Girls & Boycotts


Channel 4’s golden girl chillaxing on set.

By Ben Pensant

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



The Great British Fake Off


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


By Ben Pensant

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Sunshine On Keith


Keith Prodigy in happier, more misogynist times.

By Ben Pensant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Hunt For Red Cap Toerags


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

By Ben Pensant.

They mostly come out at night. Mostly”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh man.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Be afraid. Be very afraid. 

An Apology


By Ben Pensant.

‘Ever get the feeling you’ve been cheated?’

The above question was posed by drug-addled punk legend Johnny Rotter as The Clash performed their shambolic final gig in 1977. Weeks later the snotty singer was found dead in a grotty Chelsea bedsit after OD’ing on heroin and choking on his own dog chain. A more undignified demise you’d struggle to find this side of the SAS shooting Osama Ben Laden in cold blood without allowing the sweet-toothed radical his requested final meal of two Penguins and a cup of orange pop.

But as grim as Johnny’s squalid death was, I can’t be the only progressive who spent all week recalling his chilling final words. Because mere days after Brexit-bashing academic Victoria Batman had charmed us with her fannytastic displays of anti-democratic rage it emerged that the naked prof had been playing us all along. And it pains me to admit I was completely taken in by her wicked ways and perky nipples.

So yes, Johnny. You bet your spikey ginger arse I feel cheated.

For those with shite memories, last week I published a hugely popular blog about Novaru Media’s Ashley Sarkar, in which I suggested Dr. Victoria would be an ideal guest for Ash’s hypothetical chat show. As strong independent women I felt the two would compliment each other, as well as providing the added intersectional thrill of seeing everyone’s favourite sex-obsessed commie sitting inches away from a pair of bare titties. Indeed, it seemed Victoria was a perfect fit as she ticked every single box on the modern left check sheet. Sadly, my dream of seeing her tick Ash’s box would soon be well and truly over.

Because it turned out Dr. Victoria was a double-agent who had infiltrated the Good People like a wolf in sheep’s fanny-fur. As disturbing details of her past emerged it became apparent that the Doc had well and truly pulled the pubes over our eyes. Far from being one of us, it is now clear she is very much one them. That’s right: Victoria is a Tory. And she hates feminists too.

In news that sent shockwaves through social media, it was revealed this week that prior to giving passionate pro-EU speeches with her mott out, Victoria had penned bile-filled articles for alt-right hate-sheets. Only last year she was given a platform in Unheard to stick the boot into progressives who enjoy telling other women what they can and can’t do with their bodies, even defending the ungrateful, uneducated Grid Girls who think because they’re fully grown adults with shiny hair and pretty faces they can do what the hell they like.

“Modern feminism is looking more and more like a group of ‘clever’ women ganging up to pull the rug out from under the feet of other women” she raged, ignoring the fact that it’s not a rug they’re trying to pull from under these pea-brained dolts, it’s the pervy men shoving cameras up their skirts who they’re unaware of as they’re too busy painting their nails and blowing kisses at rapists in crash helmets.

She went on to smear modern feminism as “unfair, elitist and hypocritical”, deride the perfectly sane idea that denying women the opportunity to parade around in heels is for their own good, and even arrogantly tried to claim victimhood by detailing her own run-in with middle-class women who knew better than her what was good for her. In short, a few years back Little Miss Droppy-Drawers gave a lecture while dressed in a sheer black bodysuit. Days later the video of Victoria’s seminar was removed from the internet after a couple of attendees rightly complained that Victoria was objectifying herself.

That’s right, a handful of brave feminists did the sisterly thing to shield Victoria from the torrent of abuse and harassment that would inevitably come her way after alt-right trolls found out there was a video of an academic dressed like Eartha Kitt plastered all over the internet. And how does she thank them? She slags them off on online. Unbelievable.

Needless to say, at no point did she apologise for offending these poor middle-class women by forcing them to gaze at the sexually threatening black outfit she shoved down their throats. No, she mocked them instead, putting their lives at risk of assault from 5chan Incels determined to show these ungrateful bitches what’s what.

But if you thought her ideas about feminism were abhorrent, wait until you hear what she thinks of the welfare state. Indeed, the title of her 2015 CrapX piece – ‘Why Subsidising Other People’s Kids Must Have Limits’ – speaks volumes about her sinister motives.

“The bloated welfare state represents a threat to individual drive and prosperity” she raged, firmly putting the needs of the privileged few who benefit from capitalism before those of the marginalised many who exercise their right not to work if they don’t want to.

“If the state excessively tops up your earnings and subsidises the cost of your children, it risks destroying the inbuilt drive to provide”. Maybe. But if the state force-feeds you cans of Monster Munch it risks destroying the inbuilt drive to eat salad, find a job and save your cross-eyed children from the EX-Boxes Tory hawks planted in your six-bedroom council house.

She then went on to sketch a misty-eyed portrait of the bygone era in which poor people were forced to remain childless: “Unless you wanted to condemn your offspring to a life of poverty, you had little choice but to postpone marriage and sexual activity until you and your partner had saved enough or achieved the necessary regular earnings”. Sounds fantastic, Prof. Why not just dress the proles in red gowns and white bonnets and ban them from looking at each other until they’re earning as much as the rosy-cheeked Oxbridge intern who washes Theresa May’s fanny pads?

Clearly mindful of how well nods to Nazi witch-doctor Josef Mangala go down in right-wing circles, she then offered a jaw dropping justification for banning poor people from having kids: (Granted, she never actually said poor people should be banned from having kids but she really didn’t need to.)

“With reproduction tied to economic circumstances, excessive population growth was avoided and a high-waged and highly-skilled economy was the result”. It’s nice to know that during this halcyon era of economic boom the Tory establishment were grateful to us for not having kids, cutting the number of job applicants by half and allowing Tarquin and Clarissa to get to the front of the queue. Oh and don’t worry about who will look after your brats while you’re out doing the jobs we missed out on because we didn’t have a chauffeur to ferry us to the interview. There’ll always be a destitute childless wretch willing to take a dead-end job as a nanny. We might not be rich enough to have our own children but you’re happy to pay us a pittance to look after yours.

“Sacrifice and restraint yields rewards. As the saying goes, there is little gain without pain”. Great point Vic, though it seems you’ve written ‘pain’ instead of ‘some poor sod having his knackers cut off by the government just in case he pups his missus after one too many Babychams during Ant & Dec’s House Party‘.

She then insulted Labour voters everywhere by bastardising welfare state pioneer Edna Beveridge to serve her neoliberal narrative – “Even he would surely agree we have gone too far” – before signing off with a healthy dollop of old-fashioned Tory nationalism: “We are damaging the very thing that made the West best in the first place”. So that’s internalised misogyny, promotion of eugenics and rampant xenophobia. Congratulations Doc, you get to take the match ball home!

That so many of us were fooled by this evil woman just shows how far they’ll go to spread their poison, as well as how easy it is for good people to become victims of their own decency. Thankfully the twat is out of the bag and we can finally see Victoria for what she is. Indeed, in contrast to how she appeared last week when lighting up social media with her arse-cheeks, remove her naked campaigning from the equation and Ms Victoria seems pretty sensible. Which is why she must be stopped.

So I’d like to take this opportunity to apologise from the bottom of my heart for saying nice things about this foul exhibitionist. And I’ll continue apologising, vowing to Do Better and scrubbing my man-balls with sandpaper if need be. Nobody’s perfect, not even leftists, but what separates us from the fash’ is our ability to admit when we’re wrong. And while many of my liberal contemporaries have taken the equally brave step of deleting their words of support and pretending Dr. Victoria never existed, I elected to admit my infallibility with grace and contrition.

Having said that, it’s not entirely out fault we fell for her deception: deceiving people is what Tories do. And she wore her mask well, cloaking her true intentions in progressive pro-EU rhetoric. Why would anyone expect a woman who actively supports a neoliberal capitalist institution to be a neoliberal capitalist?

So the time has come to bid farewell to this duplicitous hag. I will never forgive myself for both lavishing her with praise and spending a whole moment imagining what it would be like to write ‘Fuck Brexit!’ all over her top bollocks. I can delete the complimentary tweets but I’ll never delete the memory of those bone-shaking vinegar strokes.

In the meantime, let’s forget her barber’s floor and remember her for what she truly is. She may have fooled us into thinking she was the most beautiful woman on earth but in our minds she will always look like this:

Now if you’ll excuse me I’ve got some supportive tweets to write, because news has just come through that another brave lady has decided to fight Brexit by removing her bra on the telly. No idea who this Rachel Johnston woman is but she’s posh, she’s educated, and I can tell by looking at her there are zero right-wing skeletons in her knickers.

Get ’em off!






Ash Of The Titans


Ms Sarkar tots up how many lies have been told by Corbynites in the last hour.

By Ben Pensant

Left-wing journalists have been getting a good kicking recently. From the lay-offs at Buzzkill to the public shaming of writers who spent a week threatening a teenager, everywhere you look progressive pundits are being punished for fighting fascism, lying about people they disagree with and penning edgy think-pieces listing the 33 signs that your miniature schnauzer is a Nazi. Combined with the UK media’s systemic erasure of Corbyn supporters, pro-EU columnists and LBGTQED activists, don’t be surprised if this time next year the international left has been outlawed altogether, reduced to earning a living knitting rainbow keffiyehs and hiding in changing rooms at Forever 22 sucking off transwomen.

Thankfully there are plenty of voices on the left who refuse to be marginalised by the alt-right establishment. And last Sunday morning saw one such voice utterly DESTROY the BBC’s flagship ‘news’ show with nothing but a horny hammer, a sexy sickle, and a boatload of bullshit. Yes, I’m talking about Ashley Sarkar you idiot, the Novaru Media lipstick leftist who brought joy to regressives everywhere with her brave, ballsy, brutally honest assertion that “the idea Corbynistas have been misty-eyed about Venezuela is largely a myth”.

As usual, she was utterly correct. Because from OJ Jones and Aaron Pinkerman to Lady Di and John McDonald, high-profile Corbynites long ago stopped merely romanticising Venezuela. ‘Misty-eyed’ is how you describe tearful MAGA kids watching Birthday Of The Nation or Leave voters reminiscing about the murder of Steven Laurence. Loyal Jezzabels on the other hand have spent the last few years ogling their favourite socialist utopia like a catholic priest sizing-up a scout hut: bone-rigid and ready to bolt but forced to keep their mouths shut while the economic powerhouse they were giving the sex-eye in 2013 transformed into a penniless basket case whose only growth industry is cannibalism.

But her main intention was to deflect the ugly, slanderous and demonstrably true claim that her comrades are long-term admirers of a corrupt authoritarian regime whose leaders oppressed and impoverished their own people while living in mansions and counting their billions. That she did this in the same week poor Ken Livingston got lost looking for his slippers and wandered into a TV studio mumbling the word ‘sanctions’ over and over takes balls of steel. And when I say ‘balls’ I don’t mean those pathetic cisgender ones filled with white supremacist spunk: I’m talking about actual balls, women’s balls – shrivelled to pips and rendered empty by hormone blockers. Or better still, hacked off and rotting in a surgeon’s bin.

Luckily, that’s exactly what Ash has. Balls. And she’s not even trans! Like her namesake from Sam Ramsey’s Return Of The Living Dead series, she refuses to be cowed, no matter how many slavering Blairite Frankensteins try to eat her up. Though unlike him she’s neither white nor male therefore ten times cooler and if she had a cock it would be much bigger than his too. Got a problem with that, TERFYCHOPS?

You only find behaviour this courageous in sexually liberated left-wing circles. And you don’t get more sexually liberated and left-wing than Ash, who’s as happy lauding communism as she is catching boy-dick. (Just as long as the boy-dick belongs to a man who respects her boundaries, apologises daily, and demonstrates his solidarity with the sisterhood by sitting down when he goes for a piss.)

Yes that’s right, Ash fucks. Like a champion. GET OVER IT. Because when it comes to sex – which most things tend to with sexually liberated left-wingers like Ash – anything goes. ANYTHING. Everyone knows the horniest in society are those of us most in thrall to sexual expression, gender non-conformity, and a political ideology which viewed all those things as decadent. This is what makes Ash more sexually daring and dangerous than those boring blonde conservative women who think they’re wild and adventurous because they once necked on with a black man but shit their knickers if you pull a knife on them.

Needless to say, Tory trolls responded with the usual hatred, harassment and factual evidence (yawn). All of which she wisely ignored in much the same way Jezza, Seamus and co. ignored news reports of desititute Venezuelans forced to eat their own pets. Because Ash’s comment wasn’t intended for people on Twitter, neither the decent leftists who worship her sassy wit and love of shoes nor the evil fascists who hate her because she’s hotter and cleverer than them. No, her comment was solely for the benefit of the people we Corbynites see as our bread and butter: the grassroots, tabloid-reading Labour voters who couldn’t care less about Twitter, Novaru or South American shit-holes but are happy to believe bad Tories spread lies about kind Mr Jezza if a cool girl with nice legs says so on the telly.

The far-left, of course, are experts at this stuff, and Ash has learnt her trade from the best. Her big sister Owen Jones is the best in the business at appearing agreeable on TV by sugar-coating what he really thinks, saving his tributes to people who kidnapped and murdered teenagers and declarations that ‘no-one was ever killed by a wreath’ for Twitter.

Similarly, we all recall with fondness the genial, open-minded manner in which George ‘Georgie’ Galloway discusses Israel and Palestine in the UK media, which contrasts sharply with the vein-bursting hellfire he spews on Press TV, helpfully complimented with an endearingly crap Arab accent just in case anyone mistakes him for Gordon Brown and shoots him. (By the way Gorgeous, can I just say how impressed I am with your new tanning and botox regimes, which appear to have turned your head into a bust of Genghis Khan fashioned from old ladies’ sunburnt tits.)

All of which explains why Ash didn’t even try to explain her comment. Evil Punch editor Fraser Nielsen attempted to counter but was no match for Sarkar, and Andrew Mars was so blown away he completely forgot to take her to task, a unique form of inertia which strikes whenever Mars is presented with a Corbynite making an untrue, outlandish or completely fuck-witted comment. Fortunately for Ash, when people asked her about it on Twitter she had a perfect method of deflection ready as she’d already devoted her day to DESTROYING foul Tory/scouse sell-out Nadine Dorris, who had laid bare her white supremacy by getting Ash mixed up with a different brown-skinned leftist. This fortuitous intervention couldn’t have come at a better time, allowing Ash to pull an OJ and ignore all the inconvenient facts pouring into her mentions in favour of earning some much-needed victimhood. Cheers Nad!

All of which got me thinking. If the BBC are serious about promoting diversity it’s time they put our money where their mouth is. It’s all good and well discriminating against white people but more needs to be done to provide a safe space for marginalised Corbynites to have their say without being forced to share a sofa with violent right-wing thugs like Fraser Nielsen and Julia Hartley-Brexit. Which is why the only fair and sensible solution to the dearth of inclusivity at the Beeb is to give Ash her own section on The Mars Show, in which she follows up her now-seminal Venezuela comment by debunking other enduring myths, such as ‘the sun is hot’, ‘France won the World Cup’, and ‘those dipsticks at Novaru couldn’t lie straight in bed’.

Just watch as the programme’s pitiful audience share trebles overnight thanks to Ash’s natural sassiness, the public’s demand for left-wing voices, and a co-ordinated hacking of the ratings system by tech-savvy eggheads at Momentum’s Media Sabotage Division. And after the inevitable runaway success sees Ash’s slot expand – not for the first time! (did I mention that she fucks like a champion?) – she’ll be perfectly placed to give something back to the feminist community which inspired her. And I can think of no better way to do that than sticking two fingers up at the stuffy establishment and the uneducated morons who voted Leave by hiring that anti-Brexit professor who writes words on her tits.

Because Dr Victoria Batshit has spent this week spreading her anti-Brexit message by tearing through lecture halls and TV studios in much the same frank, daring manner in which Ash LAID WASTE to the BBC. Granted, no-one knows what that anti-Brexit message actually is as they’re too busy talking about her fanny. But still, she’s pleased all the right people on Twitter which as we know is much more important than actually having a point.

Naturally, Dr Victoria received way more support from liberals for making a political statement by wearing no clothes than the Formula One Grid Girls did for earning a living by wearing slightly skimpy ones. Which is just the sort of cognitive dissonance that sits perfectly with the proudly hypocritical Novaru outlook. And the nude prof’s warmth and decency would make her a perfect choice to share a sofa with the equally lovely Ms Sarkar. Indeed, I was touched by the kindness Victoria displayed in making the videos of her naked speeches two minutes long, which was just the right length for me to get exactly what I wanted from them. Twice.

All in all, I’m struggling to think of a better side-chick for Ash. Fingers crossed she also reaches out to rising US star Alexandra Orca-Cortez, who – with her bold plans to stop climate change by knocking down buildings and giving money to people who refuse to work – couldn’t be more Corbyn-friendly if she pledged to save the environment by carpet-bombing Israel.

With the likes of Batman and AOC on board Ash could take over The Mars Show in months, the only downside being that most of her target audience won’t get to see it as there’s more chance of Corbyn supporter going on The Apprentice than getting up at 9am. Still, all it’ll take to wake them from their slumber is the promise of Sarkar taking a leaf out of the Doc’s book and fighting the far-right with wit, humour, and unfettered knockers. If there’s one thing guaranteed to get them out of their beds it’s the thought of Ash bashing the fash and flashing her gash.

Inside Woman


Nicola Huntly runs the transphobic E-wing gauntlet.

By Ben Pensant

There’s not much to love about Saudi Arabia. From sponsoring Israeli apartheid to bunging the west stolen oil in exchange for biochemical weapons, it’s not hard to see why the KSA sits at number one on the regressive left’s shit-list. But despite that it does serve one important purpose: it’s the only Islamic country we’re allowed to criticise. And zoy, do we do it with gusto.

Indeed, the glee with which principled leftists refer to the Saudis as ‘head-choppers’ is nicely contrasted with the way they scream ‘Islamophobia!’ if anyone calls the Palestinian Authority ‘Jew-killers’, the Supreme Leaders of Iran ‘gay-hangers’, or the Pakistani Government ‘women-who-drink-from-the-wrong-cup-imprisoners’.

So it’s all the more sickening when the right have a pop at Saudi Arabia despite the fact they’ve steadfastly ignored its western-funded barbarism for decades. Unlike the modern left, who only ever bring up the KSA when someone mentions Venezuela or Jezza’s fondness for regimes with similarly enlightened views on gays, Jews, and woman in lipstick. Which explains why they’ve spent the last month shamelessly ignoring all the GENUINE reasons to attack Saudi Arabia in favour of launching a racist attack on the quaint Islamic custom of murdering your own children.

Yes, I’m talking about Rahaf Muhammud al-Qunun – apparently the ‘Muhammud’ is silent – the spoilt little madam who has become the darling of the right-wing media after denouncing Islam, fleeing her Saudi family and rocking up in Thailand demanding everyone else clean up her blasphemous mess. And conservatives couldn’t have asked for a more perfect poster girl. Internalised Islamophobia? Check. Wild allegations of abuse? Check. Slamming her faith to curry favour with the alt-right? CHECK. And she wonders why her poor demonised parents are demanding she return home to face the music.

It sums up the skewed moral compass of the right-wing MSM that they only get animated about misogyny when it means they can have a pop at Islam. Much like they only condemn doxxing and death threats when they’re done by leftists, or object to racism and homophobia when it’s directed at teenage Trump-supporters and comes from marginalised black men dressed as Aladdin.

So it will surprise no-one that while Qunun was going through the ‘ordeal’ of being in ‘limbo’ in a ‘Bangkok’ ‘hotel room’, the brainless drones lapping up her sob story were completely oblivious to the other vulnerable woman being held against her will much closer to home.

Unlike Qunun, this oppressed female trapped within four walls isn’t granted the privilege of posting selfies, ordering room service, or being whisked to Canada like the spoilt white princess she wishes she was. Because this woman is languishing in jail for a crime she didn’t commit. Yes, society has decided it’s not just acceptable to lock up innocent women: it’s also okay to send them to MEN’s prisons. In 2019. So forgive me if I don’t consider Little Miss Apostateknickers and her free holiday to Montreal quite as important as the incarceration of Nicola Huntly.

Unsurprisingly, the same people who claim to care about women’s rights said bugger all about Nicola’s plight, which generated roughly 1% of the coverage Qunun’s did. So while those of us lucky enough to be white, straight and Christian looked the other way and enjoyed our Islamophobic festival of hate and chocolate, a WOMAN was forced to spend Christmas fending off rapists, gangsters and sweat-drenched guards in aviator shades. For shame.

And what was Nicola’s crime? What was deemed so horrific she should spend her days in fear of rape, murder, and having her bra-strap pinged in the dinner hall? It’s a question no-one wants to answer. Because Nicola Huntly did literally nothing. Nicola Huntly never hurt a fly. How could she? Nicola has only existed for a year: it was Ian Huntly who got her into this mess.

That’s right – because Nicola’s fun, vibrant, FEMALE mind is attached to the body of a man who murdered two children SHE has to pay the penance. Yet no-one can ever explain what the hell his has to do with Nicola. Why should a strong, independent woman be punished for something a white male did? A white male who was always a woman anyway? (Apart from the day he killed Holly Chapman and Jessica Wells when he was categorically male.) And let’s be honest, was his crime really that abhorrent? Is no-one willing to admit that maybe things aren’t so clear-cut? That Ian was provoked into killing two children and setting their bodies on fire?

Good luck getting any answers. The silence from the police, the courts and the murdered girls’ parents is deafening. Indeed, the only time they comment on Nicola is when they’re calling her ‘Ian’, a gross act of violent deadnaming which not only offends the trans community but also endangers the lives of child killers in knickers worldwide.

Transphobes predictably took to social media to argue against putting Nicola in a women’s jail, as if housing a rapist among females was some kind of dangerous act, like throwing a pit bull into a chicken coop. It’s no surprise that these are the same hypocrites who had zero sympathy with the Native American forced to fend off a slavering horde of white supremacist schoolkids last weekend, using only his shit-hot percussive talents and the military skills he honed while fighting in the Spanish Civil War.

Needless to say, none of the TERFs considered that there may be more to the story. And as it’s now as clear that Huntly has ALWAYS been a woman – apart from when he murdered Holly and Jessica – it’s pretty obvious Nicola was the victim of transphobic abuse, left with no choice but to fight back by murdering two little girls, slipping briefly into ‘Ian’ mode to carry out the justified act of vengeance before reverting to ‘Nicola’ in time for tea.

How dim-witted detectives never deduced this in 2003 is a mystery but that’s the filth for you. The Tory press can pretend these brats were blameless but we all know how cruel bullies are, especially when confronted with gender non-conforming kiddy-fiddling caretakers. I dread to think what these two little thugs put Nicola through before Ian said ‘enough’s enough’ and stepped in to defend her honour. Is it any wonder they ended up dead in a ditch?

But Nicola’s horrendous ordeal is merely the tip of the transphobic iceberg. Indeed, this sorry story has prompted me to wonder: how many other supposed ‘psychos’ are inside because of crimes committed in a previous identity? How many ‘rapists’ and ‘killers’ were incited into violence through abuse and discrimination? How many transwomen have to be wrongly imprisoned before their needs are put before those of cry-baby schoolgirls in bloodstained Man City shirts?

Needless to say, last month while Nicola was fighting tooth and nail to be treated like a human being, The Sport revealed that Stuart Sutcliffe – AKA The Yorkshire Killer – had been subjected to a sustained campaign of harassment in Slade Prison, involving threats, violence, and one cruel lag having a SHIT in his advent calendar. Ordinarily this would barely cause a ripple: just another privileged white male getting his just desserts for battering prostitutes to death, possibly the most toxic form of masculinity after manspreading and disagreeing with Jezebel writers on Twitter.

But take a second to join the dots and it’s hard not to shake the suspicion that this campaign of terror against Sutcliffe was predicated on transphobia. Once we accept that, it’s pretty clear he killed those women because they were taunting him with their biological fannies. Don’t believe me? Look at a picture of Sutcliffe in his heyday: welder’s thumbs, six-foot frame, massive kite. He couldn’t look more like a woman if he dyed his beard blue and attacked a 60-year-old hooker with a shovel on Hyde Park. (Not that he’d do that: the 60-year-old hookers prefer doing their business indoors with easy access to a bathroom and warm blankets. Worth bearing in mind if you ever escape and fancy a stroll down memory lane, Stu.)

So as a mark of solidarity, I hereby intend to identify Sutcliffe as a woman and send polite death threats to anyone on social media who doesn’t. Let’s call her Sophie, send all the silly-killy stuff Stuart to the nearest memory hole, and kickstart the campaign for her and Nicola’s sentences to be immediately quashed NOW. Last year was a horrendous one for women but let’s begin 2019 in a positive manner by securing the release of two people responsible for the deaths of 15 biological females.

After that? Well, one thing Britain has an abundance of is miscarriages of justice. Indeed, a marginalised Muslim is currently banged up in the slammer surrounded by infidels just because a few years back some balding gypsy called Levi Blofeld used his body to rape and murder women and schoolgirls. Needless to say, no-one is fighting his corner like they are Qunun’s. Not the right kind of Muslim, you see: too Islamic, too observant, too keen on hanging around bus stops asking 15-year-old girls how tight their cunts are.

I wouldn’t be surprised if ‘Levi’ is actually trans too. In which case it’s up to her how many women she bludgeons with hammers or flattens in her Land Rover. As the witch-hunt against Caitlin Janner proved, of all the abuse directed at the trans community, perhaps the most hateful is the right-wing obsession with their erratic driving.

Needless to say, as well as being forced to live among non-Muslims, she is also stuck in a men’s prison. Which is a wise tactic. Because we all know the real reason the transphobes don’t want Nicola, Sophie and Yusuf Raheem in woman’s prisons is because they’re terrified one of them might kick a TERF to death in the exercise yard. And with good reason. Because when Jezza becomes PM British jails will be rammed to the rafters with transphobic hate criminals convicted of everything from buying tampons in public to reading Women’s Own on the bus.

But we mustn’t hesitate. Because with the terrifying prospect of No Deal Brexit looming, the plight of innocent people locked up for something they did in another life is becoming increasingly urgent. This is why Jezza has refused to discuss No Deal, because he knows if we crash out of the EU without an arrangement anything could happen. Freedom of movement? Forget it. Never mind locking women up with men, we could have children sharing cells with Leave voters, refugees living among racist pensioners, principled liberals forced to breathe the same air as black Tories. Armageddon, basically.

So there’s a long way to go. And as beautiful as it will be when Nicola is once again free to kill whoever she likes, for every vulnerable transwoman guilty of nothing more than sharing the same body as a murderer there are hundreds of REAL threats, such as creepy ‘comic’ Lewis CK, inexplicably allowed to walk the streets sticking two fingers up at the left and courting the alt-right by doing exactly the same kind of material he’s always done. Or that MAGA Sandman kid, who is not only granted the privilege to attend a misogynist march demanding women are tied to radiators at gunpoint and forced to give birth to ugly children, he also does it while deploying the brutal tactic of every genocidal fascist in history: standing still and smirking. Let’s see how smiley he is after President Ocasia-Cortez has thrown him in a women’s prison full of Cherokee trans-vets with thousand yard stares and bongos fashioned from TERF-skin. His grin won’t be half as wide as his ringpiece after Showers With Drumsticks is finished with him.

But it’ll still be a picnic compared to what Nicola Huntly has been through. Perhaps the right-wing MSM should put as much effort into highlighting this injustice as they do indulging female cons, defending red-capped racists, and shilling for self-hating Muslims.