cut short after he was suspended from his party for sending saucy texts to a 17-year-old girl. And let’s not forget Gorgeous ‘George’ Galloway, who interviewed Exaro Media‘s no-nonsense editor Mark Watson on Russia Tonight, concluding that the sheer volume of imaginary Tories who’d spent decades abusing delusional loners was as good an argument as any for overthrowing the government and declaring war on Israel. (Patience, sweet terracotta warrior. It’s coming.)
Carl was also backed by James ‘How To Be Right’ O’Brian, who regularly hosted Mark Watson on his NBC show. Indeed, Watson’s thoroughly disturbing, entirely unsubstantiated reports of establishment kiddy-fiddling were like catnip to O’Brian, who has spent the last three years calling 17 million people he’s never met gullible idiots. And James carried on having Mark on the show long after most people had realised the VIP story was utter rubbish, such was his dedication to holding imaginary paedophiles accountable for crimes that never happened.
Sadly, by 2016 James had abruptly abandoned the story, presumably in response to the BBC documentary which confirmed what anyone free of political, ideological, or tinfoil hat bias already knew: it was all made up. Fortunately James refused to take the coward’s option of apologising and admitting he’d been duped, preferring to say nothing and ignore or block anyone who suggested he has a nerve accusing others of naivety considering he was taken in by a transparently mental paedophile.
Needless to say, neither James nor Tom have admitted any culpability in destroying Harley Proctor’s life and sending Brittan to an early grave. Instead they issued terse, uniform statements which failed to mention their own complicity. James even pledged to carry on Believing Victims, delighting his fans by effectively admitting he’s learnt absolutely nothing. Good. If Brittan thinks being a rich white man accused of noncery is bad he should try living in Boris’s Britain. These dead Tories who carked it before Brexit don’t know how lucky they are.
Still, as commendable as it was to see Carl’s former champions cover their own backs and refuse to say ‘sorry’ for indulging a dangerous nutter, what was sorely lacking was full-blooded support, the kind also denied to Jessica Yavin. Indeed, you’d expect James to come up with the goods on both issues, having last year blasted a transphobic menstruator – is there any other kind? – who suggested that young girls shouldn’t have to share changing rooms with hairy-arsed adult men, blissfully unware that these men’s arses are only hairy because a handful of toxic TERFs are too up themselves to wrangle the odd willy.
Sadly, those days are long gone and James’ support for Jessica was as non-existent as his anger at Carl Beecham’s imprisonment. And we all know why. Because the right have bullied decent liberals into silence, to the point where we know fine well if we say the wrong thing our careers are over.
Meanwhile they continue to steal the left’s best moves. As I’ve previously discussed, there is a terrifying new breed of right-wing social media fantasists, spreading smears and fabrications as if they were New Statesmxn columnists. Perhaps the most enduring is the fantasy that Tommy Yaxley Robinson is a crusading truth teller fighting for abused children, as opposed to a dim-witted hooly whose only talents appear to be lying, scrapping, and coming up with increasingly silly ways to get himself thrown in jail.
So this is 2019. A transwoman persecuted for standing up to bigotry, an NHS angel locked up for telling his story his way, and two marginalised victims with a shared interest in what children get up to in bathrooms thrown under the bus by the very people who elevated them to stardom. And all because the far-right are determined to punish people for expressing opinions they don’t like.
Perhaps the world ending in six months isn’t such a bad thing after all.
There are so many things the left do better than the right. From losing referendums and coming second in elections to misrepresenting statistics and pretending men can get pregnant, it’s safe to say we best them in every category. Sure, they’ve recently given us a run for our money in the fields of ‘faking hate crimes’ and ‘reporting comedians to the police’ but they can’t hold a candle to us when it comes to stuff that matters, such as attending Pride parades dressed as leather-clad sex-dogs. (Tories prefer to do that in private, the dirty, repressed bastards.)
But they will never come close to us when it comes to insurrection. You only have to look at those alt-right bellends in yellow tabards stinking up Westminster Boulevard to see how rubbish they are at protests. Okay, they may have pulled off the remarkable feat of convincing the left-wing media that they’re both pathetic losers whose fans would struggle to fill a phone box and the greatest threat to civilised society since Oswald Mosley’s Blacksocks, but at the end of the day their sad antics are about as incendiary as a baby mouse wet-farting Deutschmark Uber Alles.
In this exciting era of milkshakes and tear-gas it must be pretty embarrassing when your most memorable examples of direct action are pestering Anna Sourface and calling OJ Jones a puff. They don’t even wear masks or carry bike locks. This startling lack of originality runs right through the alt-right’s bland approach to protest, though this doesn’t mean they’re not the most terrifying presence on British streets and must be eliminated before they cleanse the UK of everyone who isn’t white or cisgender.
Which brings me to last week’s cringeworthy yet horrific display of arrogance by the Brexshit Party, who somehow managed to sink even lower when they turned their backs on the EU’s official jingle, Ode To Juncker. Yep, not content with disrespecting the greatest institution on earth – one so awesome it singlehandedly stops World War 3 every day – they also offended a brass band. Clearly the note perfect rendition of this life affirming anthem didn’t do it for them, probably because it doesn’t contain enough oompah stylings or jackboot drumming for their far-right tastes.
But there was an even darker side to their performance. Because as anyone who’s spent more than five minutes navigating Political Twitter knows, you can’t simply criticise the Brexshit MEPs for being rude, childish, or egotistical. You can’t just mock them for bigging up their silly protest as if it were an act of defiance on par with Wayne Gandhi’s Salt March. And you can’t merely point out the ridiculousness of taking a seat in the European Parliament despite spending your days telling people how terrible the European Parliament is.
No, what you have to do is state with absolute certainty that all 29 BP MEPs – three of whom I’ve actually heard of! – decided to turn their backs on the European Parliament not because they’re vain egotists or publicity hungry clickbait whores. They did it because they’re Nazis.
Which is what thousands of educated people with important-looking letters after their names did last week when it became blatantly obvious that BP’s trite spectacle was a far-right dog-whistle, clearly designed to invoke memories of a similar protest done by a bunch of genuine Nazis in 1936 or something. The fact that none of the die-hard Remainzealots accusing the foul MEPs of deliberately referencing Nazis had heard of the incident until that day was irrelevant, as was the fact that people have been turning their backs as a form of protest for decades and it has bugger all to do with death camps, swastikas, or genocidal dictators with missing knackers.
Understandably, decent people were repulsed by this brazen tribute to the Fourth Reich, so brazen it was only picked up on by people with blue flags and pointless acronyms in their Twitter handles. Leading the charge was EU-lovin’ social media personality Otto European, who melted FBPEMFTM hearts by re-tweeting a picture of Farage and co’s ancestors pulling their dirty trick in the ’20s, before accusing their modern day proteges of “using the Nazi playbook”.
This naturally made Guardian readers swoon hard, almost as hard as that time Otto posted creepy pictures of a lady eating some food on a train. That woman, of course, was leading Brexshitter Clare Fox, which handed European and his deeply progressive followers a free pass to disseminate photos of a 60-year-old woman taken without her permission, cleverly avoiding the cries of ‘toxic masculinity’ that would erupt from his fans if someone did that to a proper left-wing politician. (Fox likes to pretend she’s one of us by bragging about her Communist past and supporting noble causes like killing British soldiers but she’s fooling no-one.)
Otto was ably assisted by his faithful Twitter followers, leaping to his defence with the sort of rabid commitment and unabashed sycophancy unique to the modern left – two more things we do waaay better than the rotten right. Predictably, they had to fend off Tory trolls pathetically arguing that people have been making political statements by turning their backs for years, from anti-Trump protesters to Canadian women upset at Justin Trudeaux for banning periods. These lame deflections were met with short shrift by Otto’s army, who responded like trained seals and repeatedly pointed out that the difference between these examples and the racist MEPS was that the latter are elected representatives, you idiot. What this had to do with Otto’s claim that to turn one’s back on someone was to “whistle the same motifs” as the Nazis was unclear, but I’m certain there was an important reason behind it. Otherwise it would mean they’d completely missed the point and educated leftists never do that, do they?
The only sticking point was Otto. Now, far be it from me to cast doubts on such an obvious ally but even Mr. European himself would agree that in these divisive times it’s hard to know who to trust. So forgive me for not passing on your wise words Otto, but I’m afraid your first name sounds a little too ‘Nazi playbook’ for my liking.
All of which emphasises how utterly useless the right are at protesting, their cack-handed attempts insulting true rebels everywhere and making a mockery of the revolutionary tradition. To see how it’s supposed to be done, you only have to look at the assortment of left-wing protests that have happened over the last fortnight, each one as daring and rebellious as the Brexshit Party’s was safe and irrelevant.
Take the counter protest which took place on the same day, as a gang of brave Lib Dems in wacky yellow t-shirts left the BP absolutely rattled by marching into the European Parliament with ‘BREXIT IS BOLLOCKS!’ emblazoned across their tits. Ha! Needless to say, this madcap act of subversion left the alt-right fuming. And if for some strange reason their stunt doesn’t stop Brexit, at least these freedom fighters will know that while few people could tell you their names, at least their clothing trended on Twitter for an hour. Take that, Nazi sods!
Elsewhere, we saw yet more bravery from Antifa, the modern day equivalents of everyone who died in WW2, particularly those nice Stalinists who helped the Allied Forces crush Hitler before spending the next few decades quadrupling his death toll. For further evidence compare the Brexshit Party with the black-clad warriors who clashed with Nazis in Portland Bill two weeks ago, finding themselves under such a sustained attack from alt-right shit stirrer and self-hating homo Andy Ngogo that they were left with no choice but to defend themselves by beating up the unreconstructed Solero.
This is how you get stuff done. And the great thing about Antifa violence is that, unlike violence committed by your common-or-garden mace-wielding fascist, Antifa’s brand of peaceful bullying always earns the support of British liberals. One of the most passionate is left-wing blogger Bob From Throckley who, despite regularly decrying class divisions, hate speech, and incitement, expressed little condemnation for the privileged activists who put Nguyen in hospital. On the contrary, he blamed the Asian white supremacist for provoking them, reminding everyone that evil Andy is ‘far-right’ thus legitimising the principled decision to beat him up.
Unsurprisingly, Bob then indulged in the kind of apologism and victim-blaming now commonplace on the modern left, from casting doubt on whether Umbongo’s injuries were real and denying that Antifa activists have ever behaved like fascists to defending their right to hit people they disagree with and using ‘they started it!’ as a grown-up justification for violence. Good lad. All in all, for someone who dislikes Corbynites Bob doesn’t half sound like one. Fingers crossed he keeps up the good work – once Jezza sweeps to power and Broccoli finishes his five year stretch stitching berets in solitary we could use a brain like his.
But the most impressive left-wing protest happened last week when Jess Philips dumped her son on Theresa May’s doorstep. This genius move was designed to blame the doomed PM for Master Philips’ school closing on a Friday afternoon, as well as highlighting the fact that Jess’s life is so hectic and her salary so meagre she has neither the time nor money to arrange for someone to change her 10-year-old’s nappy.
The tremors from this bold attempt to change the world were felt all the way from Number Ten to Number Eleven, with Jess’s bravery fawned over by the type of people who think swearing and interrupting people more than make up for a complete lack of personality. As you’d expect, these superfans happily bought into the left-wing fantasy that her son’s school closure was entirely the fault of the government and nothing whatsoever to do with mismanaging its budget.
Sadly, the ballsy act of dissent had zero effect on policy but the ripples it generated on Jess’s Twitter feed more than made up for that, which was kind of the point. And while Jess’s son’s school remains closed on Fridays, rumour has it Terrible Theresa was so flustered she offered to pay a visit to Brumingham to wipe his arse while Jess gets her nails done. We’ll see.
As for Fearless Philips, she may have repeatedly betrayed the Dear Leader but we Corbynites are a forgiving bunch. She keeps up these shamelessly opportunistic publicity stunts and there may yet be a role for her when Jezza seizes power. I can’t promise anything but if she maintains her insurrectional streak we may be able to convince Brother Seamus to only hang her once.
Until then we’ll keep showing the fascists how it’s done, starting with our all-out war against the Bastard Broadcasting Charlatans, whose jawdroppingly offensive World In Action documentary on the myth of left-wing antisemitism rightly sent proud Corbynites into the biggest, loudest rage since that infamous Newsnight interview when Laura Cuntsberg pumped and blamed it on Jezza.
Luckily we’re old hands at this protest lark, and the reaction to the smear-filled hatchet job has been as sleek as you’d expect, with some of the outrage even coming from people who’ve seen the programme. I myself refuse to watch it but that hasn’t stopped me sending an angry email to Ofsted and posting envelopes filled with cat-shit to the producer. Meanwhile, all over social media decent Jezzabels have been demonstrating how ridiculous the BBC claims of Jew hatred are by spending the last few days abusing Jews.
See how it’s done, righties? Now if you’ll excuse me this ‘BOLLOCKS TO BORIS!’ banner won’t write itself.
Like most die-hard Corbynites, I don’t even notice the smears anymore. Sure, I read them, spit on them, and send death threats to anyone who retweets them, but other than that they barely register: a faint, inconsequential drone of lies, propaganda, and demonstrable facts. Indeed, they bother me so little it’s been three whole days since I last cried myself to sleep thinking about them, and almost a week since my daily commute to Cowgate food bank was marred by some Zionist bitch eating a bagel on the Metro.
Needless to say, the latest round of scurrilous allegations were as empty, predictable, and easy to ignore as ever, with hit-piece after hit-piece pathetically arguing that Chris Williams’ re-admission to Labour was evidence of the party’s ‘racism’. Please. Any idiot can see it’s actually evidence of their dedication to promoting diversity by creating a safe space for everyone from skull-faced militant antisemites to antisemitic militants with faces like skulls.
But amazingly last week saw an even more tiresome smear, one so tedious I barely spent more than four afternoons, three bus journeys, and an entire sleepless night curled up in an empty bath bubbling about it. Because the centrist swines and their Tory bedfellows excelled themselves this time, sinking even lower than usual by accusing several Jewish Labour accounts of being fakes. Their justification? Well apparently they commited the cardinal sin of regurgitating the exact same story. A story they were accused of stealing from someone else. Yep, it seems shared experiences are a bad thing in Brexit Britain. But that’s not even the worst part. Because these accounts didn’t belong to just any old Jews. These Jews were the relatives of Holocaust survivors.
That’s right, the very same alt-right hawks who’ve spent the last four years accusing St. Jezza’s Labour of antisemitism have now decided to throw people whose parents lived through the horror of the concentration camps under the bus. And all because their recollections of the ordeals they faced in the ’40s sounded slightly similar. Sickening.
Still their relentless slander affects me so little I haven’t even smashed a plate thinking about them since midday. Obsessing over antisemitism smears is just soooo 2015. Far better to let Jezza’s Jews speak for themselves. Yes, they exist. This may shock those gullible wretches who’d believe Corbyn scratched his bum and sniffed his fingers in Strangers’ Bar if The Daily Fail said so, but facts are facts.
Because unbeknown to most of the British public, social media is awash with high-ranking Hebrews who worship Our Next PM every bit as passionately as normal people do. Unlike the celebrity Zionists spreading poison all the way from Twitter to Facebook, these honourable non-gentiles acknowledge their role in the persecution of Palestinians that started before they were born, and are acutely aware of their complicity in the actions of a government six-thousand miles away that has fuck all to do with them.
Twitter in particular is brimming with these folk. Take @KosherKopite#JC4PM a retired jeweller from Merseyside whose parents fled Germany for Amsterdam in the ’30s. After the Netherlands fell to the Nazis she and her family went into hiding, spending the rest of the war in a secret room behind a bookcase in her father’s office. Sadly, after being discovered by the SS in 1944 the whole family were sent to Auschwitz. Apart from @KosherKopite#JC4PM that is, who managed to escape the clutches of the Nazis and hitch-hiked her way across Europe before stowing away on a ferry bound for Merseyside. Upon arrival she was found shivering in a doorway and taken in by a kind Trotskyist family from Bootle, whereupon she devoted the rest of her life to campaigning for the many not the few by writing meaningless slogans on bedsheets.
As she put it herself last week after debating the finer points of the Be-Ro Flour Declaration, a discourse which culminated in her calling Rachel O’Riley a blonde slag: “I’ve learnt one thing. You only get to know a person after a fight. Then you judge their true character!”
I couldn’t have put it better myself, @Kosher.
But she isn’t the only Survivor saying ‘enough’s enough!’ to the anti-Corbyn onslaught. @MerseysideMensch#JC4PM#GTTO is another account which utterly destroys the idea that Jews hate Jezza. Like @Kosher, he was born in Germany but spent most of his childhood in the Netherlands after his parents fled Frankfurt to escape persecution. When the SS uncovered a secret room hidden behind a bookcase in his father’s office and sent his family to Dachau in 1944, @MerseysideMensch#JC4PM#GTTO escaped, trekking through war-torn Europe and somehow making it across the Channel to Liverpool where he was instantly adopted by a couple of scouse social workers. Since retiring from his successful career as a bank manager he spends his days campaigning for universal human rights and admonishing himself for causing the Six Day War despite never having set foot in Israel.
As he recently said to Tracey-Ann Doberman during a lively Twitter chat about Hamas in which he argued his point respectfully before accusing the former Corrie’ killer of eating babies’ faces: “I don’t want to live in vain like most people. I want to be useful or bring enjoyment to all people, even those I’ve never met. I want to go on living even after my death!”
You tell her, @Merseyside.
And let’s not forget @TalmudistOfToxteth#JC4PM#GTTO#ACAB, the 90-year-old former Chief Rabbi of Aigburth and full-time non-binary transbeard who arrived in the north-west as an orphan having fled Amsterdam during the war. Born in Germany, @TalmudistOfToxteth#JC4PM#GTTO#ACAB’s family moved to the Netherlands after Hitler swept to power but were captured and sent to Belsen in 1944 when their secret bedroom hidden behind a bookcase in their dad’s office was discovered by the SS. @TalmudistOfToxteth#JC4PM#GTTO#ACAB somehow made it out alive, risking life and limb travelling across Europe before breaking into the home of a family of bohemian intellectuals from Canning, who were instantly smitten with the knife-wielding genderqueer intruder, bringing them up as one of their own. After a difficult childhood they excelled academically: devouring the Toyah, studying post-modernism, and developing a penchant for fishnet tights, before hitting the streets and learning how to successfully evade arrest when leaving Woolco with a pound of pick’n’mix hidden under your Kipper.
They are one of the most learned Jewish scholars out there, as you can see from this pearl of wisdom they delivered to workshy capitalist Alan Shuggyboat during a heated exchange about BDSM, just before they blocked him and threatened to slit his wife’s throat: “We have many reasons to hope for great happiness but we have to earn it. And that’s something you can’t achieve by talking the easy way out. Earning happiness means doing good and working, not speculating and being lazy. Laziness may look inviting, but only work gives you true satisfaction!”
Wise words, @Talmudist. Wise words.
And they aren’t alone, as Twitter is ram-packed with similar testimonies by other ageing Christ Killers with remarkably similar backgrounds; their identical stories liked, loved, and retweeted by people whose idea of fighting fascism is calling soap actresses whores.That they get zero press coverage is hardly surprising, as the likes of Skynet News and the Brexit Broadcasting Corporation long ago abandoned any pretence of neutrality in favour of shilling for the alt-right.
But we know they’re out there, which is all that matters. As I’ve repeatedly stated, their smears bother me so little they might as well not exist. In fact, since I started writing this blog a few hours ago I’ve only broke down in tears over Wreathgate twice, and still haven’t even got around to sending my weekly DM to one-eyed Torygraph hack Dan Hedges. I just couldn’t care less.
And why should I? The press can go swivel. If I was hit by a bus tomorrow at least I’d die knowing the voices of Good Jews are being heard. So three cheers for @Kosher, @Merseyside and @Talmudist for risking the wrath of Mossad by spreading the truth, speaking their minds, and accepting that as awful as the Holocaust was, as a pre-emptive punishment for what Israel would spend the next 70-odd years doing to the brave people of Palestine, few could argue it wasn’t richly deserved.
Now, if you’ll excuse me I’ve an article to write about how 29 egotists turning their backs on a jingle means they’re Nazis.
Like most progressives I have a rocky relationship with the BBC. On the one hand I despise the way they flaunt their anti-Corbyn bias by giving hours of airtime to his gang of obsequious cheerleaders. I’m also appalled at how they display their blatant pro-Brexit agenda by stuffing every news show with more die-hard Remainers than a Holland & Barrett’s Trolley dash.
But at the same time, it’s hard to fault their efforts to promote diversity, advance identity politics, and normalise the wonkiest left-wing ideas since Lilly Madigan convinced the Dullwich College School Choir to take part in a sponsored circle-jerk to raise money to get her knackers cut off.
Sure, we all felt like razing the Beeb to the ground when they photoshopped Jezza’s beret to make it look more Russian, an act of digital trickery so subtle it was only noticed by myself, Aaron Bastardi, and every single antisemite on Twitter. But lest we forget this is the corporation that preaches inclusivity, discriminates against white people, and hand-picks Islamic extremists to grill evil Tories on prime time telly. Surely it can’t be all bad.
And let’s not ignore the leaps the BBC has made in terms of drama, with every cliched cop show or 19th century lesbo-crime romp coming gift-wrapped in the kind of wokey-woke values designed to appeal to everyone from Liberal Democrats to New Statesmxn subscribers. One only has to look at the Beeb’s bold re-casting of the lead in their flagship Saturday sci-fi show Dr Who? to see the channel’s commitment to disavowing its misogynist past.
Indeed, as an ’80s child I would never have guessed that 30 years later I’d be masturbating over both the new Doctor and Higgins out of Magnum PD. As the time-travelling menstruater put it herself “…when people need help, I never refuse”, a pledge I intend to bring up when I eventually meet the divine Josie Whittaker and ask if she’d be kind enough to give me a hand sucking my own cock. That forward-thinking BBC brainiacs have created a world where I’m able to say that is a thing of beauty. (Though they’re still nailed on to be strangled in their sleep when Labour finally seize power.)
Which brings me to Years and Years and Years, the terrifying futuristic miniseries created by former Who? showrunner Russel T.Hobbs, which came to it’s explosive climax last week and left me so emotionally devastated it’s taken seven days to process just what the hell happened. The answer to that one remains elusive but one thing’s for certain: you won’t see a better drama all year.
YaY(aY) followed the Lions family as they struggled with an assortment of trials and tribulations familiar to middle-class Mancunians with barely a Mancunian accent between them. In a controversial move, the fact that the Lions were predominantly white was for once presented as a positive. And quite right too. Because the last thing we need in 2019 is pale-skinned scriptwriters thinking they’re allowed to create characters who don’t look like them. Fortunately Russell is also gay, his sexuality gifting him an intersectional pass to throw a handful of minorities in to the mix before he’s accused of erasing them. (See? You can have it both ways.)
The Lions were pretty much a Guardian reader’s dream family: a gay, a disabled, a refugee, a bisexual eco warrior, her tough girlfriend, a non-Brexity pensioner, a strong black woman and her two mixed race daughters, one of whom is half-robot. (The white half, obviously. Even in fictional dystopias, some privileges never die.)
Russell also kindly shoehorned a Chinese trans-child into the family, demonstrating his commitment to Asian and non-binary representation by giving her neither a line of dialogue nor anything remotely interesting to do. Instead, this brave girl-boy hovered around in an ill-fitting dress before inexplicably turning into a beautiful young woman in the final episode. Thankfully, she was still endearingly mute and utterly devoid of personality. Which is quite right, as last I heard Russell T.Hobbs is neither Oriental nor wears his hair in pigtails.
This woke sensitivity extended to the straight white male characters, all of whom were either dead, silent, or pieces of shit. The exception was the love interest of feisty wheelchair-bound Jodie, though his swarthy complexion and the fact that he was played by an actor with the surname ‘Bukhari’ would indicate he’s not quite as white as he seems. Either way, whatever colour he is I’m sure we can all agree he more than earnt his oppression cred by selflessly shacking up with a cripple.
The same couldn’t be said for Roy Kinnear, the Lions family’s solitary straight white male, and the character with the most privilege and least morals. Thankfully, despite my unease about his patriarchal presence in the otherwise perfect unit, it quickly became apparent that he was both a bellend and an adulterer. Phew! Not much was known about his nephew – the only other straight white male Lion – as he barely said a word throughout the whole series. (Mutism is clearly a common affliction in the post-Brexit north-west) This was of course the correct choice: one straight white male clapping, butting into conversations, and mansplaining all over the shop is more than enough micro-aggression for modern audiences to deal with.
But back to Roy, who very nearly earnt himself a free pass by having a black wife and biracial children. Sadly he showed his true colours by leaving them for a white whore, forcing them to live with his dotty but defiantly tolerant granny, the type of quintessential northern OAP who adopts refugees, loves the gay-gays, and only exists in the minds of BBC scriptwriters.
Roy eventually sunk even lower by finding work with a shady property company owned by his schoolfriend Woodsy, a demonic Manc chancer played by demonic Manc chancer Kieran O’Gruey, and the only other straight white male with the ability to talk. Appalled by the company taking on a secret government contract to build concentration camps for immigrants – and wracked with guilt for sending his dead brother’s lover to one such camp for a laugh – Roy partially redeemed himself by blowing the whistle on the genocidal ambitions of rabble-rousing-populist-turned-fascist-PM Vivien Rock, but it was too little too late, Roy having thoroughly played the white man by destroying the lives of his family, friends, and loads of foreigners. Indeed, the only misstep in the whole series was the decision to send a suicidal Roy to jail rather than let him blow his bald brains out.
But evil Kinnear was a pussycat compared to Rock, played by Emma Thomson and seemingly created purely to massage the egos of left-wing intellectuals. So much so that every time she did or said something that resonated with the savage hellscape of 2019 you could almost feel the seismic surge as all manner of art students, civil servants, and craft beer enthusiasts nudged, winked, and furiously nodded at each other, pleased as organic punch that they picked up on the sledgehammer subtlety.
Indeed, few things have ever made me feel quite as proud as imagining my liberal brothers and zizters watching horrific scenes of Viv being ghastly and turning to their civil partners wearing smug facial expressions not unlike this one by Larry Seinfeld. To wit:
Viv makes a name for herself by ‘telling it like it is’ on daytime TV. “Hmm, that’s just like Katie Hopkins, isn’tit?”
Viv blames immigrants for Britain’s problems. “Hmmm, that’s just like Nigel Farage, isn’t it?”
Viv counters criticism by moaning about ‘fake news’. “Hmmmmm, that’s just like President Pussy-Grab, isn’t it?”
Viv talks about censoring the press and banning stupid people from voting. “Hmmmmmm, that’s just like us, isn’t i…erm…I mean…erm…okay, can we fast-forward this bit, Hugo?”
But amazingly, there was even more to this landmark drama than sharply drawn characters, an utterly realistic depiction of the typical northern family, and a determination to make viewers feel smugly superior by confirming their prejudices about mouthy right-wing ideologues and people who don’t share their erotically-charged obsession with immigrants. Because what really made this the greatest drama, like, ever was its terrifyingly plausible vision of the future. Or rather, the now.
Because it’s only a matter of time before power-cuts become a daily occurrence, concentration camps pop up on school fields, and every down-to-earth family living in a mansion has their very own ornamental Asian trans-child. But perhaps the most disturbing prediction was the depressing sight of a black woman selling out her skin by voting Tory. Urgh. Expect more of this in the coming years (and years), as minorites too oppressed to think for themselves have their heads turned by cynical politicians, exploited into thinking it’s up to them who they vote for, as opposed to educated white progressives whose only contact with black people is giving stingey tips to Baristas or bollocking their Nigerian nanny.
Throughout the series Russell planted clever seeds warning us that this Auntie Tom was a wrong ‘un, the most subtle being her bald head, clearly shaved in a manic fit of internalised racism and anti-afro self-disgust. But what do you expect from a woman who not only married but had children with a Caucasian? All things considered, that her no-good husband went to jail and she ended up penniless was a fairly lenient punishment for rejecting her community to suck face with whitey.
Fortunately, Russell did find some comfort in his depiction of the future, with the bold advancements in technology a joy to behold. As embittered activist Jessica Heinz died of food poisoning, her diarrhea-free consciousness uploaded to a speaker on a coffee table, it offered a beautiful glimpse into a future bursting with possibilities. Imagine the groundbreaking work OJ and Ash could pull off if their entire beings were stored in household ornaments. Or consider how many Tory MPs could be recorded arguing with their girlfriends and exposed in the left-wing press. What better way for the next generation to fight fascism than listening in on right-wingers being harangued by their posh blonde wives for leaving all the lights on or using too much bog-roll? And how grateful will the public be when these life-threatening domestic disputes are leaked to The Canary and laid bare as important incidents of huge public interest? I can’t wait.
Even better, once our devices are permanently transplanted into our brains we’ll never again have to face the horror of putting our phones down and switching off from social media. A future in which we can abuse strangers and send death threats without taking our hands out of our pockets is a future every true progressive can get behind.
So keep it up, Auntie. I’ll happily take the death camps, financial crashes, and fascist Prime Ministers if it means I can log on to Twitter and fight injustice by simply thinking about it. The Manchester of 2035 (left) may be an uninhabitable apocalyptic wasteland, but at least no-one will have to worry about being offline for half an hour because they left their phone on the bus. Because there won’t be any phones. Or buses. But at least we’ll be able to spend all day on the internet telling everyone how it’s all Boris Johnston’s fault that there aren’t any phones or buses. I can’t wait!
I just pray all those self-hating black women manage to control themselves, get back in their lanes, and keep the hell away from white men like me. Because as everyone who watched Russell T.Harty’s barnstorming series knows all too well, this ain’t the noughties anymore, bitchez.
They can’t help themselves, can they? First they demand four-eyed freedom fighter Pete Crowther is sacked, charged with assault, and designated a domestic terrorist for throwing milk and ice cream at some gobby fascist. Then they publicly shame the brave woman who screamed ‘Nazi!’ in that Nazi’s face at the recent anti-Trump rally, forcing her out of her job and condemning her to being occasionally called a ‘fat cow’ on Facebook. And last week the alt-right pulled off their most brazen trick yet, in an act of theft so cheeky it makes the 1958 Israeli land grab look like that episode of Home and Away when Todd pinched Jim’s sandwiches.
Because when lefty comic and former mental patient Joe Brand cracked that hilarious gag on Radio 5 about throwing battery acid at politicians, Tory Twitter once again displayed its stunning lack of originality by accusing her of ‘incitement’, demanding she is fired, and reporting her to the police.
Who do they think they are? Us?
Having long ago lost the battle of ideas, it seems the right have decided the best way to gain the moral high ground is to simply copy the left’s best moves. So while progressives reacted to Brandgate in the principled manner you’d expect – defending Joe’s right to free speech despite the fact when Cunt Dickula was on trial a significant portion of the left either said nothing or screamed for him to be jailed – right-wingers showed their true blue colours, adopting a lazy policy of ‘if you can’t beat them, be them’. Then screaming for Brand to be jailed.
They even had the nerve to justify this by stealing the left-wing battle cry of ‘they did it first!’, that reliable go-to utilised by every decent liberal who’s ever DESTROYED a racist by arguing that ISIS would never have raped children or thrown gays off tower blocks if the evil West hadn’t invaded Iraq, bombed Afghanistan, and drew cocks on their pencil cases.
They also took the progressive approach to racism – that the best way to tackle it is not to eradicate it but to make sure everyone experiences it – and appropriated it to justify their own authoritarianism. “It’s time the left had a taste of their own medicine!” whined one. “The more left-wing comedians hunted down the better!” snarled another. “It serves her right for getting Thatcher’s daughter sacked from The One Show” squealed thousands, deploying the tried and tested left-wing tactic of stating straight-up lies as facts because they know fine well there’s zero chance their ideologically warped followers will spend two minutes researching what actually happened.
And on they went, aping the contemporary left and demonstrating their commitment to free speech by demanding less of it. I can see them now, cackling as they turn our ideology against us, exposing theirs as nothing but a sham by insisting the same hate crime laws they’ve spent years decrying are enforced against a 61-year-old woman who said a naughty sentence on the wireless. Indeed if you swap Brand for Rod Lidl, replace the ‘acid’ gag with a rape joke, and pretend that the average outraged milk monitor calling for her head has blue hair and a face like a smacked arse rather than high blood pressure and cheeks of purest Gammon they’re indistinguishable from your common-or-garden left-wing SJW.
Needless to say, the mob got their wish and Brand was ‘assessed’ by the police, much to the annoyance of envious leftists who haven’t achieved such a feat in weeks. This in turn led to much celebration on right-wing Twitter, with champagne being uncorked by the very same people who would be whining about ‘threats to liberty’ and misquoting HG Orwell if Brand was a Tory.
Who do they think they are? Novaru media?
It was overwhelming. But here’s the thing. Like Harry Hill’s wife in Goodfellows, I gotta admit: it turned me on. And I couldn’t help but feel jealous that they were having such a good time. For a split second I even experienced a tiny smidgeon of – urgh – respect. Because while left and right may view the world differently – we want to save it while they want to rid it of anyone who isn’t straight and white – it’s hard not to empathise with their authoritarianism, no matter how much I’d like to stab them all in their sleep.
Because at least they believe in something, even if it is fascism. In many ways they’re just the Nazi version of us. None of which can be said for those godawful non-partisan types, parading their fence-sitting wares on social media, acting all superior and pompous just because they believe in ‘fairness’ and ‘consistency’. Tossers. They’re arguably even worse than right-wingers, with their cowardly insistence on holding both sides to the same standard, their belief that free speech applies to everyone rather than just people they agree with, and their deeply immoral view that no-one should face the sack or a police investigation for telling a joke.
Who do they think they are? Adults?
Which got me thinking. As we know, the culture war takes place almost exclusively on Twitter. And with good reason too, as braindead drones in the Real World are too selfishly preoccupied with friends, family and enjoying life to concern themselves with backstops, critical race theory, and oppressed adults throwing money at 11-year-old boys in lipstick. But there comes a time when you have to accept that something no longer works. And I’m sad to report that, thanks to the killjoy antics of the aforementioned centrists, Twitter just doesn’t feel like home anymore. So I have a simple suggestion for those dull, reasonable, non-partisan cowards who have hijacked our beloved platform: why not bog off and start your own?
I mean come on, if you hate it so much why stay? It can’t be good for your health so perhaps it’s time to make a clean break, depart for pastures new, and leave us ranting ideologues to have fun hating each other without vanilla shitheads of no fixed ideology sticking their boring oars in to prattle on about ‘balance’ and ‘respect’.
You can be ‘nice’ to your enemies all day long in your new, milktoast version of Twitter. Meanwhile those of us who actually believe in something – Good People on one side, Evil Shitheads on the other – can duke it out in peace. Once you’ve left Twitter can fulfil its destiny and become the thing we’ve always wanted it to be: the internet version of Skrull Island, with the crybaby extremist factions of left and right recast as the radioactive dinosaurs and horny giant gibbons of modern political discourse.
It might not be the Twitter everyone wants but it’ll sure as hell be the Twitter the world needs. And it’s one of the few things guaranteed to get extremists from all corners of the aisle nodding in agreement, bonding over their mutual excitement at the prospect of an interference-free battlefield on which to slug it out using facts, intelligence, and increasingly rubbish memes. You want common ground? Here it is, bitches.
Of course, it won’t last as virtually everyone will have been blocked, reported and banned by teatime. Which is win-win for the left. Because when that day comes we’re virtually guaranteed to be sitting atop the iron throne, at peace with the world we’ve destroyed and recreated, quietly revelling in victory like Thermos after he clicked his fingers and liquidised all the X-Men. Beautiful.
And the nice thing is that any fascists left over will be a peace of piss to convert. Indeed, you only have to look at the right-wing lunatics calling for Jo Brand to be locked up to see a ready made fleet of left-wing lunatics-in-waiting. Like their liberal counterparts, their ideology isn’t important: what they really believe in is having something to be self-righteous about. Whatever group they hang their piousness on is incidental, because much like us they’re authoritarians at heart, with little time for ethics or values, which can be abandoned or adopted on a whim depending on which group has the coolest costumes.
As shown by the back stories of the Yellow Tabard movement’s leading lights, this week’s Union Jack-clad Tommy Robertson clone is last week’s Kool-Aid Corbynite in a keffiyeh. The ideology is irrelevant: the thrill comes with belonging to a group who hate another group. And you only have to look at the rank double standards of the alt-right weirdos screaming abuse at Brand this week to see that all it would take to bring them over to the Light Side is a handjob from an Ash Starkers wannabe with nice tits, a filthy mouth, and an unswerving belief in literal communism.
In the meantime we’ll keep defending Brand and they can carry on abusing her, until the tables inevitably turn and we reverse roles the second Geoff Knobcott calls St. Jezza a puff. With both sides as convinced of their own superiority as they are oblivious to their mutual failings, we can sit back and await the glorious day Twitter is purged of all the cowards too scared to pick a side, allowing left and right to face off like two ancient behemoths, pounding each other into submisson by spreading lies, instigating pile-ons, and sending each other death threats. Altogether now…
One of the best things about the modern left is our willingness to put ourselves in danger. Whether it’s risking assault by going out in public with our faces painted EU-blue, or putting our lives on the line reporting Twitter accounts with ten followers for calling Lady Thornberry a drunken arsehole, what separates us from the cowardly right is our selfless disregard for personal safety. And in 2019 there are few places as unsafe as comedy clubs.
Which is why a fortnight ago I grew some phaloplastic girl-balls and threw myself into the lion’s den that is The Strand, Newcastle. And it’s an evening I’ll never forget. Indeed, it’s taken me two weeks to muster the courage to revisit that terrible night. Because what I witnessed will be burnt onto my memory even longer than that grot movie where the two girls drink each other’s shit, a film so repulsive I had to delete it from my hard drive after the fifteenth viewing.
Sadly, there’ll be no such easy erasure for the brutality I witnessed the weekend before last. Because this was no ordinary comedy night, where decent leftists crack edgy gags about Donald Trumpton’s hair or the racist stupidity of Leave voters. No, this was something else: the world’s most offensive comedian, a walking, talking monster who styles himself as “the only comic who campaigns against human rights”. This wasn’t the smug sophistication of Richard Heron or the wacky blandness of Harold Kumar. This was the spite-filled bigotry of Scottish Zionist Gerry Sadowitz and I pray to Allah I never experience it again.
But I will. Because this is what we do. Though why this hateful Highland beast is still filling shitty basement clubs decades after being banned from television is a mystery. Then again, with fascism on the rise and hate crime levels being wildly exaggerated daily, is it any surprise the far-right have infiltrated the comedy scene?
I won’t dignify Sadowitz by repeating his repellent ‘jokes’, partly out of respect for my readers but mainly because I successfully erased them from my memory after two weeks of intensive therapy consisting of long lie-ins, regular naps, and repeatedly watching that video of Aaron Bastardi DESTROYING SkynetNews by claiming Beth Rugby had said something then shitting his pants like a pro when it was pointed out she hadn’t.
Suffice to say Gerry stuck the boot into gays, midgets, Muslims, transwomen and foreigners with all the sensitivity of a rabid pit-bull, at one point even showing a complete lack of respect for the disabled by mocking that weather girl with the stumpy arm. Blacks, browns, yellows and reds felt the full force of his fascism too, in amongst obligatory gags about Scots, Jews and white men, crowbarred in to give the impression he treats everyone with equal contempt rather than just the groups he’s been told to take the piss out of by Rupert Maxwell and The Daily Fail.
This vile vein continued with his ultra-offensive ‘political’ material, an endless toonarmy of violent attacks on socialism, Lord Jezza, and Dame Diane Abbot. Again, to maintain the illusion of ‘balance’ he meekly took the piss out of the Tories and the Royals too, though it was painfully obvious how uncomfortable it was for this working-class Glaswegian to stick the boot into the English ruling classes.
Worst of all, after bullying traumatised Remainers and brazenly admitting to voting Leave, Sadowitz had the gall to suggest that in the real world most people couldn’t care less about Brexit. Dear me. Like so many fascist fruitcakes before him, Gerry has swallowed whole the dangerous, dishonest, demonstrably true narrative that only MPs, journalists, and self-important bores on social media spend their lives obsessing over Brexit when everyone knows it’s actually MPs, journalists, and self-important Good People. (As well as loads of flag-waving fascists but the least said about them the better.)
Predictably, the only person Gerry said anything nice about was President Pussy Grab. Indeed, the foul Scot repeatedly confessed his admiration for Agent Orange, causing audible gasps, several walkouts, and three heart attacks before losing the room completely, with as few as 295 out of 300 people laughing at every word while the rest of us sat stony-faced.
But as vile as his love for The Donald was, the most disturbing aspect of this grim evening was the audience: pinned to their seats, grinning maniacally, terrified of being taken into the beer garden and hung for not giving sufficient respect to a ranting loon in a top hat poking fun at the IRA.
Most worryingly, amongst the sea of privileged white faces I spotted an Indian couple, three black lads, and a Chinee. Yes, really. Horrified that these marginalised millennials had attended an event designed to disenfranchise them, I approached their tables, demanded to know why they hadn’t walked out and politely asked them to leave. Sadly these interventions were met with a barrage of abuse and a threat of Judo-inspired violence from the self-hating Oriental, forcing me to retreat to my seat and lament the way British society turns harmless ethnics into hate-filled thugs.
Whether their insistence on ignoring me as I stood in front of them blocking their view was a result of brainwashing or a desperate desire to appease white supremacy remains a mystery. Either way, it doesn’t take a genius to see this is what happens when minorities are forced to assimilate. The sooner St. Jezza becomes PM and passes a law banning non-whites from comedy clubs the better.
As the show reached its climax the tension in the room was unbearable, the audience stunned into silence as if locked in communal prayer. Sensing their nightmare would soon be over they pleaded with Muhammad for safe passage, avoiding eye contact with the plain-clothed Nazis patrolling the aisles and prodding anyone not laughing with invisible nightsticks. But Sadowitz had no intention of letting his prisoners go peacefully, saving the worst for last and showing his true Hebrew colours by performing a series of card tricks.
Mercifully, after lodging a fictional complaint about an audience member spotted reading The Establishment: And How They Smell Like Poo I was able to slip out while the fascist heavy on the door stopped playing with her pigtails for five minutes to investigate. Knowing the Nazis’ historical obsession with black magic it was inevitable Sadowitz would try to bewitch his entire audience in the name of UKIP, but there was no way I was becoming one of his brainwashed minions.
Of course, this won’t be the last time he pulls this sinister subterfuge as deception and deceit are bread and butter to card-carrying Zios. In fact I wouldn’t be surprised if he hypnotised the whole audience and sent us into a deep sleep so he could rifle through our pockets, or put us under a spell which will make us stab the nearest Muslim to death the next time we hear the theme tune from Seinfield.
Luckily I escaped with only mental scars. Though I almost sustained physical ones too when the male half of the Indian couple brutally barged me out of the way following my peaceful attempt to block his wife from leaving until she’d explained why she sold out her sisters by laughing at Sadowitz’s offensive Pakistani accent. Needless to say, I hold no grudge as this tragic pair are clearly unaware of their own internalised Islamophobia. But should hubby follow up on his promise to knock my ‘fucking teeth out’ if he ever sees me again I will be left with no option but to report him to The Muslim Brotherhood. Don’t make me do it, Vijay.
Feeling shaken and threatened by such unreasonable behaviour I exited immediately before the Japanee came at me with another Karate chop or the three black lads tried to pop a cap in my bottom. It speaks volumes about the damage stand-up comedy is inflicting on the world that all it takes is a long-haired comic to radicalise oppressed POCs into becoming spiteful bigots so prone to hatred and abuse they might as well be white. But from Lewis CK to John Cheese, everywhere you look a privileged male ‘funnyman’ is abusing the freedom to say what the hell he likes no matter many New Statesperson columnists it offends.
Thankfully the tide is turning, and last week a brave reporter from The Vice followed my lead by going undercover at notorious alt-right open mic night Comedy Unbound, a weekly festival of hate organised by Andrew Doylem, the self-hating homosexual behind tired SJW spoof Titania McGhee.
Held at a top secret location in London – deliberately chosen for its uncanny resemblance to those Dusseldorf beerhalls the Nazis used to smash up for playing R&B – the night was as eyepoppingly right-wing as you’d expect. Thankfully, since being exposed by The Vice, Doylem’s club has received a barrage of condemnation from hundreds of educated progressives who’ve never actually been to it. Indeed, the fact that most of the comics who’ve performed there aren’t even right-wing was cleverly ignored by all the brave liberals sticking their heads above the parapet to tell everyone how racist it is.
As well as the endless parade of conservative brutes cracking ‘topical’ gags about how awesome that ginger Nazi in the Shite House is, the celebrity guests given the VIP treatment were a veritable Who’s Who? of modern fascism, with Paul, Joseph & Watson and Toby Jones spotted guzzling fried chicken with Mick Griffin and the ghost of Hitler.
All of whom fit in perfectly with the grubby clientele: a sordid assortment of Tories, Incel Ultras, and heartless entitled bastards who think being white and cis-gendered gives them a god given right to pay money to laugh at jokes. And it’s thanks to these giggling ghouls that monstrous MELTS like Sadowitz are allowed to earn a living saying amusing sentences to people who want to hear them. Capitalism in all its vulgar glory. Meanwhile, thanks to the proliferation of alt-right comics clogging up the circuit, genuinely funny comedians – i.e left-wing ones – are denied the chance to shine and forced to make ends meet by slumming it on hugely popular nationally syndicated panel shows.
Still, at least we have brave allies like myself and that queer from The Vice risking our lives on the frontline, exposing the horror of modern stand-up using facts, reportage, and bare-faced lies. In the meantime let’s leave the last word to hilarious Kiwi comic Nanette Gadsby, who electrified social media last year by taking the dark, experimental, joke-free stand-up pioneered by Stuart Lee and re-packaging it for woke perverts with blue hair. Her simple but devastating wisdom offers a beautiful vision of how exciting modern comedy could be if it were cleansed of dangerous bigots like Sadowitz and Doylem: