The Boo Bradleys


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


By Ben Pensant.

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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


An Open Letter To Working-Class Women

Sacked walk-on girls arrive for their first day at re-education camp.

By Ben Pensant

Dear ladies. Dear, dear ladies.

I know what you’re thinking: Who is this impeccably mannered progressive? Why does he use such big words? And what the bloomin’ hell is an open letter?

All good questions, sisters, but nothing to worry your pretty heads about. (Though for the record: 1. It’s me! 2. I use them because I’m clever 3. An open letter is a quaint custom popularised by The Guardian as a platform for fuck-witted comedians to hold intellectual dick-waving contests with the two blokes out of Creepshow.)

Because now the dust has settled it’s time to let your metaphorical cool auntie take over. That your little dalliance with independence didn’t work out is nothing to be ashamed of: when uneducated women think for themselves bad shit happens. It’s a fact of life. No-one blames you for it and it’s not worth fretting over. Seriously, we got this.

And frankly you have enough on your Jade Goody commemorative plates at the minute, what with watching Jeremy Kyle, shoplifting from Aldi and braying the shite out of your multi-coloured feral children. Life is grimmer than ever for working-class women, though mercifully not half as grim as that endured by news readers and Hollywood actresses, forced to survive on a few hundred grand a year while their male counterparts rake in twice as much just because they were born without a working fanny.

But your lot has suddenly become just as difficult, especially those of you lucky enough to have crawled out from under the weight of Turkey Twizzlers to find gainful employment looking pretty and flashing your tits. I’ve no doubt you watched in dismay as your jobs vanished overnight, bringing joy to middle-class feminists who spend their lives railing against self-hating women for having the temerity to work where the hell they like.

So on behalf of those middle-class feminists, their middle-class allies and the middle-class media I’d like to say to the grid girls, walk-on tarts and yo-yo-knickered toastmistresses whose sudden unemployment was celebrated far and wide: Thank you. Sincerely.

Because words can’t express how grateful we are that you let your livelihoods and human rights take a hit in the name of social progress. And as anyone who’s spent more than five minutes on Twitter knows all too well, there is no social progress more important than putting a stop to women doing jobs that liberals disapprove of.

Which us why we owe a huge debt to you sweet, simple women for risking your mortgages and Ella subscriptions to bring happiness to strangers who know as much about your jobs as I do about knitting wooly hats shaped like piss-flaps.

And let’s face it, the feminists who’ve spent the last fortnight crapping all over your freedom of choice aren’t likely to suffer for the cause. They’re far too important to risk their own incomes, much like journalists with privately educated children who campaign enthusiastically for unlimited immigration, safe in the knowledge it won’t affect their kids’ class sizes.

No, it would be a national catastrophe if bourgeois leftists started losing their jobs, which is why you working-class women need to step up so we don’t have to. It’s almost like an intersectional updating of Thatcherism, only decent and virtuous instead of callous and evil.

So while working-class communities felt the pain in the ’80s as jobs were lost and services slashed under the guise of saving the economy, in 2018 attractive young women are thrown under the bus to placate middle-aged Gender Studies professors still angry that no-one wants to fuck them.

And that’s what separates us contemporary progressives from the likes of Maggie. While her brutal policies were solutions to actual problems, we spend our lives solving problems that don’t exist. While she cruelly removed miners from a physically draining, highly dangerous work environment, we freed you from the tyranny of air-conditioned clubs and sun-drenched race-tracks. And while she smeared working-class trade unionists as ‘the enemy within’, we spent the last fortnight comparing you to chimney-sweeps, prostitutes and ‘shit-shovellers’.

And as many have pointed out, the benefit to the next generation of vulnerable women will be enormous, surpassing even the huge societal changes that occurred when slavery was abolished. It may not feel like it now as you turn on the telly and are informed by well-off activists that your redundancy is for the greater good, but one day you’ll realise that by ending the barbaric practice of women waving score cards you played a pivotal role in stamping out an injustice every bit as abhorrent as buying and selling human beings. Trust me: your unemployment will be worth every red letter if it hastens an era-defining turning point that will change society not one iota.

And you brave, selfless, kebab-munching women are at the centre of the whole revolution. I’m almost jealous I don’t have my own job to lose in the name of equality. Almost.

Thankfully, you’ll have no trouble finding new work. I know this because it’s been endlessly repeated by the same people who never shut up about mass unemployment, the gig economy and the horror of GPs forced to sleep in bins behind food banks, arguing with pigeons and sucking off tramps for Big Macs.

And thanks to the hysterical feminist wing of the Labour Party, you’ll soon be able to pursue that childhood dream of becoming a fork-life driver too. Or at the very least get a job on a checkout in Tesco that pays the same. Granted, neither will give you the satisfaction of earning money doing something you enjoy, nor will they offer the same wages you pulled in being a snooker hooker or baring your arse at Brands Snatch. But as you know, societal change trumps happiness and job security any day of the week.

In the meantime be grateful that as well as privileged journalists, privileged politicians have your back too, not least Harriet Harwoman and Emily Thornbirds, who recently took to TV and social media to attack a supermarket chain for paying two different rates for two different jobs. The fucking cunts.

In response to the brilliant news that Tesco are facing a £4billion lawsuit for paying warehouse staff more than check-out girls, Harriet took to Twitter to channel her inner Emily Pancake and rail against inequality:

‘Women £8 per hour at Tesco. Men £11. The equal pay uprising continues. #tescowomen #bbcwomen. Pay inequality can not survive exposure’. Indeed it can’t, and neither could her passionate and downright untrue tweet judging by the subsequent torrent of abuse she received from Tory trolls.

Predictably, they engaged in lame whataboutery by pointing out that she was comparing pay rates for two completely different jobs, as if such dangerous logic has ever had the slightest impact on those whose entire existence depends on the gender pay gap narrative.

Others brought up the fact that neither position is gender specific, with male and female employees already working in both departments. Unsurprisingly, the bullies provided not one shred of evidence to back up this claim, preferring to coast on their privilege by offering the lame ‘proof’ of lived experience and visiting supermarkets. Cowards.

Luckily, the chances of Harperson and Lady Nugget doing their own shopping or setting foot in a warehouse are about as likely as Diane Abbot winning Countdown. Which made their eagerness to exploit an environment they know sod all about even more impressive. It’s refreshing to know Labour MPs are so in touch with modern gender roles they believe only women sit behind kiosks and only men drive fork trucks.

Fork trucks which women are more than welcome to learn to drive if they fancy working nightshifts for an extra 3 quid an hour. The fact that most women would rather scan sweets and stack shelves is utterly unimportant, which explains why Harriet and Dangleberry wisely ignored such inconvenient facts and clung to the trusty meme that women are being paid less than men for doing the same work and it has to stop NOW.

Because what these right-wing loons refuse to grasp is the concept of equal value. The two jobs may require entirely different skills but only a bigot would argue one has more value than the other, as any nurse or firefighter on a third of an MP’s salary would no doubt agree.

Happily, with the court action kicking into gear there are surely happier times ahead for those oppressed ladies forced to labour for a pittance. I look forward to Tesco informing their checkout girls that as their job is now of equal value to the warehouse staff they are contractually obliged to alternate between standing behind the tab counter one week and getting up at 4am to drag heavy pallets around a cold depot the next. I can’t see that widening the gender pay gap one iota.

Neither will the potential knock-on effect of more men applying for check-out jobs now that they pay an extra 20-odd quid a shift. Because any idiot can see this will be offset by the huge amount of women who will go the other way, free at last to fulfil their destiny of loading crates of baked beans onto wagons while freezing their twats off. Fingers crossed the trend spreads and ballsy women start taking over other traditionally male dominated fields such as crab fishing, sewage control, waste collection and high-rise window cleaning. (Though it’s important we tackle gross inequality in the boardroom first. Paris wasn’t built in a day, sisters.)

But I know what you’re thinking: What if it doesn’t happen due to the patriarchy or something? What if our misogynist society fights tooth and nail to scupper this long overdue revolution? What if the only noticeable effect on the pay gap is that it gets bigger because greedy men start taking all the well-paid check-out jobs? Well, my answer to all three questions is the same: Hallelujah!

Because the last thing modern feminists want is for the gender pay gap to disappear and give them one less thing to cry about; the fact that on a like-for-like basis the gap barely exists at all is hard enough to deal with. No, it’s vital that the collective suffering of women in the most tolerant liberal democracy on the planet continues for at least another century.

In the meantime, working-class women, just keep doing the dirty jobs so Oxford graduates don’t have to, sacrificing your independence in the name of ideology and remembering your place in the hierarchy before embarking on offensive careers that middle-class feminists know bugger all about but have decided are problematic anyway.

With a bit of luck a few thousand more of you will lose your jobs before the year’s out. Because every war needs casualties and we couldn’t ask for a better gaggle of grunts to lay down their lives on the intersectional frontline.

Thank you for your service.

Deconstructing Woody

Woody and Moses, yesterday.

By Ben Pensant

From inventing a racism epidemic by pretending hate crime reports are the same as convictions to demanding heads roll because a researcher claims an MP once leered at her while she ate a Pepperami, modern progressives love nothing more than taking a huge shit on due process. Luckily, while our legal system stubbornly refuses to imprison people just because Twitter tells them to, the rest of us have marched on towards a bright future in which the power to determine guilt rests with hysterical leftists rather than coffin-dodging judges.

But there’s still work to be done. Because while reports of hate crime have risen, prosecutions have dropped. Nightmare. Predictably, Tory trolls argued this proved the spike was due to lily-livered liberals contacting the police because they overheard a schoolboy call his mate queer, when any idiot knows it’s clearly because racist cops refuse to take hatred seriously. Despite the fact that they’ve gone out of their way to re-define everything from Nigel Farage tweets to knock-knock jokes as violent assaults on par with a knife in the cheek.

So it’s left to us to act as judge and jury. (And executioner if needed. Just sayin’.) Sadly, some still don’t get it. So for every brave Labour MP who reacts to being accused of an unspecified crime by doing the decent thing and hanging himself, there are millions of privileged white males rubbing their victims’ noses in it, whining about their ‘right’ to a fair trial. And few are as privileged as four-eyed kiddy-fiddler Woody Allen.

For 25 years sick Allen has avoided prison just because there is virtually no evidence to back up the claim that he molested his 7-year-old daughter. Indeed, anyone with an hour to spare can easily find a wealth of information supporting the misogynist theory that Mia Farrow made the whole thing up. Needless to say, these heinous sources should be avoided like a plague of Blairites.

As those familiar with the narrative know, the only articles you need to read are those written by Ronan Farrow, the only legal mind whose opinion is worth a dime is Frank S. Maco, and the only victim you should ever believe is Dylan Farrow. Exposing yourself to anything that contradicts the ‘Woody Is A Paedo’ meme is highly dangerous. Luckily, few of us do. Indeed, most of social media is convinced that in 1992, while visiting the home of the woman he had just acrimoniously split up with, Allen suddenly decided to throw caution to the wind and drag his daughter upstairs to sexually assault her. In full view of several children, nannies and people who hated him.

But it’s not just the Mary Whitehouse mob who are determined to see a man they know nothing about spend his remaining years presumed guilty of one of the worst crimes imaginable. Brilliantly, a raft of movie stars and Moira Sorvino have put their careers on the line and vowed never to work with Allen. Even the ones who already have.

Several steely journalists joined in too, gleefully sticking two fingers up at the same libel law they lauded when it cost Katie Hopkirk 25 grand for getting one non-binary gobshite mixed up with another. And while searching for Woody-related articles telling me what I wanted to hear I stumbled upon an extraordinary piece in the most unlikely place: evil Murdoch rag The Sun. Yes, really.

I was initially devastated to see something this full of love in a paper literally bursting with hate. But last month’s column by Lorraine Kelly was so downright virtuous it could’ve been from The New European‘If Woody Allen Wasn’t Film Royalty Sex Abuse Claims From His Daughter Would Have Ruined His Career’, screamed the subheading, slyly ignoring the fact that if Mia Farrow wasn’t film royalty no-one would have given her story the time of day.

But the article’s refusal to engage with the considerable evidence casting doubt on its entire premise earmarked Lorraine as one to watch. If she keeps it up she may even earn herself a job at The Canary come the Jezolution, just as soon as she’s finished five years of hard labour plus weekly lashes for sucking Murdoch’s cock. (Though more columns like this and her sentence may be reduced to 18 months and the odd gang-rape.)

Diving straight in, she did what most people convinced of Allen’s depravity do and presented the fact that he was never charged as proof that he should have been: ‘Allen was investigated back then but although the prosecutor declared there was “probable cause” he was never charged with anything’ she wrote, sidestepping the awkward question of why someone strongly suspected of child abuse wouldn’t be tried for it.

Thankfully the prosecutor (Frank S.Maco), covered this in 1993 when he stated he didn’t want to put Dylan through a trial. A compassionate and highly illogical claim but one that ends all discussion instantly. Because when it comes to Maco, that ‘probable cause’ line is all you need. In fact, other than doing what Lorraine did and casually quoting him without a shred of context you should avoid reading about or mentioning him at all.

Because some light research could reveal he earned a ‘stern rebuke’ from an ethics panel for making the ‘probable cause’ statement. Or that years later he modified it to ‘arguable probable cause’. Or that his reluctance to put Dylan through questioning only arose after she’d already endured months of interviews and evaluations approved by him and Mia. The same Mia who had already filmed the child for several days explaining exactly how her father had assaulted her. Is it any wonder Maco deduced the last thing she should do is give another interview to put away the monster responsible?

It’s called ‘putting the needs of the victim first’, people. But to listen to Allen’s lackies you’d think Maco realised if he went to trial his case would be exposed as having more holes than an M. Night Shalamar script. They laughably claim he only delivered his ‘probable cause’ parting shot to titilate the ‘no smoke without fire’ mob after bottling a trial he was nailed on to lose. Paranoid much?

Thankfully that same mob are all over social media, confidently asserting Allen’s guilt despite knowing as much about the case as I do about animal husbandry. And Lorraine has bought into this subculture with gusto, even citing a second legal expert as proof that the abuse took place:

‘A judge also declared Allen’s behaviour towards Dylan “grossly inappropriate” and that “measures must be taken” to protect her’. He certainly did. Not the judge at the child abuse trial, mind. That would be impossible as there was no child abuse trial. But as demonstrated by the way The Guardian shoehorn phrases like ‘alt-right’ into every single piece about professor of misogyny Jordan B. Henderson, if you mention two unrelated things in the same breath often enough they stick like glue. Likewise every social media thread about Allen is ram-packed with people who think the judge at his trial believed the director’s relationship with Dylan was ‘grossly inappropriate’ but decided to let him off anyway.

And with that it becomes part of the narrative, much like Professor Jordan’s alt-rightism, despite the fact that he couldn’t be less alt-right if he had Obama’s face tattooed on his chest. That the judge quoted by Lorraine only presided over the couple’s custody hearing is irrelevant, as is the fact that he never read the notes from the two child services investigations which concluded no abuse took place. His description of Allen’s ‘inappropriate behaviour’ meanwhile, referred to the director’s shortcomings as a parent rather than a penchant for child abuse. And his judgement that ‘steps must be taken to protect Dylan’ was seemingly informed not by concrete evidence against Allen but Mia’s unverified version of events.

All of which Lorraine expertly ignored: ‘I’m amazed anyone could hear themselves over the sound of those alarm bells ringing’ she raged, alarm bells which she neglects to mention were rung after police, doctors and social workers agreed there was no evidence any abuse had happened.

Which only emphasises how loud those bells were. Because two individuals – one who decided not to prosecute Allen and one with little knowledge of the case – are clearly more reliable than the various professionals who carried out extensive investigations. Or the other children, nannies and friends of Mia’s who were present that day and provided zero evidence that when no-one was looking Allen dragged Dylan upstairs and molested her.

Though the biggest alarm of all was Allen’s ‘sordid’ relationship with his wife. As Loraine put it: ‘Let’s not forget, Woody’s relationship with Farrow ended when she discovered explicit photos of 21-year-old Soon Yi, another of their adopted daughters, and realised Allen was having an affair with her’. Game, set and match as they say at Lord’s.

The fact that Soon Yi was actually Andre Previn’s daughter, was never adopted by Allen nor lived under the same roof, and according to Mia herself was ignored by Woody while growing up was wisely omitted. As was the fact that the affair didn’t begin until Soon Yi was 20. Because as we know, cheating on someone and being attracted to younger women is stone cold proof of rampant noncery.

Loraine also swerved the fact that Woody and Soon Yi have been married for 21 years and have two children, no doubt terrified of the backlash she’d receive from the Zionist lobby if she’d dared ask why New York child services allowed a paedophile to adopt a pair of vulnerable babies. It couldn’t possibly be because Soon Yi and her kids’ entire existence contradicts the popular belief that she is merely another of Allen’s victims.

Indeed the image of Soon Yi chained up in Allen’s basement and beaten regularly by her depraved stepfather is one that endures no matter how often she smiles in public: the brainwashed girl and her retarded kids, wheeled out to make their captor look respectable. He even forced her to go to university and learn several languages to maintain the illusion that she’s a perfectly normal, intelligent woman. Sick.

As is the fact that no-one other than Dylan has ever accused Allen of abuse. You think that sinister lobby I mentioned earlier would allow news of multiple allegations to get out? Dream on. Next you’ll be telling me it’s highly unlikely that a child-molester would choose that particular day to pop his paedo-cherry. As if it isn’t blatantly obvious that all the other memories of abuse were erased by one of those flashy torch things Tommy Lee Smith uses in Independence Day.

No, Allen’s unchecked power is what enabled his evil life of Riley. ‘I can’t think of anyone whose career wouldn’t have been destroyed by revelations that he’d cheated on his partner with her adopted daughter’. Me neither. And I’m also struggling to think of anyone other than a Hollywood actress whose wafer-thin story would have been easily believed by so many people.

But Lorraine had even more evidence for those too privileged to accept the truth: ‘It’s very telling that Allen’s biological son Ronan cut ties with his father’. Almost as telling as Mia’s adopted son Moses cutting ties with his mother and claiming she physically and mentally abused him. But Lorraine would rather not think about him. Because as the saying goes, believe victims. Just, y’know, believe some more than others.

So while Dylan’s tale of one implausible incident corroborated by no-one is treated as incontestable truth, Moses’s allegations – supported by witnesses – are dismissed out of hand. In fact, he’s been so thoroughly airbrushed from the story that most people don’t even know he exists. (That flashy torch thing hasn’t half been getting a hammering.)

He truly is The Boy Who Must Not Be Mentioned. And despite being the oldest child present that fateful day and repeatedly stating that no assault could have taken place he is Not To Be Believed either. No, the only siblings worth listening too are Dylan and Ronan.

Ronan, of course, is the handsome, blue-eyed reporter who was coincidentally conceived during a period when Mia admits she was still sleeping with Frank Sinatra, whom she claims she ‘never really split up’ with. Commendably, while Lorraine refers to Allen’s two-year affair as ‘selfish’ and ‘reprehensible’ she has nothing to say about Mia’s, which spanned a couple of decades. Which makes sense: if you’re going to assign diabolical motives to a man in his fifties dating a 20-year-old it’s best not to remind yourself that the woman you’re championing married a man in his fifties when she was a 20-year-old.

But Mia’s greatest gift is her cognitive dissonance, a badge of honour on the modern left. Indeed, Lorraine even praised Mia’s wonky, contradictory behaviour when paying tribute to those brave stars who vowed never to appear in Allen’s films again. (Despite the fact that there is as much – or rather, as little – evidence against the director now than there was when they all worked with him.)

‘I sincerely hope they will also stop lionising child rapist Roman Polanski, who shamefully fled the US and cowered in Europe instead of going to jail’ she wrote, cleverly forgetting that the person who has lionised Polanski most is Mia Farrow, who remained friends with the pervy Pole long after he pleaded guilty to drugging and raping a 13-year-old, even appearing as a character witness for him during a 2005 libel trial.

Of course, the fact that Polanski confessed to drugging and raping a 13-year-old is what sets him apart from liars like Allen, who shamefully protested his innocence rather than admit he’d made a daft mistake. Indeed, if Allen had only spilt the beans then gone on the run he could have spent the rest of his career receiving standing ovations from leading tinseltown feminists like Whoopie Goldblum and Dame Meryl Streep.

Mia, of course, cleverly capitalised on her friendship with Polanski recently by contacting his now middle-aged victim Samantha Geimer and apologising via social media. Clearly this selfless public gesture was all about solidarity and not at all a transparently cynical attempt to silence the critics pondering how someone whose child was sexually assaulted by a film director could spend decades supporting a film director who sexually assaulted a child.

A question which should be avoided at all costs. And it’s a measure of the internet left’s integrity that I’ve not came across one social media liberal outraged that The Sun would publish such speculative, misleading and downright false information in an attempt to smear an innocent man.

No, progressives are too busy raging against the Murdoch press for printing demonstrably true stories about 38-year-olds impersonating children or pointing out that the ubiquity of Muslim grooming gangs might just indicate the Muslim community has a problem with grooming gangs. Because any fool can see these are far worse than suggesting someone is a child abuser simply because three people say so.

And any gutless sycophant who dares suggest Allen’s guilt may not be as clear-cut as we thought is to be derided and disbelieved at all costs. Indeed, TV producer Bob Weide has written numerous pieces brimming with basic but largely unknown facts about the case, and as a result is commonly regarded as a dangerous loon.

Unsurprisingly, Weide worked on Curb My Enthusiasm starring unfunny Islamophobe Jerry David. Y’know, the other neurotic, four-eyed Zio with a penchant for younger women. Hmm, just how did a race notorious for drinking the blood of babies produce so many men who prey on vulnerable children? I wonder. Anyone unsure why Allen got away with his crimes for so long need only read up on the relentless smear campaign against Jeremy Corbyn.

What you should categorically NOT read up on is anything even remotely doubting that Woody Allen is a paedophile. In fact, once you’ve read this you should borrow that flashy memory torch and erase it immediately. Then set your laptop on fire. Anything to avoid learning that everything you believe about a man whose only crime was to have an affair is about as convincing as Ewen Farrell’s mockney accent in Allen’s creepy incest drama Cassandra & Rodney.

Because that really would be a crime.







Shout At The Neville

Gary Neville spent his first training session giving the sex-eye to Team GB’s star quarterback.


By Ben Pensant

Let’s talk about the white man. He can’t help himself can he? Coasting through life, paying for nothing, shoving his wealth in minority faces like a privileged peacock flaunting its voluminous plumage in front of a one-legged pigeon covered in sticky Tizer. But as if that wasn’t problematic enough, he now thinks he has the Allah-given right to debase social media by cracking the kind of misogynist jokes even Roy ‘Fatty’ Brown would reject for being ‘a bit fookin’ sexist, that’.

Indeed, you’d struggle to find a creature as selfish, violent and downright offensive in all seven volumes of JK Roland’s Fascistic Bastards And Where To Punch Them. And hot on the heels of Tory toff Toby Jones’ exposure as the type of beast who uses phrases like ‘penis breath’ on the internet, along comes yet another Caucasian male elevated to a position of power despite having said some naughty stuff on Twitter.

But at least we can give Toby one tiny crumb of credit: he should have known better. As an Oxford graduate he is clearly educated enough to realise how plain wrong it was to make silly comments about The Full Monty director Katie Boyle’s tits. And he will be acutely aware that penning columns expressing unpopular opinions about wheelchair ramps would one day be used against him by members of the Purity Police who’d never actually read them.

Toby’s crime was not that he didn’t realise he’d offended all decent people but that he didn’t care. A shameless contrarian, his sin was to reject the left-wing values found in every Oxford-educated actor, Labour MP or Guardian journalist who’s ever lived off a trust fund while campaigning passionately for the many not the few.

None of which can be said about white males further down the social ladder who, denied the breeding and education squandered by Toby, have no idea there is anything wrong with making jokes about how big a female backbencher’s wobblers are. Let’s face it, explaining the misogyny of Toby’s dark Twitter past to the average working-class man is like trying to pin diarrhoea to a wall: we’re talking about a creature whose idea of Doing Better is to promise his teenage wife he’ll only rape her once a week.

And as anyone who’s read the terrifying tweets sent by former Man City striker Gary Neville knows all too well, there is no nest of working-class vipers more poisonous than the world of soccer. For readers who wisely avoid a sport watched and played by racist sex-pests who can’t read, Neville was recently handed the job of managing the Great Britain ladies’ team. As tends to happen, before he had time to lace up his boots someone had unearthed a horrific ‘quip’ he made online in 2011, the content of which is not for the faint-hearted: (Readers of a nervous Mary Whitehouse disposition may want to skip the next paragraph in case they get so outraged they shit their legs off.)

“When I said morning men I thought the women would of been busy preparing breakfast/getting kids ready/making the beds – sorry morning women!”

Sickening. So sickening that on first reading I was that sickened I didn’t even notice the poor grammar and punctuation. Or that it scans about as smoothly as a Richy Wire lyric about the link between Stalinism and housework sung backwards by a tramp. But Neville wasn’t finished, verbally assaulting his own sister Tracey the same year after she admonished the tight-arsed millionaire for forcing her to go halfers on a meal:

“U women of always wanted equality until it comes to paying the bills #hypocrites”

Jesus. I dread to think what kind of bullying this poor girl was subjected to while growing up with such an animal. And doubtless the regular beatings she received from Neville and his younger brother Neville left the kind of mental scars white males like Neville and Neville have been inflicting on innocent victims like Neville since time immortal.

Needless to say, Neville pulled the Get Out Of Jail Free card beloved of supremacists everywhere and claimed his vile, poorly worded tweets were ‘jokes’. Yes, Gary, much like Harvey Weinstein was just having a laugh when he forced women to watch him wank off into plant-pots and Hitler was merely pulling the legs of the six million Jews he sent to gas chambers. (Right after he went mad and invented Zionism, obvs.)

And his defence that he was ‘only joking’ is particularly unconvincing when you realise he once targeted the mother of his children too:

“Relax I’m back chilled – just battered the wife!!! Feel better now!”

Wow. Well done, Gary. In one tweet you contrived to alert the world to your secret life as a domestic abuser AND pen a one-liner ten times less amusing than Die Hard star Mel Gibson telling his ex-wife she deserved to get ‘raped by a pack of niggers’.

But even worse, in a grim example of the psychological hold violent white men have over their victims, Neville’s brainwashed wife Judy leapt to his defence with surely the worst case of Stackhouse Syndrome since Patty Smith was kidnapped by the Michigan Militia. Calling her brutal captor ‘a wonderful husband and father’ she said she ‘could not be prouder’ of him, the dark combination of crippling fear and internalised misogyny clearly blinding the poor woman to her husband’s evil.

I’ve no doubt Neville stood over his tearful wife as she wrote those hollow words, handful of hair in one fist and a tyre iron in the other. There’s no other explanation for such irrational behaviour. Unless you’re one of her hubby’s legion of alt-right apologists who think Julia might just know her partner of twenty years considerably better than a hysterical mob of Mary Whitehouse devotees who hadn’t heard of him a week ago.

Thankfully, those mobsters were out on force on social media, demanding Neville be sacked with a level of passion and principle not seen since the last time they demanded someone be sacked for saying something they didn’t like. And they were commendably backed up by important figures from women’s soccer, some of whom’s names the pitchfork-wielders even knew.

Because being involved with, having an interest in, or even knowing the slightest thing about the subject you’re outraged by is of no interest to the permanently offended. You think the middle-class liberals celebrating the World Darts Federation’s decision to stop using walk-on girls would be seen dead watching overweight lager louts throw arrows at a wall while half-naked women wearing paper crowns feed them Silk Cuts and Scampi Fries? No chance. But we’ll happily go out of our way to try and stop it if there are virtue points on the table.

Similarly, you can’t simply say that Gary Neville lacks the neccessary experience to be an international manager. No, you have to say he’s totally unsuitable due to being a rampant misogynist. And you can’t just say that you believe a female football team should have a female manager. No, you have to claim the decision is part of a widespread conspiracy to keep women in their place by overloooking them in favour of a hateful chauvinist who thinks it’s funny to rob and beat up female relatives.

Because the smug satisfaction of knowing someone has been punished for wrongspeak is the modern left’s bread and butter. And the people actually affected by our principled hounding campaigns? Utterly irrelevant; any idiot knows the feelings of a handful of social media curtain-twitchers are far more important.

Feelings which were trampled all over by FIFA, who yesterday confirmed that Neville would remain as Team GB manager despite our best efforts to have him banished from public life forever. Hmm, I wonder what tipped the balance for this milky-skinned, Y chromosome millionaire? It’s a mystery…

Meanwhile, people who would have a heart attack if they spent five minutes in a football stadium have to live with knowing that terrified women are spending their days on muddy fields being rugby tackled by a wife-beating brute with Bernard Manning’s joke-book stuffed down his shorts.

Needless to say, Neville called the job ‘the ultimate’. I can’t for the life of me think why a sexist oaf would say such a thing about a role that involves mansplaining and hanging out in women’s changing rooms. Another mystery…

But there’s no mystery as to what drives Neville to walk this earth doing and saying whatever he likes: his penis and pigmentation are all the evidence you need. And once again, the legacy of colonialism has handed an open goal to yet another white man who takes what he wants without a second thought for those less privileged. Back of the net, as they say at Lord’s.

Still, at least once St Jezza re-takes this godforsaken country we’ll mercifully see the back of such entitled behaviour. It’s not like the modern Labour Party would ever give a woman’s role to a misogynist, is it?


You Khannot Be Serious!

The UK’s new anti-extremism tsar, apparently.


By Ben Pensant

Are there any depths this godforsaken government won’t sink to? Not content with squatting in Prime Minster Corbyn’s living room, awarding generous backhanders to failed construction giant Marillion, and forcing Britain to exit the EU just because more people voted Leave than Remain, they’ve now opted to insult peaceful Muslims everywhere by appointing an ‘anti-extremism tsar’. Just as hate crime soars to epidemic levels. Priceless.

But even worse, Theresa May has decided not to give the job to a principled representative of the Islamic faith like Ashgar Bukakke or Cherie Blair’s mam, but instead award it to self-hating Islamophobe Sarah Khan. That’s right, they’ve not only created an entire bureau dedicated to persecuting Muslims they’ve also decided it should be run by that gobby wife off Loose Women.

They’re just trolling us now, aren’t they?

Because that’s the only possible explanation for this ludicrous decision. Which comes barely a fortnight since Cathy Newperson demonstrated what a real female role model looks like, by defeating alt-right bully Kevin B. Peterson with the most glorious deployment of the straw-man argument since a Guardian reporter asked Winston Churchill after his ‘fight them on the beaches’ speech: ‘So what you’re saying is the next time we’re in Tenerife we should beat up the first lucky-lucky man who tries to sell us two Rolexes for a tenner?’

Predictably, Cathy was subjected to a torrent of misogynist abuse for daring to ignore virtually everything Peterson said, including threats so serious that Channel 5 refused to tell anyone what they were. Well played, righties. As if it wasn’t traumatic enough that a poor woman’s entire world view was destroyed by a crumpled academic who sounds like Kermit The Frog.

And did the government step in to do something about the bile directed at Cathy? Did they balls. These Tory titweasels would rather offer a cushy job to a daytime telly star who spends her afternoons slagging off her dopey husband than protect an intelligent Oxford graduate whose response to being called an arsehole on Twitter is to ring MI5.

But if you thought potato-faced sex-pest Tony Young was woefully underqualified to join a regulatory board no-one outside of Westminster gives two shits about, wait ’til you get a load of Sarah, otherwise known as ‘the right kind of Muslim’. Not a marginalised Muslim, or a radicalised Muslim, or any other kind of Muslim who refuses to sell out their faith in the name of integration. No, Sarah’s a moderate Muslim. Or as her estranged brother the Mayor Of London would say, an Uncle Tom.

Oh hang on, I forgot: she’s also in an Islamic girl-group called Inspire. I do apologise. Let’s all throw garlands at the feet of these little pop princesses for steering young Muslims away from extremism through the power of song. How nice of them to use inappropriate outfits and a name that sounds like a shit deodorant to coerce their brothers and sisters into bowing down to white supremacy. Sarah’s mother Chaka must be so proud.

Of course it will surprise no-one to learn that Sarah got her big break by winning The Candidate, a TV show invented by none other than Donald Trump. And I imagine he’s pleased as punch with her career, another subservient House Muslim to go with Maajid Johnson and Diane Hirsi Ali. But Sarah is arguably even more shameful than those two, exploiting the anodyne arena of daytime TV to spread her Islamophobic poison.

Not that I expect to find much in the way of social justice on Loose Women. Despite being a key member of their audience demographic due to spending most weekday afternoons sprawled on a settee, I wouldn’t lower myself to watch this disposable trash if you paid me. (Though I’d be willing to negotiate if that payment came in the form of coffee and warm blankets.)

But as I wrote in For Those About To Mock, my popular piece on the Lewis Smith scandal of October 2016, even television designed for idiots can occasionally hit the right notes. Which Mandy Dingle and Janet Street Preacher proved tenfold when they ambushed an Olympic athlete to blame him for the death threats he received after being caught on camera arsing about on a rug.

Sarah, however, has little time for such principled probing, preferring to abuse her platform to bang on about FGM. As if a child having her vagina mutilated is as remotely abhorrent as a young man at a wedding putting on a silly voice and pretending to pray.

Thankfully, Sarah’s appointment was met with horror by a principled coalition of Islamists and Islamist apologists – otherwise known as the Muslim Council Of Britain and the Labour Party. Indeed, it’s a measure of their decency that the same people who would accuse others of incitement for mentioning Islam and terrorism in the same sentence think nothing of publicly attacking a liberal Muslim and putting a huge target on her forehead.

And they were able backed by Baroness Warsaw, who chipped in to condemn the appointment as ‘deeply disturbing’. Baroness, you may recall, made a name for herself as a friend of Palestine and as a result is literally the only Tory who won’t be hung, drawn and quartered on Hyde Park when the Day Of Jezzajudgement arrives. (A year of scrubbing floors on the Thames floating gulag interspersed with weekly gang-rapes overseen by an assortment of Absolute Boys should be punishment enough.)

She also earned props for her objection to the despicable Prevent strategy, that foul initiative which unfairly targets Islamic terrorism as a major cause for concern simply because most terrorists are followers of Islam. Needless to say Sarah is a long time champion of Prevent, which explains her eagerness to combine moaning about cellulite on ITV with helping the most fascist government in UK history persecute her own people. Nice.

And now, thanks to the Tories going all-out to tighten their grip on this most marginalised of communities, she’ll be able to persecute them full-time. Well done, Mrs May. What next, Tommy Robertson appointed Minister For Diversity?

Give these bastards an inch and they don’t just take a mile, they force you to walk it wearing nothing but socks while throwing nettles at your bell-end. Still, much like Sarah’s hero Trump – who showed that being a racist reality star is no barrier whatsoever to pursuing a career in politics – fingers crossed Sarah’s fifteen minutes of fame will expose her deeply problematic views, alerting the world to the uncomfortable truth of this dangerous, contradictory character:

A Muslim who hates Muslims.

An extremist fighting extremism.

A scholar, CEO and human rights campaigner who spends her days off grassing up Muslims, getting her kit off in Bollywood scud movies and pimping out her bald husband on live television.

Would the real Sarah Khan please stand up?

The Reel Thing: Three Billboards…

Three Billboards, two racists.


In part one of a new series scouring the latest cinema releases for stuff to be outraged by, I cast my intersectional eye over 2018’s most problematic Oscar contender.

There’s so much wrong with Three Billboards Outside Epping Forest I don’t know where to begin. From offensive dialogue featuring more ‘fags’, ‘cunts’ and ‘niggers’ than a ‘Fatty’ Brown box-set to the fact that it’s a story about rape and murder written by a man who’s never been raped or murdered, its relentless assault on liberal values has rightly appalled Gender Studies graduates everywhere.

The movie draws first blood from the off and continues to punch down for two tortuous hours. In a damning indictment of the film’s repugnance, the deeply problematic opening features a woman in overalls bullying a ginger-nut while dropping C-bombs left, right and centre yet still manages to be one of the movie’s least offensive scenes.

Indeed, listening to every overwritten line of dialogue in Malcolm McDonald’s festival of filth is akin to being severely beaten by a chatty Trump supporter who insists on repeating every jackboot to the head in case your skull didn’t quite catch it first, second and third time.

But it’s not just the violent language that make Three Billiards the most politically incorrect film since 1992’s paean to police brutality The Boys In Black. (And at least Hollywood had the decency to re-make that dangerous piece of fascist propaganda twenty years later as a diverse summer blockbuster, replacing original stars Little & Large with Tommy Lee Smith as a sharp-suited two-headed alien.)

No, what really galls about McDonald’s movie is the arrogant way he assumes he has the freedom to not only write a racist cop but neglect to show the foul lawman being punished. Sure, Sam Roswell’s un-PC PC may get fired, beaten senseless, nearly burnt alive and forced to kiss a tortoise, but at no point do we see him being shamed on social media or battered with bike-chains by fearless anti-capitalists in £250 Burberry hoodies.

Indeed, when he is sacked halfway through it’s not because of his ugly views but because he throws someone out of a window, propagating the dangerous idea that punching a man several times and hurling him through a pane of glass is anywhere near as abhorrent as using the N-word.

But worse still, by the time the film mercifully ends we are expected to believe this bigot has become the good guy. That’s right, McDonald is so in thrall to white supremacy he demands his audience sympathise with a redneck piss-head who tortures black suspects and uses the word ‘midget’ to describe a midget.

That’s right, just because McDonald is a Trump supporter hiding in plain sight – surely sufficient grounds for a lifelong Hollywood ban? – he seems to think it entitles him to create a fictional character who isn’t a very nice person. Then has the nerve to suggest this not very nice fictional person might have become a marginally nicer fictional person, as if ignorance and prejudice can just be switched off and all it takes is a fictional woman’s invitation to help her murder a sex-pest and all will forgiven.

Which brings us to the film’s greatest sin: the ending. Or as it is now surely known in liberal circles, ‘The biggest fuck you to #MeToo since the Poundland rape-pixie forced its teabag-testes down a dead doll’s throat’. Because it didn’t just rankle due to the fact that it defied logic, stretched credibility and punished those of us who can’t hold a piss in beyond 90 minutes. No, far, far worse was the manipulative manner in which it offered the audience a glimmer of hope before trampling over our dreams with the most cruel twist since that big bat thing shot Tom Jones’ son at the end of The Fog.

Because just when we’ve been fooled into thinking Rockliffe’s character has earned his redemption and is about to disregard that archaic principle known as ‘due process’ by killing a man he believes is a rapist, the rug is viciously pulled as he changes his mind. Or rather, he and his accomplice meekly imply they probably won’t carry out the murder after all, limping to an ambiguous, open-ended and cravenly spineless climax. You’d almost think he made the film for intelligent adults rather than curtain-twitching pitchfork wielders.

But this is symptomatic of the way Hollywood is being slowly infected with the cancer of Trumpism, denying a leftist audience the warm glow of leaving a theatre believing there is one less white man in the world. Instead we are left speechless as McDonald recklessly promotes that most reactionary of concepts, ‘innocent until proven guilty’. That’s right, in 2018 a privileged white male is actually trying to say a man accused of sexual assault might not be guilty. Contemptible.

Sadly this has been coming for some time, with Trump’s sinister attempts to turn the movie industry into a fascist misinformation machine pre-dating both his presidency and his career in politics. Indeed, for an early warning sign one only has to recall Billy Bigelow’s love-letter to Islamophobia, Zero Dark Chocolate.

That Trump was pulling the creative strings on this ‘factual’ account of the extrajudicial killing of Saddam Hussein is blindingly obvious. From the hysterical script repeatedly accusing innocent Islamists of terrorism to star Bryce Dallas Campbell’s cultural appropriation of numerous ethnic headscarves, the movie is practically a recruiting video for the MAGNA crowd.

And don’t even get me started on the waterboarding scenes, laughably defended by Bigelow on the grounds that because the FBI used torture during the search for Saddam that makes it perfectly acceptable to show torture in a film about the search for Saddam. Pull the other one. A moderate Muslim on a flying horse can see Trump used the political weight he wouldn’t accrue for another four years to goad the director into kidnapping a brown actor and trying to drown him on camera for a laugh.

Luckily the tide is turning, with brave tinseltown liberals putting their necks on the line and selflessly taking a stand against an abusive culture they were only too happy to ignore when it was expedient to do so. Hence the official decree that any actress who refuses to stick two fingers up at the patriarchy by wearing a black dress to an awards bash is clearly suffering from internalised misogyny and deserves to have her vagina cut off by progressive theocrat Linda Sasquatch.

Indeed, one only has to read a random Twitter thread about shifty Zionist Woody Allen to see how brilliantly the ‘Believe Victims’ mantra has consumed not only the cream of Hollywood but the absolute best of social media. And much like their Hollywood counterparts who recently decided to boycott Allen even though there is no more evidence against him now than there was when they all worked with him, cognitive dissonance and an aversion to facts is vital.

Needless to say, the stand against Allen beautifully illustrates the modern left-wing belief that spending half an hour researching a subject before commenting on it should be avoided at all costs. Who wants to have their preconceived ideas about someone dismantled by inconvenient truths when it’s far more satisfying to believe a man raped his daughter because three members of a deeply dysfunctional family say so?

Unsurprisingly, cowardly voices in the movie industry are refusing to get on board. And lo and behold, as if the racism and rape apologism of Three Billabongs wasn’t sickening enough, it also features a supporting role for…Woody Allen. Unbelievable.

I suppose the one bit of credit we can give McDonald is that he wisely cuts short the former Taxi star’s role by having his character shoot his own face off. But until that happens in real life it will be little comfort to his many victims. And despite numerous gerrymandered Oscar nominations, insiders suggest the presence of Allen has all but guaranteed this grubby little movie will end the night empty-handed.

So having already steered his wife Francis to one undeserved Oscar win in 1987 with Argo, fingers crossed McDonald’s luck has run out. After last year’s ceremony recognised, celebrated and patronised the black community it would be a travesty if all that hard-fought tokenism was shat on by the academy choosing to honour a disgusting piece of alt-right propaganda.

Stick THAT on a billboard, Missouri.



Glorified G


By Ben Pensant

Every true liberal loves The Guardian. There’s been surveys and everything. Sure, the relationship between principled progressives and Britain’s favourite left-wing love-sheet has been somewhat rocky during the Corbyn years, and no-one has been more vociferous than me in demanding the paper’s subversive elements are dealt with in the strongest possible manner. (Or at the very least sent regular death threats on Twitter.)

But for every shameful column doubting Jezza’s brilliance or suggesting not all Leave voters are cross-eyed racists there’ll be another ten arguing for 100% inheritance tax or exposing the inherent racism of Thomas The Tank Engine. We may not always get along but when it’s right it’s very right and will be an important ally in Britain’s bright socialist future. Indeed, once Labour reclaim Number Ten it’ll take roughly the time needed to build a gulag and assemble a firing squad to condemn the G’s anti-Corbyn tendencies to the memory hole for good.

Sadly, it seems The Guardian as we know it may have slipped down that hole too. Because from tomorrow the paper will only be available in tabloid format. That’s right, the publication which for years prided itself on being a cut above the hate-filled red-tops will now have to face the embarrassment of being the same size of them. Which means progressives like me will be denied the smug satisfaction of opening a beach towel-sized broadsheet on the metro and pretending to read a riveting George Mondeo essay on the environmental benefits of bird-shit smoothies while covertly staring at the tits of the blue-haired feminist who gets on at Benton. (If you’re reading, sister, I’m the pale bloke with the beach towel-sized broadsheet who regularly pretends to read riveting George Mondeo essays while covertly staring at your tits. Fancy a bird-shit smoothy some time?)

All of which made my blood boil. Because as well as giving me one less way to fool strangers on public transport into thinking I’m more intelligent than them, the very real fear that a Bovril-slurping cretin who usually buys The Scum or The Daily Heil might accidentally pick up a copy made me ill. Not least because it will inevitably end up plastered over their broken living room window once they realise it contains neither Aldi coupons nor pictures of frail reality stars falling out of taxis with no knickers on. (Unless the G2 section happens to feature an interview with ironic Tory Tracey Emin.)

But as uncomfortable as I was with my beloved daily being read by white van drivers with tabs behind their ears and hate-crime on their minds, once I’d got over the shock I realised this could actually be a positive. Because the working-class – specifically the Brexit-voting variety – are notoriously stupid and gullible. Indeed, their capacity for believing any old shite is legendary, unlike those well-read, street-wise Remainers who a fortnight ago were convinced it costs £500 million to change the colour of a passport.

And while their stupidity should rightly bar them from voting in referendums or working at the BBC, it could also be a fantastic bonus. We already have a significant cross-section of stupid young people on board, most of whom went to good schools and know how to use knives and forks: imagine how easy it would be to mould the brains of stupid adults whose idea of a classy night in is a bottle of a Lambrini and an ounce of skag?

Perhaps making The Guardian accessible to the revolting specimens who clog up our decimated high streets gnawing on chicken bones is a smart move. Can you think of anyone more easy to indoctrinate with far-left ideology than the educationally sub-normal? And the benefit to society would be massive too, as brainwashing these impressionable goons in the ways of the left would keep them off the streets and stop them raping children. Or even better, stop them forcing innocent Muslim men to rape children.

Because as socialist firebrand Lee Jasper pointed out last week, the ‘Asian’ rape gangs would never have dreamed of abusing children if the white working-class hadn’t goaded them into it. As the northern native put it: ‘My own view is that we groomed Pakistani men into this aspect of working-class culture’ Hear hear. Because any idiot knows, Muslims are never responsible for anything they do, unless it’s something good like winning a bakery competition. To the likes of Jasper, Muslim men are pathetic, impressionable creatures so uniquely susceptible to raping teenage girls that all it takes is the existence of non-Muslim men raping teenage girls to turn them all into paedophiles.

‘Sexual violence and abuse remains rife in poor communities’ he warned, though clearly not in the poor communities where hundreds of Muslim men were found guilty of sexual violence and abuse. (And anyone who says otherwise is a racist Islamophobe like that ghastly Champion woman with the Dicky Davis hair.) The difference is that when poor white men are found guilty of raping teenage girls they rarely have excuses made for them by defiantly deluded leftists so out of touch even the Labour party won’t have him. And the reason, of course, is there are no excuses – it’s just what white people do. Especially the working-class ones.

Still, at least Jasper had the balls to acknowledge his own culpability – note the ‘we’ in his original statement. Not many failed politicians have the guts to admit they were one of the people who forced all those Muslim men to rape kids. Let’s hope he reports himself to the police before he does it again.

But the fact that Jasper was brought up surrounded by vermin yet forged a successful career as a political outcast shows just how easy it is to convert even the most moronic of proles. And with the right staff there’s no reason The Guardian can’t use their downsizing to help transform more of these ill-educated beasts into compliant leftists.

A useful move would be to utilise allies from the down-market end of left-wing media, such as Kevin Maguire of The Daily Mirror. Kev, of course, ticks all the right regressive boxes: terror apologist, die-hard Corbynite, pro-EU zealot, and one of the esteemed group of principled hypocrites who criticise people for sending their kids to private school despite sending their kids to private school.

Like many Guardian columnists and Labour ministers, Kev is also against grammar schools even though he went to one himself, demonstrating the sleek cognitive dissonance which these days all but guarantees a job at the G. Indeed, take away Kev’s pit-yacker accent and he’s basically Polly Toynbee with a smaller cock.

Polly, of course, geared up for the big Guardian re-brand by appearing on TV and spouting her usual hysterical propaganda, clearly dreaming of a lucrative future as the metropolitan Katie Hopkins so she can eventually afford that fifth home she’s always dreamed of. Her appearance on The Andrew Mars Breakfast Show a week ago was characterised by the same principled hypocrisy displayed by Kev, as she claimed evil boob-obsessive Toby Young only set up a free school so he could send his kids to it.

Predictably she was bullied by her fellow guest, Punch editor and Tory troll Lee Nelson, who pathetically pointed out this was better than sending his kids to a private school like she did. But Polly wasn’t going to play this charlatan’s game and responded to his comment in the manner we’d expect: by ignoring it. Indeed, the only time you’re guaranteed to see a Guardian writer obfuscate in such a brilliant manner is when someone brings up the paper’s equally evasive approach to paying tax.

Of course not all Guardianistas are as seasoned as Polly, and young bruisers like Abi Williamson and her big sister Owen Jones will have to get used to grappling with unsavoury chancers like Nelson now that they write for a shitty tabloid. Still, those two virtue-magnets can put their hands to anything and I fully believe in a few weeks we’ll have forgotten The Guardian was once a serious broadsheet and embraced its bright future as an out-of-touch caricature with as much moral authority as a six-hour opera about Myra Hindley’s love life.

It’s just a shame this didn’t happen two weeks ago as the Young scandal broke. Imagine what cheeky fun the G could have had splashing Toby’s leering, jacket potato features all over their front pages? They could have even updated the 1996 outrage over Blur’s ‘The Es And Whizz Don’t Work’ single by adding a simple rhyming twist to The Daily Star‘s classic ‘Ban This Sick Stunt!’ headline.

Still, with more battles to come there’ll be ample opportunity for self-righteous moral outrage. For now, there’s never been a better time for the left-wing media to forget subtlety, embrace populism and deploy every underhand tactic from phone hacking to journalists dressed as sheiks to promote liberal values and force as many people out of their jobs as possible.

In the meantime, I’m confident the list of suggestions I sent to Guardian editor Barbara Viner will be acted upon, despite the disrespectful lack of a reply. Fingers crossed we’ll soon be treated to Jeremy Corbyn’s weekly agony aunt column, Dear Leader. And with a bit of luck it won’t be long before we see the first transgender Page Three girl. In a burqa.