Friends With No Benefits


Just one of the grisly exhibits at Friends Fest 2018.

By Ben Pensant

Two weeks ago Theresa May visited Newcastle. Yes, really. Not content with squatting in PM Jezza’s house for the past twelve months she also shits all over his proud history by delivering a sermon to the proles from the same venue that hosted one of his greatest triumphs.

Indeed, the assorted resting actors, non-binary creatives and unemployed craft beer entrepreneurs who witnessed Jezza’s triumphant rally on the Sagebrush carpark last year are known to speak of it in the same reverential tones as ageing punks reminiscing about that seminal Clash gig at the Soho Hippodrome in ’79.

Freya, a young friend from the Communist Party of Lowfell, summed up Corbyn’s speech in the starstruck manner you’d expect from a turbo-woke millennial with purple hair and a chronic painkiller addiction: “He was like ‘yeah!’ and I was like ‘yeah!’ and we were all like ‘yeah!'”. In fact, Freya confessed to me she was so bowled over by Jezza’s spine-tingling performance she celebrated by rushing home and sucking her own cock.

I bumped into another comrade that night who was still staggering around in a euphoric daze an hour after Corbyn had left the stage to a 20 minute ovation. Marcus told me had no idea what he’d just witnessed but knew he had to write a song about it. “Is this what heaven tastes like?” he mumbled between mouthfuls of mungbean tea, smirking deliriously as the ethically correct beverage dripped down his elongated chin.

Thousands turn out for Jezza’s seminal speech at the Sagebrush Arena

We hugged, Marcus assuring me of his commitment to crushing capitalism before adjusting his GoPro, fastening his Kashmir scarf, and hurtling down the road as fast as his Trek Madone 7 could carry him. (He would’ve stayed for the aftershow poetry session but had to be up at 11 o’clock sharp to show an Iranian diplomat and his 12-year-old mistress around the Baltic.)

But most memorable of all was the call-to-arms from the gravel-voiced immigrant orbiting the hypnotised crowd from a lamp-post while gargling with warm Merrydown, who yelled ‘AM GANNA FUGGIN BRAY THE BAZDA LORRAYUZ!!’ to rapturous applause before pissing on the back row’s rucksacks.

I’ve no idea what language this brave open borders enthusiast was speaking, nor do I understand the symbolism of the broken bottle wedged down his yellowy-brown underpants. (The temptation for grown men to shed their clothes in Jezza’s presence can be quite overwhelming). But Corbyn’s gift is his ability to turn weather-beaten middle-aged blokes into quivering wrecks, with little time for such fascist concepts as ‘words’ and ‘sentences’.

This swarthy traveller – let’s call him Ibrahim – almost stole the show, with his shaven head, olive skin, and satirical tattoos of tits and swastikas. And I’m certain he spent that night beaming with pride, albeit through mouthfuls of blood and broken teeth after jumping off the lamppost and smashing his face off the tarmac. Few of the lucky socialists present will forget the roar that went up as he tried in vain to kick the paramedic with his shattered ankle.

All of which underlines what a sick joke it was to allow such an iconic location to be soiled by Mavis May and her alt-right shit-show, designed to convince working-class wank-stains that Brexit isn’t the worst disaster since the Black Death but actually jolly super. The shame of knowing my home town had thrown down the welcome mat for this lying hag was almost as great that time I accidentally called Jacob Rees-Moog a man instead of a cunt.

The same crowd turn out once again to protest Theresa May.

Thankfully she was gone by nightfall, sent packing by the die-hard Corbynites who sacrificed an afternoon of shut-eye to don duffel coats and wave banners. Sadly, wicked May bribed the local press to publish cropped photos giving the impression barely anyone turned up. So rather than a huge crowd of courageous protesters, Chronicle readers were led to believe the demo consisted of two drama students, three Islamists, and that short-arsed orange-haired yank who looks like Tommy Pesci in JFK, wears a beige flasher-mac, and can be seen lurking in frame every time Corbyn is snapped ‘oop north. (BTW, Jez, he sends his love and apologises for what happened at your hotel in York. He hopes the lovely Laura wasn’t too disturbed to be awoke at 3am by a naked man crying, though perhaps you should tell her it goes against the spirit of socialism to keep someone so awesome all to herself. He’ll tell you all about it in person once he gets released.)

Sadly, the ink had barely dried on my incendiary ‘TAXI FOR THERESA!’ banner before an even more rotten freakshow rocked up, striking fear into the hearts of frigid Gender Studies professors everywhere. For that very same week, Friends Fest came to town.

Or rather, ‘Fascist Fest’. For the uninitiated, Friends was a white supremacist ‘sitcom’ that debuted on Channel 5 in 1992, turning a generation of vulnerable youngsters into racist, fat-shaming, transphobic, misogynists. I was 14 when it first aired but mercifully avoided indoctrination as I was too busy reading Marx and Ingles to watch a gang of rich white people sexually assault each other. Though I do recall lying in bed, trembling as my racist parents guffawed at the endless gags about foreigners and sang along with the godawful theme tune: ‘You wanna go where everybody knows you’re white…’

Channel 5 even had the nerve to schedule it on Saturday nights after the equally vile Fraser, which shamefully attempted to mine laughs from a Republican (Kelsey Grandma), his queer stereotype brother, and a crippled, corrupt cop. They even gave tried to normalise the latter by giving him a talking dog, for fuck’s sake.

Meanwhile Friends ran for a whole decade, warping young minds with its sordid blend of offensive jokes and Zionist propaganda, before being put out of its misery in 2006 when a new generation of Guardian journalists decided that what was previously considered a warm, witty show about as problematic as a petting zoo was actually the work of sinister gay Nazis intent on normalising eye-popping wisecracks about G-spots and sandwiches.

That the show featured a running gag about a character’s refusal to share food sums up its selfish, uber-capitalist mindset. And it’s no coincidence that the MAGA shit-lords who cast their maiden vote two years ago were gullible teenagers when Friends was in its prime. How the NY apartment block these privileged cretins lived in survived both 9/11 and the Roverfield monster is a mystery as perplexing as ‘who stole Ash Bukakke’s shoe?’. Though having glanced at the surnames of the shows’ creators, it’s a knocking bet the cast and crew just happened to be told not to go to work on those fateful days.

The Friends cast pause for a group photo en route to a Klan meeting.

Due to a combination of Reaganomics, far-right fervour, and a sextet of photogenic actors just itching to be wanked over by promiscuous westerners, the show was a soaraway success, with many of its most contentious ‘jokes’ going unnoticed at the time due to the fact that in the ’90s people were really stupid.

For instance, two decades ago no-one batted an eyelid at the casting of cisgendered b********l f****e Kathy Turner as a transwoman. These days, five outraged tweets would be enough to see her replaced by a suicidal flasher with hands like shovels and a written contract stating he must be allowed to share a dressing room with Angelina Aniston.

Audiences back then also had no problem with crude jokes about overweight people and how they all all deserved to die. Today the sight of Courtney Love mugging for laughs in a rubber fat-suit would have the botox-addled actress accused of incitement and forced to express solidarity with the big-boned by eating her own weight in Space Raiders.

And most revoltingly, in the ’90s a retarded Latin beefcake winking at ladies and harassing them in coffee shops may have seemed like harmless flirtation, but in 2018 would be the equivalent of flipping a woman on her back, spreading her legs open and bellowing “How you doin’?” up her fadge.

Which makes Friends Fest all the more inappropriate. For despite belonging to a forgotten era in which people thought rich white men pretending to be gay was hilarious, someone decided now was the perfect time to rebuild the sets from the show and take them on tour. And who could blame them? With the far right rising and comedy writers thinking they can mock whoever they like, there’s never been a better time to spread some nastiness. And what better place to bring this carnival of hate than Brexit Britain?

The entrance to Friends Fest was almost as disturbing as what lay within.

So after buying a bulletproof vest – after Jo Cox I take zero chances – I stole some money from my mam’s purse, nervously purchased a ticket, and made my way to Heaton Park to witness this fresh hell with my own eyes.

Approaching the site I was struck by the varied ages of attendees: children, teenagers, thirtysomethings and pensioners united by fascism. Then it hit me – they were nearly all women; the same treacherous harridans who voted for Trump and Brexit. And even worse, they were blissfully unaware of their own vulnerability.

So, mindful of the possibility that such an environment could conceivably incite me to commit four rapes before lunchtime, I immediately cleansed myself of all sexual desire by using the best method at my disposal: hiding behind a burger van and masturbating furiously three times in a row.

Amazingly, I got through it in four minutes 37 seconds – a personal record! – though it would’ve been much quicker were it not for the foul-mouthed bimbo who screamed and threw a can of Vimto at my bell-end. Luckily, her ridiculous claim that I was ‘playing’ with my ‘willy’ was given short shrift by the security guard, and despite her shock I’m sure the whole experience could prove invaluable to her when she starts big school.

Capacity to commit serious sexual assault removed, I made my way around the site taking in the micro-aggressive exhibits: a yellow taxi cab with the Indian driver erased; a settee halfway up a staircase, abandoned while the cast members wait for a black removal man; and most damning of all, that grim symbol of our money-obsessed ‘me first’ world – a coffee shop.

Central Nervosa holds its weekly anti-racism event.

Indeed, as well as fleecing unearned wealth from trust fund hipsters, this particular foul-smelling cash cow was modelled on Central Peak, the communal hub from Friends where characters would meet to discuss white power and laugh at Palestinian genocide. I won’t lie, the mental image of these brazen neo-cons slurping filthy lattes without a thought for the malaria-addled Tanzanian labourers forced to grind coffee beans with their feet brought tears to me eyes. Though luckily I managed to cheer myself up by remembering how Jezza’s ‘brother’ Abdul Aziz Umar dealt with coffee shops filled with Zionists.

Needless to say, the crowd that turned out were exclusively white. Sure, I spotted several blacks, the odd Asian, and even a couple of Muslims swanning around like slaves allowed in the big house for dinner. But much like St Jezza is politically black, these servile drones were basically white, as anyone with a liberal arts degree knows an authentic person of colour wouldn’t be able to afford a ticket.

All of which compounded the horror of this grim spectacle. Indeed, navigating the site with its grim colour scheme and painful memories I couldn’t help thinking how similar the experience was to visiting Auschwitz. The difference, of course, is that unlike the holocaust Friends actually happened.

So with trepidation I entered the main attraction: three living, breathing sets from the show. Knowing I was about to stand in the exact same spots where the most hateful images of the last twenty years were created made me nauseous, and I’m certain I’d have tipped over the edge completely were it not for the fistful of adderall I necked beforehand.

Johnny (Matt Bianco) stalks his latest prey.

First up, the ‘lad’s pad’ shared by Johnny, the aforementioned Latin sex-pest, and his wisecracking homophobic flatmate That Chandler. It goes without saying their lair is practically a shrine to misogyny, with its table football, fridge full of beer, and reclining rape chairs. Knowing how many sexual assaults took place in this fake apartment made me feel physically ill and I’d never have been able to forgive myself for setting foot in this chamber of horrors had I not drawn a cock and balls on That Chandler’s cushion. But if I though the horrendous sexism of these two alpha-males was problematic, nothing had prepared me for the yo-yo knickered sluts next door.

Monaco emerges from her dressing room having gone ten rounds with Tom Skerrit.

Because you’d struggle to find a pair of women more consumed by self hate than Racquel and Monaco. As I walked around the garish living room I winced, aghast at the multicoloured crockery, over-puffed cushions and bloodstained knickers. The thought of all the times these poor, hateful creatures were sexually exploited by everyone from Bruce Lewis to Magnum PPI brought my animal instincts to the boil, and it was only the fact that we weren’t granted access to the girls’ bedrooms that stopped me taking five minutes to re-purge myself.

Rees (David Schumer) daydreams about world domination.

Finally we ended up in possibly the most abhorrent location of the whole series, the opulent penthouse owned by lizard obsessed Jewish ‘scientist’ Rees. Needless to say, by this point I’d seen enough and no amount of plush furnishings, climate change denial essays or ornamental arab skulls could keep me in this godforsaken place any longer. Realising my delicate brain could take no more – and mindful of the suspicious glances security staff had been giving me since that 4-year-old Nazi verbally abused me behind the burger van – I bailed.

Bebe prepares to play a private gig for  her genocidal namesake Netanyahoo.

As a result I never made it to the abode of ditzy blonde Bebe, though I can only imagine what indignities existed within its walls having earlier endured her X-rated paean to promiscuity ‘Smelly Cunt’. However, I’m willing to entertain the idea that the aromatic vagina referenced in the song was a result of performative free-bleeding in which case: go girl! It’s a relief to know you aren’t all slaves to conformity.

But to anyone considering a visit to Friends Fest I have one piece of advice: don’t. If, however, you absolutely must experience the ordeal first hand I’m more than willing to help you cope with the trauma. Indeed, for the tiny sum of a warm blanket, two flasks of coffee and a three figure donation to a charity of my choosing I’ll quite literally be there for you.

Could I be more virtuous?










Good Mob, Bad Mob


Political Twitter’s 2017 Christmas do was a lively affair.


By Ben Pensant.

‘Welcome to the real world, matey boy. It’s a place where people are held accountable for what they say and do’.

In case you’re wondering, the ‘matey boy’ in the white-hot tweet above is knicker-sniffing Tory Toby Young, who recently crawled out of the sewer he’s been lurking in since that glorious week in January when his reputation was destroyed by the social media outrage machine. The author of the quote is one of the north-east’s sharpest minds, a proud liberal whose name I won’t mention as I was so bowled over by his caustic wit I forgot to write it down. And his target was the shameless stink-piece shat out by Young in the pages of alt-right hate site Quilliamette, in which the four-eyed toff bemoaned the fact that he lost a huge chunk of his income because a handful of left-wing people didn’t like some naughty jokes he made on the internet six years ago.

My heart fucking bleeds, slaphead.

The ballsy riposte was just one of hundreds that told Young where to stick his self-pity, though this one in particular cut to the core of what the modern left are all about with scalpel-like precision. Because when this proud Geordie says ‘the real world’ what he actually means is ‘Twitter’, a place where people aren’t only held accountable for what they say and do but also for what they don’t say or do. Or as Young found out, for stuff Polly Toynbee and Owen Jones pretend they say and do.

None of which bothered our truth-bomb detonating northern correspondent. An informed, educated liberal, there’s no way he would make such sweeping judgements about Young without first reading the sordid articles that sealed the bald fascist’s fate. In fact I’m certain he’ll have re-read them several times, just to be sure. Because that’s what informed, educated liberals do, dummy.

Young takes a break from thinking about breasts to toast Josef Mengele.

So it stands to reason he knows fine well Young isn’t a eugenicist, doesn’t hate the disabled, and has no desire to stop working-class students from entering higher education. He’ll be fully aware Young is none of the things he was hysterically accused of being but will have sensibly decided the vile Punch hack deserved to lose his job anyway.  That Young has helped secure scholarships for numerous kids from disadvantaged backgrounds and is a patron of the care home where his disabled brother lives will have been digested, dismissed, and deemed far less important than a snooty essay from thirty years ago or a tweet about an MP’s titties.

Because we can’t go around holding people accountable for the good stuff they say and do. Not when they’re Tory Brexiters with a habit of provoking joyless left-wingers by saying stuff they disagree with. That won’t do.

So like the thousands of other brave progressives who decided because they didn’t like Young that made him an evil misogynist intent on sterilising the homeless and bulldozing wheelchair ramps, this northern star simply ignored the decent things Toby has said and done and focused on the bad things he hasn’t. (We can discount the possibility that he actually knows bugger all about Young and just sided with the mob because Toby’s a Tory. An informed, educated liberal would never do that.)

How our hero would react to losing his livelihood because a tiny gaggle of curtain-twitching nobodies accused him of saying stuff he didn’t say isn’t clear. Nor do we know what the various painters, musicians and stylishly bearded creatives who retweeted his comment would think if it were them being publicly shamed for making lame gags about knockers. But it’s refreshing to know that those at the cutting edge of the arts are in favour of punishing people for offending polite society. And anyway, Good People don’t need to worry about being publicly shamed for making lame gags about knockers as Good People don’t make lame gags about knockers. Simples.

Or so I thought. But as illustrated by the recent witch-hunt against left-wing filmmaker Jamie Gunn, even the Good People aren’t safe…


‘Nice Guy’ Ben, yesterday.

Let’s be absolutely clear, when indie movie mogul Mike Duplass tweeted that conservative shit-stirrer Ben Chappelle was a ‘nice guy’ he crossed a line. I’ll happily admit I don’t know the slightest thing about Ben but I do know he’s a Nazi. And not just any old Nazi but a Jewish Nazi, the very worst kind. That he also wears a silly cap, moonlights as an ambulance-chasing lawyer, and is a key member of alt-right network The International Black Widows just reinforces how misguided Duplass’ endorsement was.

Needless to say, within hours the actor was hit with a barrage of justified bile, as people he didn’t know expressed their anger at the actor for having the nerve to like someone they don’t. Indeed, his problematic plea to followers to ‘cross the aisle’ and follow shifty Ben on Twitter was met with an avalanche of hatred that would have flattened lesser men. But as the insults, death threats, and petitions to boycott This Is Us mounted, Duplass found the mental strength to use the faux pas to his advantage and did the one thing guaranteed to melt leftist hearts: He caved in to the mob.

In these selfish times it takes immense courage to admit you were wrong. But it requires King Kong-sized cojones to thoroughly abase yourself for the benefit of a handful of brain-damaged pitchfork wielders you’ve never met.

So by teatime it was smiles all round as Duplass was inundated with warm wishes by the same people who hours earlier were demanding his banishment to the same tinseltown sin bin as Roseanne Connors. See, apologies are like catnip to the modern left and the Buckethead director’s courageous apology taking back everything he’d said about ‘nice guy’ Ben had left-wing social media pawing, licking, and rubbing their sex bits against it with self-righteous glee. And the party would have continued if it weren’t for well-meaning Gunn weighing in with a sterling defence of Duplass.

Mindful of the situation’s delicacy, Gunn wisely added the caveat that while he was supportive of Duplass he hated Ben Chappelle and found his politics disgraceful, just in case anyone thought the Sliver auteur was also a Nazi. Gunn understandably felt he was on safe ground, having spent the last few years being vocally anti-Trump: a courageous position for a filmmaker to hold in this current climate when only 99.9% of Hollywood agrees with you.

So his previous good behaviour was just about enough to keep the mob off his back. But what Gunn hadn’t banked on was the reaction of the other mob. For unbeknown to him, a sinister and extremely dangerous group have recently  sprung up to shamelessly rip off the principled methods of the regressive left because they’re too intellectually bankrupt to think of their own. Yes, I’m talking about that ungodly internet phenomenon, right-wing SJWs.

Some deluded ‘non-partisans’ have pathetically tried to claim this is what happens when deranged activists use illiberal tactics, that sooner or later equally deranged counterparts will pop up and start doing it too. But this piss-weak analysis ignores an important fact: these tactics are only illiberal when the right use them.

Gunn with one of the blind puppies he recently rescued from Wok This Way, Scunthorpe.

Needless to say, it  didn’t take long for Nazi spies to dig up an assortment of harmless jokes Gunn made about paedophilia, and before the ink was dry on his obligatory apology Sony’s arse fell out and they fired him as director of upcoming sci-fi comedy Defenders Of The Earth 2.

So when we were supposed to be honouring Mike Duplass for courageously bowing down to a tiny minority of left-wing freedom fighters, instead we were furious at Hollywood for gutlessly bowing down to a tiny minority of fascist fuckwits.

But the most infuriating aspect is that it was beginning to look like Hollywood was finally getting this stuff right. Sadly, mere weeks after bosses correctly removed Scarlett Johannesburg from a transgender gangster biopic because she’s never owned a cock and balls, they undo all that good work by firing a decent liberal for cracking jokes about bumming young boys. I don’t know what rankles more, the brazen inconsistency or the thought of a poor progressive’s career ruined because of some off-colour gags they once made on Twitter.

Predictably, right-wing trolls suggested there was more to the story, citing a film hosted on Gunn’s personal website which allegedly featured underage sex and was forwarded to him by a convicted paedophile. But frankly this was all hearsay and until I see the video with my own eyes I refuse to believe it exists. And please, if you have a copy don’t even think about sending me a DM on Twitter, emailing a link to, or leaving a DVD in a camouflage jiffy bag beneath the sycamore tree on Benton cemetery between the hours of 1 and 3 am. You’re wasting your time, not mine.

So this is what we’re up against. Everywhere you look, the alt-right are using our censorious tactics against us and it has to stop. NOW. Because we can’t let the best thing about social media become the absolute worst.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s undoubtedly a good thing that a grubby corner of the internet most people couldn’t give two shits about has the power to force a Hollywood studio to fire a director. And every brave Gender Studies professor who’s ever sent a furious tweet or started an online petition has successfully earned the right to be mentioned in the same breath as Malcolm Luther King and that Rosa wife who threw herself under a bus.

But when this modus operandi starts being abused by the wrong kind of people you know we’re in trouble. Public figures and companies folding under the weight of honest-to-goodness left-wing activism is admirable and necessary. Doing it because of vindictive right-wing pressure is disgusting, cowardly and a stain on society.

If we’re to preserve the noble leftist tradition of hounding people for saying stuff we don’t like we can’t allow the right to do the same. It’s an attack not only on liberal values but our Marx-given right to be raving hypocrites. And the second we allow the likes of Ken Cernovich or Mary Joseph Watson to behave exactly like us we upset the very fabric of social media. Because the last thing the world needs is for people to start doubting the importance of Political Twitter. Go down that road and before you know it they’ll realise it’s nothing more than a worthless platform for left-wing cretins to wave their cocks at right-wing cretins while trying to get each other sacked.

So by all means laugh at Toby Young, celebrate the hits taken to his bank balance, and bask in the warm glow of knowing that you contributed to a mildly right-wing gobshite being denied a seat on an educational board that no-one outside of Westminster gives a flying fuck about.

But spare a though for Jamie Gunn: alone, frightened, banished. And all because a ragtag of alt-right rabble-rousers can’t handle rape jokes, think it’s up to them who directs the next Justice League film, and were happy to hound a man whose only crime was being a principled liberal who enjoys a bit of banter about child porn.

Still, he’s white. He’ll bounce back. Pity the same can’t be said for Bill Crosby and OJ Simpson.

What a fucking world.




Jezza takes a well-earned break from fighting all forms of racism to enjoy a reacharound from the ghost of Brian Connolly.


By Ben Pensant

Pop Quiz:

Who harassed a marginalised WOC for supporting someone who believes Jews want to turn black men gay?

Who smeared PM Corbyn as an antisemite just because he was a member of an antisemitic Facebook group?

Who accused the Dear Leader of being a Putin stooge before sneakily making him appear more Russian by digitally altering his iconic Lenin cap to make it look slightly blacker?

And who staged a terrorist attack in a Sainsbury’s carpark which used Russian nerve gas, targeted a former Russian agent, and deployed decidedly Russian tactics that couldn’t be more Russian if a signed photo of Putin straddling a unicorn in nothing but a cossack hat was left at the crime scene?

If it isn’t blindingly obvious, the answer is The Zionist lobby, that multi-tentacled diabolical goylem controlling the BBC, CNN, IBM, REM and the so-called International Space Station which is actually on a private beach in Tel Aviv. (You think it’s a coincidence that the spaceman off The Big Ben Theory just happens to be a friend of Saul? Yeah, right.)

And boy, have they been busy bees, with #WomensMarch organiser Tamika Malloy one of the latest leftists to fall under the sinister Zio glare, as apartheid apologists worldwide got their kosher knickers in a twist after she attended a rally by Nation Of Islam leader, racist Jew-hater and all-round good egg Lucas Farrakhan.

Like #WomensMarch co-founder Linda ‘Cockrat’ Sarsour, feminist Tamika is a long-time admire of Farrakhan, no doubt enchanted by his habit of banning women from speeches, urging them not to wear short skirts, and suggesting they should abandon their careers to stay at home and look after their husbands.

Predictably, right-wing trolls pounced, slandering Tamika as a hypocrite for claiming to fight racism and misogyny while prasing a racist misogynist. Because as we know, black women aren’t allowed to hold unpopular opinions, especially ones that look favourably on someone who once called Hitler ‘a great man’.

Unsurprisingly white supremacy triumphed and Tamika was forced to explain herself in a rambling series of tweets, reaffirming her commitment to opposing bigotry while refusing to condemn the bigot she’d been photographed laughing and smiling with.

But the Zeds wouldn’t let it go, clearly rattled that a black woman had upset the neoliberal applecart by thinking for herself, speaking her mind, and defending a bloke whose version of Islam is so illogically batshit it makes the Qur’an look like A Brief History Of Time.

Still, she stood her ground, surprising no-one by claiming that the criticism she received was because of white privilege or something. A clever tactic seized upon by her cheerleaders, who deflected claims that Farrakhan is no different to white supremacists like Daisy Duke by pointing out the NOI leader lacks the systemic power of the KKK’s Grand Lizard.

Indeed, the closest to systemic power Farrakhan ever gets is when he’s indulged by an assortment of Democrats, such as the marginalised black man who sat in the White House for 8 years. If only Lucas could have enjoyed the systemic power of the widely despised Duke, whose growing army of white-hooded racists would struggle to fill the away end at Croft Park.

Unlike Farrakhan’s fans, who turn out in their droves to hear him speak passionately about The Jewish Problem. And it isn’t just fringe progressives like Tamika who can’t get enough of the cuddly racist; he’s also much loved by Hip-Hop stars past and present including Vanilla Ice and Griff D.

Both of whom were clearly drawn to Farrakhan’s enlightened views on white people. And it’s to Tamika’s credit that while she was at great pains to excuse Farrakhan’s antisemitism, misogyny and homophobia, she and her cheerleaders were perfectly relaxed about his belief that caucasians are a race of devils created in a lab by a mad scientist.

Similarly, left-wing supporters of Tamika who were more than happy to quote the Southern Poverty Law Centre when it called Maajid Johnson an extremist were remarkably quite about the SPLC’s classification of the Nation Of Islam as a hate group.

And that’s because the only way to defeat the Zios is to stoop to their level. Then play even dirtier. We may never know what drew a Hamas-supporting theocrat like Linda Sarsour to support a virulent bow-tied antisemite but who cares? As a Muslim woman and a black man they’re both given a pass, despite the fact they couldn’t be more illiberal if they slit Caitlyn Jenner’s throat and threw her off Stone Mountain while singing Throw The Jew Down The Well.

And it’s thanks to these competing narratives of victimhood that Tamika received widespread support, most touchingly from Shaun King, who proved once again that not all white people are evil. But while it’s all good and well showing solidarity with obscure feminists let’s not forget the many Democrat politicians and former Presidents who’ve also spent years supporting Farrakhan. Because as you’ll see, if we’re to destroy Ziopremacy we’re gonna need all the help we can get.

So with Tamika chewed up and spat out they sunk their teeth into the Angel of Islington. Well, they get itchy beaks if they go more than a week without pecking at him. And the latest assault had the desired effect, convincing braindead Sun-readers that actually, the kind, gentle man leading us out of the darkness is not our saviour but a vicious anti-Semite with a tattoo of Putin’s face on his stomach. Who knew?

And boy, did they aim low, demanding Corbyn explain why until 2015 he was a member of Palestine Love, the secret Facebook group where a diverse bunch of antisemites, Islamists and antisemitic Islamists congregate to discuss everything from the New World Order to Ashgar Bukakke’s missing shoe.

The answer, of course, was simple: while Corbyn was a member he never saw any anti-Semitism, but also left the second he saw some antisemitism. Clean, concise logic yet it still confused pea-brained trolls unversed in cognitive dissonance of the modern left.

But the Zio hounds weren’t having it, gunning for fellow leftists who were also ‘dragged in’ to the group, such as pie-faced economist Paul Mason. Luckily he deflected the attacks on his character like an old pro by saying fuck all and changing the subject. Indeed, when Mason’s membership of the group was revealed he cheekily spent the day bragging about a meeting he attended in Warsaw on Holocaust revisionism. Which funnily enough, is also a hot topic over at Palestine Love. Though only when Paul and Jezza aren’t looking, obvs.

All of which rattled the Zio press, as their vile, slanderous and demonstrably true claims were roundly ignored by people who usually never miss an opportunity to condemn the far-right. Luckily, Corbynites are renowned for their humour, and professional gobshite Aaron Pastrami couldn’t resist breaking the embargo to deliver this absolute sick burn to the Wicked Witch Of Downing Street:

‘I’d say journalists should check out what groups Theresa May might be in, then I remembered this is someone whose idea of a hobby is reading the telephone directory’

Ouch! May can only dream of being as interesting as Aaron, someone who said Labour losing an election was the best night of his life and whose idea of a hobby is hero-worshipping a 68-year-old man.

But aside from that zinger, Aaron kept a low profile. Though not as low as Owen Jones who still hasn’t mentioned Palestine Love despite his recent outrage at vile Tory Dominic Raab for being a member of a secret Facebook group where right-wing ghouls debate sending people to workhouses. Owen wisely ignored the flimsy accusations of hypocrisy as any idiot can see a bunch of creepy Tories discussing the privatisation of council houses is infinitely more sinister than paid up members of the Labour Party accusing The Jews of orchestrating 9/11.

But as with Venezuela and Al Quds Day, what Owen doesn’t say is worth a thousand words. Luckily, the story soon fizzled out, though not before the Zios lined up their next smear, one which OJ would have a lot more to say about. And true to form, when the BBC disgracefully photoshopped a picture of the Dear Leader to make his hat look more Russian, Owen defended Jezza’s honour with passion, commitment and a bucketful of Oxbridge tears.

Indeed, Jezza’s scathing speech to Parliament clearly took its cue from Owen’s identikit Guardian piece which first brought up the entirely unrelated issue of Russian oligarchs funding the Tory Party. His moving column raged against silence from right-wing commentators, no mean feat for someone yet to comment on his hero’s membership of a Facebook group for people who believe shady Jews harvest the corpses of Syrian children.

But it was Jezza’s refusal to accept the Russians may have been responsible which led to the BBC smearing him as a friend of Putin simply because the Dear Leader has spent years going out of his way to avoid criticising him. And to make matters worse it came after the BBC had excelled themselves by completely ignoring the latest tiresome grooming scandal for two days despite the fact it was plastered all over virtually every newspaper.

Of course, they bowed to pressure eventually, inviting one of the Telford ‘victims’ onto The Eileen Derbyshire Show to attack the marginalised Muslims she incited into raping her, AND giving the story prominent coverage on the BBC website just below reports on the death of a 99-year-old comedian and a beagle doing something cute at Krafts.

But still the Islamophobes whined, as if that wasn’t more coverage than this non-story deserved. Indeed, they should be grateful it was reported at all, as it would’ve been cut altogether if something more newsworthy had happened, such as Theresa May pumping during PMQs and blaming it on Jezza.

But I get why they did it. Tories and Zios are simple folk, easy to manipulate despite controlling the entire world. The best way to defeat them is to make them think they’re winning while covertly raising awareness about the much more serious issue of teenage temptresses turning Muslim men into child-abusers.

But if recent history has taught us anything it’s that every time the BBC get something right they go on to get something hideously wrong. True to form, following the Sainsbury’s attack the Zio lobby’s BBC shills doubled down. Which surprised no-one: Lest we forget, this is the channel that broadcast a documentary in 2003 alleging JFK patsy Lee Harvey Osborne was a lone gunman (!). And don’t get me started on those shitty idents propagating the offensive idea that the earth is a sphere (!!). What the sheeple want, the sheeple get.

Needless to say, Owen Jones leapt to Jezza’s defence with a ubiquitous urgency not seen since the last time someone said something beastly about his most favouritest politician ever. Indeed, the way OJ tore through TV studios was reminiscent of that glorious week in 1991 when Nirvana rocked The Word, Top Of The Pops and The Jonathan Ross Show, provided you swapped huge riffs and ripped jeans for hissy fits and cunt-jackets.

But to be frank, this is getting rather tiresome now – some might say ‘old hat’.  Which is why Owen bravely drew a line under the issue, sick to his milk teeth of talking about it despite the fact it was him who brought it up. It had nothing whatsoever to do with the widely circulated proof debunking the wobbly claim that Jezza’s hat was darkened and stretched to make it look more Russian.

And his desire to move on was in no way connected to the fact that two leading proponents of The Hat Theory – Craig Murray and John Clarke – turned out to be wacky conspiracy theorists with some predictably eccentric ideas about Israel and Jews. If your broadband repeatedly went tits-up this week don’t panic – it was caused by the most frantic mass deletion of retweets by leftists since Brendan Cox admitted to being a handsy sex-case.

But that didn’t stop us demanding an apology from the BBC for doing something only a handful of cranks believe they did. We’re still waiting but mark my words, when it comes it’ll be every bit as sweet as the last time we made someone say ‘sorry’ for something they didn’t do. Fingers crossed this starts a trend and Obama apologises for Sandy Hook, Stanley Kubichek admits he faked the moon landing, and the Zio lobby hold their hands up for 9/11, the Kennedy assassination and murdering that alien out of the Ant & Dec film.

Until then, we just have to keep fighting. And happily, there are encouraging signs that the golden utopia in which people are banned from saying stuff we don’t like may become reality sooner than we think, with Scottish YouTube villain Count Dankula – or as I call him, CUNT WANKULA – having been rightly found guilty of a hate crime for teaching his dog to do a Hitler salute. Good.

And in news that will surprise no-one, while Tamika and Jezza are smeared as antisemites for associating with antisemites, a man who isn’t an antisemite but pretended to be one for a laugh becomes the far-right’s latest free speech martyr. Remind me again who the hypocrites are?

But let them have their little strop. The more mud they sling the more powerful we become – see how the assault on Tamika brought new fans into her tight-knit community of brain-damaged Democrats and thick-as-shit celebrities. And as for Corbyn, do you really think he’d let their petty slurs ruin his week? Please. It’ll take more than lies to bring our man down, as demonstrated by the cool way he weathered the whole sorry storm by chillaxing with his bunnies at the Absolute Boy Mansion:


And for the record, the rumour swirling through social media that the lady on the right woke up the next morning to find Jezza showing her off to his mates is entirely without foundation. He was simply trying to unlock her talent, m’lud.

Stick that in your pipe and smoke it, Bibi.

UPDATE: As if to prove my point, within hours of publishing this piece Mossad sent a time-travelling alien back to 2012 to hack Jezza’s laptop and plant a message on his Facebook page praising an antisemitic mural.

Not only that, on their way back they stopped off in 2015, deploying their Jewish Chronicle co-conspirators to report the Dear Leader’s words and ask the Labour Party for comment; all orchestrated to give the disgraceful impression they’d spent the last three years ignoring the story and hoping it would go away.

Which it would have had the Zios not rubber-stamped their diabolical plan by brainwashing evil Blairite MP Luciana Furburger into exhuming the whole fabricated piece of fiction yesterday morning.

Luckily, Corbyn’s people are old hands at deflecting demonstrably true accusations – especially ones concocted by Israeli timelords – and issued a statement denying any knowledge that the mural was antisemitic, Jezza’s eyes having suffered the same temporary failure they did when he was posting on Palestine Love or giving speeches surrounded by terrorist flags at Kill Jews Day.

Needless to say, Owen Jones spoke for all of us when he tweeted his ‘relief’ that Corbyn had offered a detailed explanation, delighted that the leader of the opposition and his team of advisors had spent hours working on a press release which effectively said ‘I’m not antisemitic – I’m just thick as fuck!’.

And few could doubt the claim that his appreciation for the mural was purely a free speech issue. Indeed, we expect no less from a man who spoke out against the Danish Mohammed cartoons and recently told the British free press he was ‘coming’ for them. (I wish you’d come for me Jeremy. Seriously, I’ll do anything. Anything.)

Because this is what you get with a man as cultured as Jezza, as demonstrated by the fact that his recent excuses appear to have been lifted wholesale from The Simpsons‘ Principal Skinner after he was spotted in Springfield’s burlesque club Maison Derriere: ‘I only went in there to find out how to get out of there!’. And if that’s good enough for OJ it’s good enough for me.

Now, is it too much to ask that we focus on the really offensive stuff? Because it may have escaped everyone’s attention but while Corbyn is being smeared as an antisemite for lauding an antisemitic mural nobody seems to care that YouTube is teeming with non-antisemitic Scottish men teaching their dogs Hitler salutes for a laugh. Priorities, anyone?

Still, at least Jezza managed to ride this out with grace and dignity, unlike the ageist trolls mocking his inability to see antisemitism when it’s staring him in the face. So I’m delighted to share this charming picture of Jezza ignoring the latest smear and settling down to watch his most favourite aquatic thriller Jaws 3.


Kind. Gentle. Cool as fuck.





The Reel Thing: Black Panther


The Panther celebrates another triumphant week at the box office

By Ben Pensant

Well, I finally did it. After respectfully waiting a fortnight to give the ethnic community of Newcastle the best chance of seeing their lives on-screen for the first time, yesterday I dug out my Cameo t-shirt, stole a tenner from my grandma’s purse, and ventured to the nearest multiplex to see the most important movie ever made.

Sadly, the only screening of Dreamworks’ Latino-centric Cocoa clashed with Judge Rinder so instead I opted for the most micro-unaggressive movie I could find. And boy, did I find it. Because groundbreaking superhero flick Black Panther didn’t merely provide thrills and excitement: it also presented the most life-affirming vision of a perfect society since the joyous adaptation of George Orville’s 1974.

I was initially reluctant to watch the latest DC entry, mindful that my presence in a movie theatre might anger members of Newcastle’s black community. Luckily, that ship had sailed as I heard through the intersectional grapevine that by the end of opening weekend most of the Newcastle Utd squad, the slap-head out of The Lighthouse Family and those blokes who run the car wash on the West road had already seen the film twice each. Phew.

Knowing that the coast was clear was a huge relief. I don’t expect a medal for putting the needs of dark-skinned folk first – especially ones who might throw a fit if they see a white devil chomping popcorn in the back row – but the words of praise I’ve received have been fully deserved, especially the ones from me (i.e all of them). Because there’s nothing more considerate to black people than avoiding them or assuming they’re so irrational they might kick off if they have to share a cinema with a whitey.

Sadly, I spent much of the film on edge as I’d forgotten the handkerchief I’d been planning on hiding my face with just in case a drug dealer in oversized trousers walked in and popped a cap in my ass for watching the story of his life. Luckily, the cinema remain exclusively white for the duration, meaning I avoided the potential embarrassment of sitting alone watching a movie about black people with a white sheet over my head.

But my discomfort was a mere fraction of what black people endure every day. Fortunately, thanks to the film’s awesomeness I soon forgot about the plight of marginalised black people. Indeed, there’s no greater compliment to oppressed blacks worldwide than completely ignoring them while enjoying a piece of art designed to make a handful of rich white men even richer. You’re welcome.

Sadly, the insidious cancer of white supremacy made an appearance during the trailers when I noticed a smudge in the left hand corner of the screen. Clearly someone didn’t want people enjoying the daft movie about the funny black man in tights. Happily, after I’d took a photo of the offending blemish and started drafting my hate crime report the film began, the screen became gloriously dark, and the smudge was rendered virtually invisible for two joyous hours. Stick that in your pipe and smoke it, Trump!

A lucky escape though if I’d been watching a film with a lighter mise en scene such as The Snowman I may not have been quite so forgiving. Fortunately I would never dream of sitting through Johnny Briggs’s animated cringe-fest. There are enough white protagonists clogging up the silver screen without me enabling them.

Not when there’s a new protagonist in town, fashioned from the purest, toughest, blackest snow. For the uninitiated, the Panther – invented in the ’50s by Spike Lee – was the first black superhero and a key member of DC’s X-Men series. Denied a movie adaptation by Hollywood Zios, the character commanded a loyal following among that most rare of beasts: the non-racist American. Who, as luck would have it, are ten-a-penny in the comic geek community.

Needless to say, post-Trump it became apparent that a different kind of hero was needed: one blessed with the intersectional appeal to attract the type of people who normally wouldn’t be seen dead watching a mainstream blockbuster about men in masks chinning each other.

And the timing couldn’t have been better, with Tinseltown having replaced old school studio bosses who hated blacks with a progressive new generation who hate whites. Hence Black Panther arriving just as the Hollywood community consolidate their position as the most virtuous drug-addicts on the planet.

For an example of the entertainment world’s moral fibre simply recall how they spent a whole weekend flatly ignoring the lurid revelations about Democrat Party donor Harvey Weinstein. Indeed, there would probably be no #MeToo movement at all if someone hadn’t ingeniously decided to use his sex-pestery to paint the male population as potential rapists just because a leftist was exposed as a serial abuser fond of wanking into plantpots.

But even that demonstration of virtue couldn’t prepare us for the joy of Black Panther, a film so perfect it almost cancels out the offensive ’70s TV adaptation in which the dark-skinned, musclebound crime fighter was re-imagined as this pale, skinny shitweasel:

PantherThe dire cartoon ditched the original backstory, replacing worthy endeavours such as killing baddies, foiling terrorists and ruling over a progressively nationalist ethnostate with nude cycling, bodybuilding and helping a retarded stork in a pork-pie hat catch a butterfly for his tea. All set to horrific canned laughter and the most sexually aggressive lounge score this side of the theme-tune from Have You Been Served? I don’t know why they didn’t just go the whole hog and make the Panth’ a blue-eyed Aryan milkman.

Still, we leftists aren’t ones for dwelling on the past, apart from when we’re demanding white people apologise for everything from slavery to segregation. Two things which would have never existed if we hadn’t exported violent colonialism across the planet like a nasty dose of the clap. A point emphasised by Ryan Cobbler’s film which makes it abundantly clear that Waikiki – the prosperous, technologically advanced, ever-so-slightly authoritarian paradise of which Black Panther’s alter ego T’Chadwick is unelected leader – is exactly what every African country would look like had they been spared the horror of imperialism.

That Waikiki’s success is entirely down to the magic meteor that crashed there thousands of years ago is irrelevant. As is the fact that the Waikikans spent centuries extracting magic minerals from the magic meteor to create magic cities, magic spaceships and magic cat-suits for magic witch-doctors.

Because any fool can see the only difference between Waikiki and a real African country is that the black folks discovered the magic before the colonialists did. You think there aren’t top-secret aircraft hangars hidden in the worst corners of the Western world – Washington, Tel Aviv, Seaburn – filled with alien power sources pilfered from every ‘shithole’ between Tijuana and Timbuktu? Please.

For every starving child in Ethiopia there’s a chubby yank brat stuffing his face with pizza fried and sliced using oils and cutlery forged from the purest magical mineral.

For every poverty-stricken mother of ten with a bucket of filthy water on her head there’s a fresh-faced white woman slurping the cleanest liquid on earth from a plastic bottle made out of supernatural meteor dust.

And for every marginalised Procal Harum member forced by western foreign policy to kidnap 8-year-old girls at gunpoint there’s a misogynist white male abusing his privilege to sexually assault pretty young interns by touching their knees; knees clad in nylon stockings fashioned from the you-know-what her ancestors pillaged with impunity. What goes around comes around, ladies.

Thankfully there are few white males in Black Panther, though they still come dangerously close to derailing the entire movie. Indeed, while it was a wise decision to make the baddy and the buffoon Caucasians, the two overacting hams just can’t resist rubbing their impeccable range and PRADA training in the noses of every marginalised minority forced to endure their vanilla showboating.

Luckily they’re acted off the screen by the rest of the cast, who effortlesly add the kind of Afrocentric authenticity you’d expect from American and English actors. Though to be honest these two clowns could have been sharing a screen with computer-generated Danny Dwyer clones in blackface and they’d still struggle to make an impression.

Matthew Freeman phones in his performance as a ditzy FBI agent in the lazy manner you’d expect from someone who made his name sexually harassing a receptionist in a shitty reality show. Though his presence is almost justified by being on the receiving end of some witty casual racism from T’Chadwick’s supernaturally talented sister Shirley. But as for Andy Circus’s rare live-action turn as weird-accented bad guy Ulysees Grant. Daaamn. Let’s just say it’s a bloody good job he gets those regular gigs playing CGI monkeys.

But it’s not about the white folks: it’s all about the Panther and his beautiful kingdom. Because a nation free of white people is the pipe-dream of every modern liberal who learnt their trade not by observing politics or reading history but protesting free speech and threatening people on Twitter.

As edgy regressive bible Vice reported last month, fed up middle-class black women have been escaping the racist hellhole of Trump’s USA by booking into an exclusive complex on the island of Costa Rica in which white people are banned. Indeed, it’s a measure of the moral consistency of identity politics that these marginalised professionals choose to spend their well-earned break from whiteness in an upmarket beach resort rather than one of those African countries that definitely aren’t shit-holes

Such as Waikiki. It says everything about the modern left that the same people who condemn the Trump administration for its anti-immigration rhetoric will celebrate a closed-off Ethnostate that refuses to trade with other countries, bans the few outsiders it allows in from speaking, and is so opposed to open borders it uses magic invisibility dust to stop foreigners finding it. The Donald and co could only dream of the kind of isolationism enjoyed by the Waikikans.

And let’s not forget the gushing praise for the film’s depiction of  ‘Afrofuturism’. Which I’m sure is a fascinating concept though I suspect I dozed off and missed this bit as from what I recall most of the blokes had short hair and all the women were bald. Still, it sounds absolutely amazing whatever it is, and if it’s been bigged up by Kool-Aid Corbynite Aaron Pastrami it can only be a good thing.

But it’s not just the gammon-bashing slayer of melts who’s been going gaga over Black Panther, with everyone from Hillary Rodman Clinton to Sam ‘Squiddly Diddly’ Kriss giving it the thumbs up. Indeed, it appears many sections of the left have taken inspiration from the white liberal hero of last year’s Oscar-winning horror smash Get Away, who combined a gushing respect for genetically superior black role models such as Barack Obama with a principled plan to lobotomise them and steal their bodies.


(If any brothers or sisters are reading, rest assured my most favourite comedian is Kenny Lynch and if I could I would have voted for Danny Glover in The Day After Tomorrow a hundred times.)

But don’t take my word for it. I’ve left this review spoiler-free but without giving away the ending, let’s just say when misunderstood baddy Killdozer is forced to abandon his grand plan to defeat white supremacy by sharing Waikiki’s magic and wealth with black communities around the world there wasn’t a dry eye in the house.

Essentially Malcolm Farrakkhan to T’Chadwick’s Martin Luther X, this brilliantly complex character very nearly steals the moral high ground from the Panth’, who respectfully vows to implement some of Killdozer’s policies right after he’s stabbed the poor bastard to death.

Again, I won’t spoil things but rest assured Killdozer is ultimately defeated, his plot to make the world a better place through violence foiled in favour of T’Chadwick’s plan to give a fresh lick of paint to tower blocks in deprived areas. Fear not though, without giving too much away, the film is at pains to stress it was white people who turned Killdozer into a megalomaniac murderer and all things considered he kind of had a point. Phew.

But this is just one of many highlights in a highlight-stuffed film, from the stirring Afro-centric score to the evocative realisation of day-to-day Waikikan life. Indeed these two aspects had possibly the most lingering impact, not least by reminding me that The Lion King still has a hell of a lot to answer for.

But by far the film’s greatest achievement is T’Challa himself: his honour, his bravery, his permanently pained expression of a man about to shit himself and powerless to stop it. Indeed, perhaps the film’s greatest achievement is the way it strikes a blow for inclusiveness by making the first black superhero one of the most bland protagonists ever to grace the silver screen.

Now that’s what I call diversity.

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.