The Reel Thing: Three Billboards…

Three Billboards, two racists.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stick THAT on a billboard, Missouri.




Glorified G


By Ben Pensant

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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






Die, Young

Toby Young, looking at your tits.

By Ben Pensant

I’m sure I wasn’t the only principled Corbynite who spent the Winterval Holiday dreading the new year. From the terrifying threat of Trump-incited nuclear war to the equally scary prospect of losing my state-sanctioned income unless St. Jezza seizes Number Ten sharpish, all the evidence suggested the next twelve months would be as traumatic as the last. Luckily, my fears were premature. Because in less than a week, 2018 has already been ram-packed with enough principled leftist behaviour to fill that shopping trolley Michael Moore takes to IHOP every morning.

We’ve seen anti-imperialists demonstrate their commitment to human rights by condemning Iranians for demanding human rights. Liberals who once believed Trump was so desperate to be President he colluded with Russia gleefully big-up a book which claims he didn’t want to win the election at all. And Owen Jones doing what he does best: having meltdowns on Twitter, demanding someone is sacked for saying something he doesn’t like and crying on Sky News about an issue no-one outside of social media gives two fucks about.

And boy, have OJ et al excelled themselves, going further than usual and demanding someone is sacked from a job they haven’t even started yet. The someone in question was of course Toby Young: self-confessed Tory, editor of right-wing rag Punch and an all round villain so evil he makes Kevin Spacey look like Keyser Soze.

His crime – or rather his most recent crime – was to accept a government job as one of 15 people on a board that regulates universities or something. The full details of this role are of course unimportant, which is why myself and everyone else spitting feathers about it didn’t bother finding them out. But one thing we do know is that one of his duties will be to monitor and uphold free speech, in itself is enough to set alarm bells ringing.

Because unless you’ve been living under a rock – or worse, in the north – you can’t have failed to notice the way a new generation of oppressed middle-class kids have spent the last few years bravely fighting the insidious trend of subjecting students to points of view they don’t like. Which explains the terrified establishment’s decision to employ a ghastly Conservative to stamp out this #resistance for good.

And be warned, in picking far-right Young their intention is clear: a huge middle finger to those of us who know fine well the only people who should ever be allowed to regulate anything are leftists. (There’s been studies and everything.) Thank god we’ll soon have a Labour government to enshrine this into British law.

A Labour government, I might add, with no need for the kind of rank nepotism practiced by the Tories. One only has to compare the behaviour of Young’s father with that of Corbyn and McDonnell to see the huge difference in class. While Toby senior famously used his reputation as inventor of the metric system to secure his shit-for-brains child a place at Cambridge, John and Jezza enrolled their sons in the university of life, gifting them tough jobs at Labour HQ which introduced them to the hard graft of writing tweets, answering phones and ironing Lady Thornberry’s fanny pads.

Similarly, while Theresa May hands Young a multi-million pound gig because he votes Tory and cleans her toilet, Corbyn has a more moral approach to rewarding his lap-dogs, demonstrated by his decision to offer a peerage to a ghoulish human rights lawyer for white-washing an investigation into anti-Semitism. And as for suitability: while Shami Chakrabbitslim’s experience as a barrister makes her eminently qualified to wear silly robes and hob-nob with rich people, Young seems to think he’s got the right to interfere with higher education just because he’s set up the odd school and served on a commission that helps poor kids get into university. He couldn’t be more of a campus outsider if he wore a shell-suit and read The Sun.

And the last people who should be regulating anything are outsiders. The fact that virtually every board or quango since the Year Blair has been stuffed with people who know bugger all about the thing they’re regulating is irrelevant: they tend to be good left-wing people so they get a pass. Young, on the other hand, is a bad right-wing person, totally unqualified for the role of giving colleges a free pass to churn out identity politics-obsessed Mary Whitehouse clones.

Thankfully social media is awash with such folk, especially politicians and journalists – the last people on earth to use family or friendship connections to get on in life. And they gleefully dug up recent examples of Young’s despicable views, such as his dislike for I, Daniel Bloke, the 2015 masterpiece from poverty-porn auteur Pat Loach. Many pointed out that, as an Oxford graduate, Young had no right to comment on a film about poor people, cleverly ignoring the fact that its director was an Oxford graduate too. But this was just the tip of the iceberg, because as the hysteria grew the perpetually offended somehow unearthed even worse examples of Young’s repugnance.

Chief among these were the claims that thirty years ago Young called working-class grammar school kids ‘stains’ and wrote a 2012 column which referred to disabled students as ‘functionally illiterate troglodytes’. This damning evidence was circulated all over the media by scores of brave liberals who had clearly never read the original articles, including Wigan Casino glass collector-turned-Corbynite cheerleader Paul Mason, who appeared to have gotten all of his information from a long-discredited 2015 hit-piece in former newspaper The Independent.

Several concerned leftists even started a petition calling for Young to be sacked, citing these two claims as proof of his wickedness. And never one to miss out on some moral outrage, Owen Jones chipped in with a predictably manic performance on Sky News in which he asserted three times that Young had called disabled students ‘troglodytes’.

Great work from everyone. But what made it even more sweet was the fact that Young never actually said either of those things. Indeed, as was obvious to anyone who took the time to find out what he had said, when he spoke of ‘stains’ he was talking about undergraduates in general, and the ‘functionally illiterate troglodyte with a mental age of six’ comment was an over-the-top example of where the state’s obsession with inclusivity might lead, exaggerated for comic effect despite not being particularly funny. Which is handy, as ‘funny’ is practically kryptonite to the modern left.

Not that that bothered the tens of thousands who signed the petition calling for Young to be fired. Nor did it concern Mason, who grabbed the opportunity to have a Twitter meltdown even more spectacular than that time he responded to a train being delayed with an epic rant in favour of nationalisation, blissfully unaware that the overhead lines which caused the delay are already nationalised. (He’s an economist, y’know.)

But despite the best efforts of The Purity Police, the campaign to shame Young barely registered, with most people on Twitter and practically everyone in the real world sharing the opinion that a gobby journalist being appointed to a board they couldn’t care less about was roughly ten times less important than some model getting her tits out on Celebrity Big Brother. Which as we were to learn, would have excited the breast-obsessed brute no end.

Because phase three was when the witch-hunt really kicked into gear, with even those unmoved by Young’s vile politics rightly appalled by his grim history of sexist jokes. And as all good liberals know, a sure-fire way to set off the pitchfork-wielders is to remind them of some comments someone once made about boobs. But they struck gold with the series of sick tweets Toby sent between 2009 and 2012. Because as well as boobs there are dicks, arses, knockers and tiddlers. Apparently one time he even called someone airhead.

Even worse, Young once offended LGBTQPRs everywhere with one of the worst anti-gay slurs imaginable. Indeed, in the dark history of homophobia there are few things more hurtful than calling someone ‘penis breath’. Though at least the whole sorry saga has brought home how foul this phrase is: few gay men will forget the devastating sight of Owen Jones spitting it out on Sky News as if he were coughing up a mouthful of Tory spunk. And I don’t know about you but I fear I’ll never again be able to watch ET without wincing at that evil little bigot, Gertie.

But the ugliest chapter of his three-year reign of titty-based terror was the foul tweet he sent paying tribute to film director Danny Cannon’s wife’s bosoms, little realising it was actually the Oscar winner’s DAUGHTER. Despite being blatantly obvious that Young hadn’t realised this – the clue being the fact that he used the word ‘wife’ – it was decided that as well as being a revolting Tory who hates disabled people and is obsessed with mammary glands he is also quite clearly a nonce. The idea of handing a middle-aged man who talks like a ten-year old delinquent the keys to the castle is beyond the pale. Give this animal a sniff of power and he’ll be spitting on the fire and drawing cocks on walls before you know it.

Still, fingers crossed the collective outrage is enough to force a U-turn, even if beyond Westminster, The Guardian and The Temperance League of Twitter no-one gives a shit about Young or his new job. Indeed, rumour has it in the world the only objection dumb Mail-readers had to Young using a vile phrase like ‘baps’ was that he didn’t choose a more downmarket term, such as ‘Bristols’ or ‘top bollocks’

Predictably, the Tory trolls piled in, determined to paint us as censorious, hysterical puritans for behaving like censorious, hysterical puritans. Some even went as far as ridiculously suggesting we were only upset with Young because he’s a Tory, conveniently ignoring the similarly frenzied paddy we threw in October when Clive Lewis offended middle-class curtain-twitchers everywhere by saying ‘on your knees, bitch!’.

But frankly, they’re not worth our time.  The modern left have done themselves proud once again, and the outrage of the last week should hold us in good stead for the battles to come. Indeed, point for point, Toby-gate has been a perfect example of the debating power of the regressive left.

Because you can’t just disagree with Young’s claim that wheelchair ramps are an example of PC gone mad. No, you have to cherry pick an unrelated line from the same article and say he hates disableds and thinks they’re troglodytes.

You can’t just argue against his hypothetical comments about who would most benefit from genetically engineered intelligence. No, you have to call him an evil eugenicist who wants to sterilise the poor and the stupid.

You can’t find out what he actually said about working-class students and ‘stains’ and criticise him for that. No, you have to take the word of agenda-drive activists like Paul Mason and an embarrassment of an online rag which has so little journalistic integrity it makes The Canary look like The Wall Street Journal.

And you can’t look at someone’s record of helping children and young adults of all backgrounds gain access to a good education. No, you have to focus on the fact that he’s made the odd laddish comment on the internet and decide that disqualifies him from doing a job which every sane person knows should only be available to members of the Labour Party. (Or Tories who know when to zip it.)

All in all, a textbook example of arguing your point when you don’t actually have one. And happily, as I write this news is filtering through that Young not only admitted to watching PORN he also once made a sick, unfunny and blatantly obvious joke about WANKING. Gotcha. You can run but you can’t hide, baldy.

But let’s not get too carried away. Believe it or not, there are things happening in other parts of the world far more serious than Toby Young getting a cushy job on a board. Because as we speak, brave people in a far-flung corner of the world are risking their lives to protest the way their oppressive regime has treated them.

These courageous rebels enjoy few of the luxuries we take for granted and deserve our solidarity as they fight tooth and nail in the name of liberal values. So I hereby call on all my followers to pledge support to their brothers and sister thousands of miles away who’ve spent the last week horrendously offended by this racist piece of shit:


Our thoughts are with you, comrades x


(Photo: Andrew Kneebone)





In Sickness And In Elf

Some testicles, yesterday.


By Ben Pensant.

Despite the beastliness of Brexit, the tyranny of Trump, and the way white people continued to destroy everything they touched, there was much to celebrate in 2017. From Katie Hopkins and Kelvin Mackenzie being fired for saying stuff Guardian-readers don’t like to Jezza and Labour wiping the floor with the Tories by losing another election to them, there was plenty of good news if you knew where to look for it.

Remember the excitement of watching marginalised Muslims retaliate to Islamophobic western foreign policy by mowing down pedestrians, blowing up teenagers and slashing the throats of booze-addled cockneys? Who could forget Larry Khan striking a blow for feminism by banning posters featuring women in bikinis from the Underground in case female commuters get so offended they start jumping in front of trains?

Marvellous memories but let’s not get carried away. Because as last week’s shocking Poundland scandal illustrated, there is currently a sharp divide between educated liberals outraged by the sight of two toys engaging in consensual sex-acts and ignorant bigots who couldn’t give two fucks. And despite the best efforts of Caroline Criado Whitehouse – journalist, activist and founder of Twitter’s Anti-Sex League – it appears the latter group are growing, emboldened by patriarchy, imperialism and having a sense of humour.

Predictably, right-wing social media defended Poundland’s hateful decision to promote Twinings Tea with a toy elf dangling its perforated plums over an unconscious woman as ‘banter’, that vile phenomenon popular with rape apologists. Cue principled outrage from middle-class journalists who had led such sheltered lives they’d never heard of ‘tea-bagging’ but were awfully cross about it anyway.

Which was understandable having been forced to look at an advert attacking women, trivialising sexual assault and promoting female subservience. That it was actually a harmless pun on something consenting adults do every day was irrelevant, quirky sex-acts clearly not widely discussed in the boarding schools and elite universities where Britain’s left-wing media starlets were taught how to think.

Needless to say, the privately educated victims of Poundland’s misogyny were ignored, the chain store refusing to withdraw the picture. Indeed, this wasn’t their first foray into the world of sexism, having recently tweeted horrendous images featuring the pointy-eared brute doing everything from enjoying a threesome with two Barbie Dolls to sticking his plastic penis through a hole in a wall, a particularly vile act which would give even the most laid-back H&S officer nightmares.

So it was left to feminist Twitter to fight the good fight, vowing to boycott Twinings and Poundland until they removed the ‘tea-bagging’ image and repeatedly stating that because the female elf was lying on her back it clearly meant she’d been assaulted rather than simply being quite common among consenting adults when one is sucking the other one’s knackers. Y’know, tea-bagging. Or as Ms Criado Whitehouse calls it: rape.

For the uninitiated, Caroline is a feminist. And like many feminists, this privately educated CEO’s daughter loves to rail against white male privilege despite being more privileged than any white male I know. Unsurprisingly, she was at the forefront of the anti-Poundland crusade, almost having a nervous breakdown over the fact that a grubby discount store had the nerve to make a joke about a consensual sex-act without considering the feelings of an Oxford graduate with an OBE. Which she announced to her followers with a late contender for most hysterically middle-class tweet of the year:

‘I’m pretty faithful to Twinings English Breakfast but would change fast as hell if it turns out they think a puerile middle-finger up at women is an acceptable marketing strategy’. Bold stuff from a traumatised woman, clearly haunted by grotesque hallucinations in which the evil elf wasn’t merely dangling its balls above the unconscious women’s mouth it was also fingering her. But this wasn’t just about a sexist photo: it was about tarnishing Caroline’s favourite hot drink – and by extension her very soul – by selling it in a grubby shop for poor people. Indeed, if the teabags the elf was forcing into his victim’s mouth were Tetley’s she wouldn’t give two fucks.

Happily, Twinings responded by doing what regressives admire most: caving in to the mob and issuing a grovelling apology. Though as Caroline pointed out fifty-seven times, the damage was already done: ‘I’ve fucking had enough of sexual assault being played for laughs!’ she railed, stubbornly sticking to the wonky equation that engaging in a consensual sex act = sexual assault.

She then brilliantly silenced her detractors by pointing out that the woman on the floor was wearing a T-shirt with ‘brave’ written on it. While uneducated Leave voters wondered what this had to do with sexual assault, the rest if us knew straight away, even before Caroline clarified it for the pro-rape crowd:

‘The T-shirt she’s wearing positions this as a middle-finger at the #MeToo movement’. Gotcha. With no evidence whatsoever to back up her claim, Caroline exposed Poundland’s real intention: to undermine an anti-sexual assault campaign by releasing a daft picture of two toys doing something naughty that has got bugger all to do with sexual assault. It’s so obvious it hurts.

Having sent her opponents back to their basements, Caroline continued to lambast Poundland for their ‘transparent attempt at outrage marketing’, an attempt so transparent she spent all day being outraged about it. ‘Which makes it far worse than just straight up sexism’. Indeed, it was something far, far worse: consensual sex, a thorn in the side of misandrists like Caroline for years. Because the only thing worse than a woman having sexual relations with a man is a woman having sexual relations with a man because she wants to.

A position summed up by the angry woman so horrified by Poundland she reported them to the police. No word yet on how the investigation is coming along but fingers crossed she got through and wasn’t kept waiting while the operator dealt with something trivial like a robbery, a murder or an actual sexual assault.

Luckily, Caroline and her followers were ably supported by an assortment of male allies who know when to shut up, Do Better and show their solidarity with the sisterhood by sitting down when they go for a piss. Chief among these white knights was Times columnist Hugo Rifkind, who riled Caroline by making a sensible point – a sure-fire way to piss off a modern feminist – before getting back in her good books by spending the rest of the thread bowing, curtsying and apologising through his teeth to avoid the wrath of the Anti-Sex League Banshees.

‘Sorry. Wasn’t’ he replied after Caroline accused him of ‘eye-rolling at women getting rightly upset’. What Hugo had actually done was make the straightforward observation that middle-class media types boycotting Poundland was unlikely to affect their sales. But Caroline didn’t get where she is today by debating actual points when hysterical straw-man arguments do the job ten times better. Something Hugo was mindful of as the exchange progressed, his craven apologetics even earning a rare ‘sorry’ from Caroline for misreading his point. ‘Don’t be’ Hugo replied, his testicles retreating so fast he coughed up a mouthful of pubes: ‘I was being flip, maybe I shouldn’t be’.

He then apologised to a different woman, disheartened that her anger over a photo of two consenting toys being rude had been ‘discredited’ as moral outrage. ‘I’m honestly not sure anyone in this thread is doing that’ he pleaded, offering up what remained of his ball-sack as a blood sacrifice, ‘but I’m sorry if that’s how it looks’. Wise move. Because there’s nothing more guaranteed to melt regressive hearts quicker than apologising for how they feel.

Hugo then wisely decided to avoid any more misunderstanding, earning much-needed brownie points by doubling-down on how appalling the elf picture was: ‘If this was similarly racially or religiously offensive it would be illegal’ he pointed out, tapping in to the modern leftist desire to criminalise everything they don’t like. Though he wisely avoided explaining either what was offensive about the picture or what its racially or religiously offensive equivalents would be. If an elf getting tea-bagged promotes rape I daren’t even imagine the reaction to black and Jewish elves sharing a glass of Eggnog.

Thankfully, it seems at uni Hugo et al were far too busy reading books and being intellectual to watch porn or learn about a well-known sexual position that even Caroline’s idol Mary Whitehouse had probably heard of. (I hear her good friend Jimmy Savile kept her up to date with all the latest trends.) Which proved extremely useful when stubbornly pushing the narrative that a plastic toy pretending to pleasure another plastic toy was in fact not a cheeky pun on the term ‘tea-bagging’ but a cruel piece of propaganda designed to discredit victims of assault.

As Caroline put it: ‘I hate being used like this in such a horrendous way’ cleverly blaming Poundland for inciting her to spend a whole day making a fuss out of something she didn’t understand. ‘It’s mocking women fighting back against sexual assault. I feel dirty’ See what you did to this poor woman? Not only is she so traumatised she’s started imagining a photo of a toy lying on its back signifies rape, you’ve also forced her to spend all day thinking about it. Shameful.

Sadly, despite the support Caroline received there was a sting in the tail for The Purity Police, as it became disappointingly apparent that in The Real World the vast majority of people were firmly on Poundland’s side. Including women. Yes, that’s right, in 2017 there actually exists brain-damaged females who not only have the temerity to disagree with a double-barrelled socialite with letters after her name but also have such crippling internalised misogyny they aren’t outraged by a daft picture of an elf with its stots out. Terrifying.

Still, once Caroline realised that the vast majority of people couldn’t care less where a toy sticks its paper nuts, she went back to doing what she does best: whining about Brexit, covering up the legs on pianos and making hysterically bigoted comments about men that would have her screaming ‘hate crime!’ if someone said them about any other group.

Indeed, she gleefully switched her attention to the other big issue that only a handful of tearful pro-EU zealots give a shit about: blue passports. Getting stuck right in, she propagated the popular, evidence-free, frankly bizarre theory that changing their colour was a chief reason idiots voted Leave, before lamenting that exiting the EU will mean she will no longer be able to work and travel throughout Europe despite the fact that she quite literally will.

All of which seemed to get her regressive juices re-flowing after the dispiriting Poundland defeat, and it was great to see her take a break from the fight against toy-based misogyny to join her Remainer brethren in their latest bout of Brexit-based hysteria. I for one took huge pleasure in watching the same people who’ve spent 18 months telling Leave voters how gullible they are re-tweeting the illogical claim that it costs £500 million to change a passport from red to blue.

But despite that fleeting victory the war is far from over, with Caroline and the feminist resistance currently in retreat like the Rebel MCs at the end of the new Star Trek film. They’re sure to bounce back though and I’m in no doubt that Caroline is training her troops as we speak, prepping them for an all-out assault on the next cheap supermarket that thinks it’s funny to mock rape victims by making silly puns about sex-acts. Fingers crossed they’ve done their homework and know their rim-jobs from their bagpipes.

May the force be with them.

A Play For Yesterday

A dragon.

By Ben Pensant

Believe it or not, politics wasn’t my first love. Despite being more clued up than most, my road to becoming the voice of a generation was paved with other passions, most of which are perfectly legal. Chief among those was a love of the arts, in particular performance and literature. Indeed, without the escapist joy of reading and acting I dread to think what my life would have been like under the tyranny of abusive, alcoholic parents.

But while being locked in a damp cupboard under the stairs and forced to live on orange peel and live mice may have broken less precocious children, for me this typical working-class existence was to be my making. Because as well as a life-long hemorrhoid problem, my grim cellar days also gifted me the freedom to dream, to disappear, to spend my summer holidays ploughing through a pile of mouldy paperbacks, scrawling one-man plays in blood on the ceiling, and slicing my tongue to ribbons licking rusty dog food cans.

Still, despite exposing myself to as much culture as possible (in between chewing on burst tennis balls and attempting suicide with a plastic spoon), when I eventually escaped my cider-drenched parents at 16 I opted against pursuing the arts. Instead I retained my integrity by forging a successful career as a recipient of the welfare state, a vocation which still burns bright to this day. Though as it turned out, my natural flare for writing and acting proved vital when deflecting the Job Centre’s fascistic demands for evidence of my attempts to find work and numerous physical disabilities.

In many respects I owe everything to what that grim period gave me, not least the confidence to spend my adult life claiming more benefits than a one-eyed Islamist skag dealer with twelve children and a bad back. But I’ve also gone to great lengths to give something to the community while doing as little as possible and expecting everyone else to pay for it. Which in turn has brought pleasure to countless others, as demonstrated by those joyous afternoons critiquing EastEnders and Jackie Collins to comatose pensioners in the Black Bull, Benton. (I’ll be there from 1pm every day next week if anyone fancies saying ‘hi’ or buying me two pints and a Pepperami.)

All of which informed my exciting decision to start using this platform not just for political activism but also to re-ignite my passion for literature and drama by righting some of the wrongs that have occurred when seminal novels have been mangled for the screen. Utilising my in-depth knowledge, I aim to share this wisdom with my readers, many of whom have no idea how much better Jaws would have been if George Lucozade had cast Benny Hill in the lead role instead of Bill Cosby.

But this isn’t just about analysing poor adaptations. I could talk all day about what David Finchley got wrong when he adapted The Girl With The Pearl Earring but it’d be like shooting apples in a barrel. No, I plan to go deeper. Because often it’s the original texts themselves that are lacking. And similar to the pleasure I take in highlighting the racism of idiot Brexiters, I intend to use this new venture to show failed geniuses such as Seb Larson and F. Murray Fitzgerald exactly where they went wrong. And my goal couldn’t be simpler: to re-shape and re-imagine these fatally flawed pieces for a modern, progressive audience.

But I won’t be producing cheap re-makes or sequels. If you’re expecting Freddy The 13th, forget it. Because during my childhood held captive under the stairs one of the few things that kept me going was Radio 6, particularly long-running sex and sheep saga The Arthurs. Indeed, some of my fondest memories involve shivering in a vomit-stained blanket with my ear glued to the ancient transistor radio, praying I’d make it to the end of the episode before the battery died, I passed out from frostbite or my dad walked in and started kicking imaginary pigeons while leaving a trail of syrupy black piss on the floorboards.

In fact, the only artform that could possibly do justice to my vision is the radio play – a far more esoteric and evocative medium than cinema or TV. By re-creating key scenes from classic novels the correct way, at long last the layman can get a glimpse of what might have been if all of those highly paid screenwriters and directors had a tenth of my talents.

Which brings me to the first novel to be given my unique audio redux treatment: JRR Martin’s little known sci-fi epic, A Song Of Tits And Dragons.

Some tits.

As you’re probably aware, in 2015 this weighty tome was adapted into a cult TV series by HSBC, whereupon it was re-christened Game Of Throne to make the dark drama more palatable to Americans with shit for brains. Needless to say, the title wasn’t the only thing they changed. Because throughout its ten-year run GOT has taken huge liberties with its source material: altering names, locations and bra-sizes while repeatedly disrespecting Martin’s bold vision in order to sate the feral desires of hotdog-scoffing Trump voters from Michigan.

Not that I actually watch the show. I stopped after the pilot episode, sensing it would inevitably sell out as the brainless public latched on to its cynical blend of swords and fanny. Needless to say, I jumped ship immediately once I found out it was no longer only available from ultra-secret streaming services months before broadcast and could now be watched by any beer-swilling knacker with a Skynet subscription.

Because there’s no better way to scrub the elitist lustre from a piece of high quality drama than broadcasting it in the UK at the same time it airs in the states. What self-respecting TV connoisseur wants to watch something that brings joy to millions instead of a handful of snobs? Gone are the golden days of watching US TV months before everyone else and acting unbearably smug about your new favourite show that no fucker has heard of. Now, thanks to Robert Murdoch, Yoohoo and Kwikflix, most American shows are available immediately to everyone rather than just a small cabal of socially awkward web-savvy virgins.

Sadly, the mid-noughties joy of watching The Choir a year before anyone else is gone for good, and with it our fond memories of the show itself. Because as the western world descends into white supremacy the inherent wrongness of that much-lauded cop show – and others from the so-called ‘golden generation’ – is now painfully obvious. Take the irresponsible way it depicted black communities blighted by drugs and violence as a complex and difficult issue with no easy answers, completely at odds with the Black Lives Matter position which propagates the narrative that evil cops shoot innocent black men and force them to kill each other because of systemic something-or-other. And don’t even get me started on the crudely stereotyped Columbian meth-lords in Breaking Saul.

It’s thanks to this malaise that when it comes to GOT I stand firmly in the ‘not as good as the books’ camp. Not that I’ve read them. I stopped after chapter one as I got the distinct impression they were getting dangerously close to selling out. And by ‘selling out’ I mean it had shifted more than ten copies and expanded its audience to include people who wear shellsuits, eat kebabs and murder their own children.

So we parted ways, though I still fondly recall those halcyon days, in much the same way I’ll always cherish my memories of Nirvana’s early months: writing their logo all over my pencil-case, rocking out to their debut album Ten before it had even been recorded, and setting fire to it after finding out they’d played a gig to over twenty people at Southampton Roadmender’s. Marvellous times and while it was a wrench to withdraw my support after they took the corporate dollar, no-one was more pleased than me when Bert Cocaine clawed back some underground cred by sticking a rifle in his mouth and shooting his face off.

But despite bailing from GOT after one episode I’ll always feel an affinity with the TV series. (And I’d wager I know more about it than most of the people who’ve watched all eight seasons too.) All of which informed my thinking when debating which parts of Martin’s opus could be most improved by my idiosyncratic touch. Would I go for loveable pixie Taiwan Lancaster’s trip to Hadrian’s Wall with rugged hero Peter Snow? How about albino queen Linda Hamilton’s unsuccessful attempts to house-train her pet dinosaurs? Or maybe the dark chapter in which treacherous chimney sweep Alfie Lovejoy gets his knob bitten off by evil prince Michael Bolton?

When it came to promising chapters just crying out to be improved I was spoilt for choice. But in the end I went back to the early stuff (what else?), specifically the seminal sequence that laid the foundation for the entire story. Yes, I’m talking about the perilous trip from north to south enjoyed by King of Westworld Robert Baracus and his effeminate best friend Nev Stark.

Nev and Robert deal with an arsey barmaid.


This section had it all – drama, humour, and a poorly sketched relationship just dying to be electrified by someone who knows these characters better than the man who created them. And the modern-day parallels were simply too good to resist, from Robert’s boorish, bullying Brexiteer to Nev, the kind, gentle Corbynite. Who, much like Britain, could have saved himself a truckload of bother if only he’d ‘remained’ in Wintersville.

But most of all it was a chance to show what really went on between these two characters as they made that fateful journey west. Friends who’ve heard my piece have observed that it reveals an emotional core to Robert and Nev’s friendship that was sorely missing on page and screen. That’s not for me to say though they’re most definitely correct. I’ve also been told my version chimes beautifully with the intersectional world we now inhabit, easily dwarfing the casually offensive orignal in terms of its grasp of identity politics. No mean feat considering the only two characters are white men who’d stick their dicks in a bacon sandwich if it smiled at them.

To keep the fanboys happy I’ve retained the iconic them tune from the TV show, but other than that this is as original a story as can be written about two characters invented by someone else. You’ll also notice that the accents are somewhat different to the crass cod-Yorkshire found in the TV show. Needless to say, as sole voice actor I was determined to add some authentic northern grit, not least with Nev, whose pitch-perfect burr contrasts sharply with the lacklustre brogue used in the TV show by Sean Penn. I don’t mind admitting this is a direct result of my clever decision to imbue his accent with the laconic charm of Wigan Casino cleaner-cum-guerilla economist Paul Mason. I believe the results speak for themselves.

But enough from me. The time has come to disappear into a magical imaginary world filled with magic and imagination. (As well as rape, incest and child murder.) There’s a little town in the highlands where a brave man from the north is about to make a momentous decision that will echo through this life and the next…


(Recorded, edited and mixed by Don Eggnog)










The Far-Right Stuff

St Jezza’s post-election guard of honour was impeccably observed.


By Ben Pensant

‘Hi @TheresaMay, in case you hadn’t noticed, Donald Trump is promoting British Neo-Nazis, do you have anything to say whatsoever?’

This tweet was sent last month by Owen Jones, hours after Donald Trump had shocked the world by unexpectedly doing something idiotic on Twitter. Within 24 hours The Wicked Witch of Downing Street had released a statement condemning President Pussy-Grab, terrified that if she remained silent OJ might demand she comment on something equally earth-shattering, like a footballer’s wife eating a bowl of hippo bell-ends on live television.

But forget our useless PM, whose sole purpose is keeping Number Ten’s executive shit-house gleaming in anticipation of the day Jezza evicts her and her four-eyed hubby. (I’ll say one thing for Tory women, they may be evil but they’re bloody handy with a bog-brush.) No, this is about moral consistency and the way progressives like Owen have thrown it under the bus, along with equality, free speech, universal human rights and everything else they abandoned years ago.

Because it’s a measure of Owen’s self-awareness that he condemns Trump for promoting British Neo-Nazis despite spending two years cheerleading for a man with a history of promoting Palestinian Neo-Nazis. And this lax attitude to consistency is everywhere among modern liberals, especially on Twitter. Take spoof newsman Jonathan Pile, who used to treat all politicians with contempt and delight in skewering left and right. All that changed around election time when he became a one-man PR machine for Labour, adoringly re-tweeting Jezza’s every word and lauding him as the beret-clad messiah he obviously is.

Needless to say, Pile gleefully attacked Trump’s Britain First mishap, somewhat ironically considering in June the funnyman re-tweeted an anti-Semitic Corbynite fond of posting memes alleging the Jews planned 9/11 and faked the moon landings. Fortunately Jonathan did what all Jezzabels do when faced with such smears and ignored them. Because anyone who thinks the knuckle-dragging racists of Britain First are remotely comparable to a principled leftist who once said ‘a Zionist would rape his own mother for an inch of Palestine’ needs serious help.

As do the shameful right-wingnuts who recently turned on Gary Lineker for re-tweeting a cleverly-edited video depicting Israeli soldiers brutalising Palestinian children. In a brazen attempt to deflect from the damning footage, Zio troublemakers focused on the fact that Lineker was re-tweeting Ben White, an amiable progressive with a proud history of defending holocaust denial and violence against Jews. Yes, this is now considered a bad thing.

Luckily, liberal Twitter rallied around Gary, proving there are certain circumstances when it’s perfectly okay for a rich man off the telly to re-tweet a misleading video from a bigoted source. Indeed, the same people who call one rich man an evil racist will passionately support the other rich man provided it’s Israel being demonised and not Muslims.

As you’d expect, Lineker’s explanation was simple: he didn’t know who White was but it didn’t matter because the video was still ‘sickening’ regardless. Which is a valid explanation. Apart from when Trump uses it. Because in his case it wasn’t just the source that was offensive but the content. Which is why they were roundly described as ‘anti-Muslim’ videos: it wasn’t just Britain First who were racist but the footage itself. And as every progressive knows, even saying a Muslim has done something wrong is inherently Islamophobic: just look at the disturbing way the media spent the whole of 9/11 talking abut 9/11 when plenty of other newsworthy stuff was going on that day.

Thankfully, Owen Jones needed no such excuses when he publicised a MEND event in October as he knew plenty about the bigots he was re-tweeting. For despite Owen regularly condemning the far-right, there are times when enabling and supporting extremists isn’t just acceptable it’s vital. And if you don’t you’re a racist. Or worse, a ‘melt’.

Of course, the idea that not supporting the far-right implies racism can be confusing. But you need only look at the history of Britain’s next Prime Minister to join the dots. Because the Dear Leader’s sparkling career is practically a step-by-step guide to the nice parts of the far-right. Indeed, Corbyn was metaphorically re-tweeting the far-right when Trump was just a twinkle in a TV executive’s eye.

But now more than ever, with far-right Twitter accounts disappearing faster than George Galloway’s botox fund, it’s vital to remember who the good far-right guys are. (They’re easy to spot on social media: their names tend to be written in foreignish and they haven’t been banned yet.) And with more battles to come in 2018, we need our ideological weapons cocked and loaded at all times. So here, constant reader, is my Winterville gift, a rundown of the most popular far-right groups it’s okay to like:


Far-right anti-Semitic terrorists who carry out suicide bombings, fire rockets at civilians and have a charter calling for the genocide of Jews worldwide. Their political wing, while no less extreme, are less pro-actively stab-happy due to having their hands full counting money, imprisoning gays, threatening trade unionists and shooting protesters. Which, of course, they’re forced to do because of Israeli apartheid or something.

But their government has still boasted a wide range of eccentric Ministers, such as Adallah Darbu, who calls Jews a ‘foreign bacteria’, Marwen Abu Ras, who believes they are ‘behind every catastrophe on the face on the earth’, and Ahmad Bar, who thinks the best way to engage with Jews is to ‘kill them all, without leaving a single one’

All in all, they’re so far-right they make Britain First look like the Natural Law Party. But they’re also brown-skinned Muslims and enemies of Israel. Which is why Corbyn thinks they’re ‘dedicated to peace and social justice’, angrily denies they’re a terrorist group and never condemns their violent ideology. See how easy it is?

The Islamic Republic of Iran 

A shining beacon of anti-imperialism, this far-right theocracy has enchanted leftists for decades. As well as banning music, persecuting journalists and forcing women to wear headscarves, the proud regime also hang homosexuals from cranes and love dishing out fatwas to blasphemers, such as novelist Salman Rushdie, put under house arrest in 1989 after Ayatollah Hogmanay took umbrage to an offensive book he hadn’t read.

Rushdie escaped detection and still peddles his racist trash to this day, though the same can’t be said for the various publishers and translators of the book who were murdered. Another recent death sentence-recipient was Islamophobic ‘comedian’ Barry David, though this was nothing new as pretty much everyone with David’s heritage has a fatwa on their heads.

Happily, none of this has ever stopped polemicists like Comrade Milne and John Shight lauding this far-right theocracy. And it certainly never stopped Jezza speaking at an event in 2014 celebrating the regime’s 35th anniversary. Or pocketing thousands for hosting a lively phone-in on Iran’s propaganda channel Press TV, where callers spoke passionately about how much they hated Israel, Jews and Israeli Jews.

The Islamic Human Rights Commission

One of several far-right Islamist groups (MEND, CAGE) with a knack for appealing to liberals who would run a mile from such bigotry if it came from white non-Muslims, the IHRC earn top billing due to the fact that they throw by far the best party.

They are loyal to Iran and keen supporters of Hezbollah, the brave Lebanese resistance who first enchanted mainstream leftists in 2006 when pram-pushing middle-class liberals attended anti-war protests waving ‘We Are All Hezbollah’ banners, blissfully unaware that the freedom fighters they were pledging solidarity with were about as progressive as David Duke.

But the IHRC are nothing if not equal opportunities bigots, so despite their ties to Shia Iran they’ll happily break bread with their Sunni adversaries if it means sticking it to the west. Hence their 2015 Islamophobe Of The Years awards ceremony, a riotous night where they awarded top prize to the Charlie Hebdo staff. A month after 12 of them were shot dead by jihadists.

So it will surprise no-one to learn that the Dear Leader is a huge fan, saying on TV that the IHRC ‘represent all that is good about Islam’ and being a longstanding supporter of their annual hate-fest…

Al Quds Day

…Or at least he used to be until he became Labour leader and decided it might be wise to stuff his past appearances into the nearest memory hole and deny all knowledge of the far-right event’s existence. Hence, despite their London march attracting leftists from far and wide, it’s roundly ignored by high-profile Corbynites, particularly Owen Jones, who spent the weekend of this year’s bash showing solidarity with striking cinema ushers, moaning about Henry Kissinger giving a lecture in London and tweeting unironically about the far-right. (The bad far-right, not the Islamist one, obvs).

Still, despite pretending it wasn’t happening I’m sure OJ and Jezza were there in spirit, if not disguises. And it was quite a day, the highlight an impassioned speech by the IHRC’s Nazim Ali, in which he blamed Zionists for Grenfell, accused Israel of being in league with ISIS and claimed the right to Jewish self-determination was a ‘fascist ideology’. Stirring stuff, and everything you’d expect from the compere of that legendary 2015 awards ceremony, where he famously quipped that the Charlie Hebdo staff ‘couldn’t make it’ to collect their award (!).

Needless to say, before Labour put a gagging order on anyone even mentioning Kill The Jews Day, Corbyn was an enthusiastic supporter, appearing and giving rousing speeches. No such careful reluctance from the rest of the regressive left, who attend with gusto every year and proudly tweet photos of themselves hobnobbing with people who hate them.

People like Raed Salah, the far-right Israeli Arab banned from entering Britain in 2011 after it came to light he’d funded Hamas and had numerous convictions relating to anti-Semitism, terrorism, and anti-Semitic terrorism. If that doesn’t tell you the kind of freedom fighter we’re talking about, he also thinks the Jews were behind 9/11, believes in The Elder Protocols Of Zion and The Franklin Prophecy and three years ago gave a stirring speech predicting that one day Jerusalem would ‘become the capital of the global caliphate’. (Is there any dream Trump hasn’t scuppered?)

So it makes perfects sense that in 2012 Corbyn called him ‘an honoured citizen who represents his people very well’ and invited him for tea and biscuits at the House of Commons.

Similarly, far-right Muslim convert Ibrahim Hewitt is equally popular with regressives. During his time as headmaster of the Al Aqsa school in Leicester he annoyed Islamophobes by segregating children and banning music lessons, no doubt earning props from Hamas, those champions of social justice who Hewitt has met on numerous occasions through Interpal, his peaceful Islamist charity. In addition, during a Newsnight appearance in 2014 he condoned stoning women to death for adultery, and once wrote a book which he called homosexuality and ‘abominable practice’ and compared gays to paedophiles.

All things considered, you can see exactly why a LGBT/women’s rights supporter like Jezza would call Hewitt ‘a very good friend who I know extremely well’ and join the amiable bigot on trips to Gaza to chill with the Absolute Boys of Hamas.

Speaking of which, there are few Boys more Absolute than The Iraqi Resistance, that principled coalition of far-right Ba’athists and far-right Jihadists who, as George Galloway put it, ‘wrote the names of their towns and cities in the stars’ by carrying out suicide bombings on innocent people. Unsurprisingly, they had the full support of Corbyn’s Anyone But The West Coalition, demonstrating their passion for democracy and socialism by backing courageous insurgents with a penchant for blowing up polling stations and murdering trade unionists.


Now, I know what you’re thinking. Surely no liberal could defend the people listed above? And in a sane world, you’d be right. But desperate times call for hypocritical measures, which is why the best bet is to put these treacherous thoughts from your mind and throw all your weight behind the left-wing fascists regressives love so much. Because let’s face it, from Stalin to Castro and beyond there are multiple socialist dictators to choose from, with much greater numbers and way cooler uniforms than their far-right equivalents.

Be they brown or white, far-left or far-right, the point of these groups is to control and kill people. It doesn’t matter what side of the fence they sit on, as long as they blend that totalitarian urge with a healthy dollop of anti-westernism they can murder as many civilians as they like. So the fact that Muslims are the regressive left’s victims du jour is in no way compromised by its previous support for the Serbian generals who murdered thousands of Muslims.

Because the suffering of innocents at the hands of allies is to be ignored at all costs. As Stop The War’s Lindsay German put it when anti-regime Iranians were ejected from a Hands Off Iran protest in 2012: ‘The Iranian government is a matter for the Iranian people. We here in the West have one duty: to oppose our own regime’. A duty she wasn’t keen on affording the Iranians who turned up to do just that and had their flags pulled down for their trouble. (Needless to say, the Hezbollah flags remained present throughout.)

And for anyone wondering what this has to do with Jezza? Well, he was standing next to Ms German the whole time. Though if you’re one of those Corbynites who’d prefer to believe he wasn’t and his presence was a lie invented by the Tory press that’s totally cool too. Because as the last two years have shown, the most reliable way to counter smears about Corbyn’s support for fascists is to plead ignorance, mumble ‘what about Saudi Arabia’?, claim your opponent is a Zionist shill and insist any incriminating evidence was planted by Mossad. All of which gives the Dear Leader a free pass to come out with the most principled hypocrisy this side of his own shadow cabinet and still be lauded as the most honest politician in town.

‘I hope our government will condemn far-right re-tweets by Donald Trump. They are abhorrent, dangerous and a threat to our society’

Oh, Jeremy. Don’t ever change.






Bad Toon Rising

The Tyne Bridge is once again put back together after drunken thugs tried to steal it last weekend.


By Ben Pensant

I’m often asked if I have any advice for people planning to visit Newcastle. My answer is always the same: Don’t. Unless you’re a masochistic freak who actually enjoys the smell of blood, freezing your knackers off in July and running the gauntlet of Leave-voting hooligans every time you trek to the city-centre’s only Waitrose for a Guardian and a week’s supply of kale.

If that sounds unappealing then trust me – the reality’s even worse. Because if you don’t own a pit-bull or a microwave there’s nothing for you here. In fact, if it weren’t for Chi Onwurah there’d be nothing for me either. Chi, you may recall, is the brave Labour MP whose response to the recent child-grooming scandal was to say ‘nothing to do with Islam’ repeatedly while passionately denying there was any racial element whatsoever to Pakistani men calling teenage girls ‘white cunts’ before raping them.

Indeed, as a woman of colour Chi knows more than most about the racism and misogyny that infects the pasty-strewn streets of this bigoted hell-hole. (Unless of course that racism and misogyny comes from someone called Muhammad. Which it doesn’t so stop mentioning it you bloody fascist.) Even Newcastle Athletic were forced to put white stripes on their shirts just in case the knuckle-dragging natives were driven to bloodlust by an all-black strip.

You need only recall the chilly reception given to Reverend Malcolm Luther X when he visited Newcastle in the late ’70s to understand this ingrained hatred. Following a successful speech at Northumberland Trinity College in front of a crowd of rich hippies – at the time the only people in the north-east who’d seen a living breathing black man – Luther and his entourage were forced to barricade themselves inside a squalid café behind Haymarket bus-station. They then spent the rest of the afternoon being force-fed soggy stotty with no butter by the retarded owner while outside Geordie skinheads threw bananas at the window until they got bored and kicked fuck out of that tramp who looks like Mick Fleetwood and eats pigeons.

The police arrived hours later, sending the skinheads on their way with a clip around the ear before dragging Mick Fleetwood into the back of a van by his beard where he stayed in solitary confinement until his early ’90s comeback. Luther was adamant the ugly incident wouldn’t ruin his trip and even took pity on his aggressors, famously telling his chauffeur: ‘Aa don’t know who dose folks are but dey gotta devil in dem!’ before hightailing it back to Alabama, stopping off in Hexham to draw a cock on the Angel Of The North.

Luckily, before departing Luther allowed his Nation Of Islam heavies to put a curse on the city of Newcastle. It’s no coincidence that several decades later the peace-loving sect would get their deserved revenge by subjecting the daughters of those foul skinheads to a prolonged campaign of slavery and sexual assault. Payback’s a bitch, amirite?

Still, despite my obvious and not-at-all patronising affinity for black culture, its customs and patois – I’ve watched The Crosby Show and everything – it’s my sense of duty to the Labour heartlands that have kept me here. Though I sometimes wonder why I bother as it’s plain to see that the soul – and more importantly, the suffering – has been systematically ripped out of these once-proud communities.

Instead of poverty-stricken victims waiting for a millionaire socialist to wave his magic benefit wand, northern towns are now chock-full of ungrateful class traitors with the temerity to earn decent money, own houses and cars, go on holiday every year and generally behave like autonomous adults rather than passive stooges serving no purpose other than to hand votes to gentle Marxists dishing out free money and Turkey Twizzlers.

And thanks to them there’s little left here worth fighting for. Because no matter how often Owen Jones or David Lammy tell them, the working-class will NEVER listen to people who know better. It’s like a mental illness. And you only have to look at what happened in June 2016 to see where this stupidity leads.

Because the proles rejecting socialism was bad enough, but to reject the diversity, tolerance and undemocratic bureaucracy of the European Union is taking the piss. Luckily by some miracle Newcastle voted to Remain – just – thanks largely to a small but passionate minority of principled, educated progressives; the same walking artichokes in tight cardigans and designer specs who regularly give Lord Jezza a rousing reception every time he makes a trip to the north-east despite the fact he’s spent his entire career opposed to the EU.

Still, Jezza’s long history of Euroscepticism never stopped millions of brain surgeons in blue face paint voting for him. And it certainly hasn’t stopped them giving the Dear Leader a rousing reception every time he jumps on a ram-packed train to Toon to be greeted like a pop star by devout anti-capitalists with £500 iPhones tucked into the pockets of their Che Guevara hoodies.

Put simply, if it wasn’t for students, lecturers and the entitled offspring of rich civil servants from Gosforth and Tynemouth this place would have burnt to the ground decades ago. Which brings us to reformed Geordie and Hollywood starlet Andrea Riseborough, who last week made the front page of The Evening Chronicle after appearing on a US chat-show and waxing lyrical about how ghastly Newcastle is. Her diatribe was so joyous I almost petitioned Momentum to remove her name from The List for starring in vile anti-communist propaganda piece The Death Of Lenin. Almost.

I have no idea if Andrea is entitled or her parents rich, though she did once say that her mam and dad were ‘working-class Thatcherites’ – the worst kind of Thatcherites and the most evil members of the working-class. And while this shouldn’t be used as a black mark against Andrea, it does make me wonder why at no point during her childhood did she think to make the world a better place by suffocating them while they slept.

But she more than made up for such a glaring oversight with that appearance on The Late Show With Jimmy Kimble, in which she followed in the esteemed footsteps of Newcastle legends such as Stink and Jimmy Spender by turning her nose up at the grim, insignificant shit-hole from whence she came. Calling Tyneside ‘the armpit’ of Britain, she went on to describe in graphic detail the horror of Newcastle Brown Ale, that vile concoction drunk by denim-clad hate criminals with corned-beef necks and feet for hands:

‘I took an ex-boyfriend to Newcastle and he was like “the whole time I’m here I’m going to drink Brown Ale!”. We were in a theatre watching a play and halfway through he was like (stands up suddenly) and he had to jump over three rows. It just kind of sits there and ferments and then you’ve got to pee, you’ve got no choice’

You’d be forgiven for thinking Andrea was talking about Buckfast rather than syrupy bottled bitter weaker than a pint of Carling, but the effect it had on her beau just shows what happens when the theatre class try to mix it with the scum of the earth. I dread to think what fate befell him later that night but judging by some of the zombified states I’ve seen falling out of The Black Garter, needing a slash before the third act is the least of his worries.

Luckily, Andrea’s fella was clearly of good stock, a bottle of Dog more likely to give him a migraine than make him rip his shirt off and start a fight with a Metro. But he’s not the problem. Because despite being only 4.7%, the grim alchemy that occurs when Brown Ale is swallowed by poor people and lands on the undigested remains of cremated kebab meat is akin to throwing petrol on a bubbling chip-pan. And like cannibals used to guzzling raw flesh and dry bone, the constitution of the working-class man is so robustly animalistic that this ungodly smorgasboard barely gives him a stomach ache, even as it melts his already-mushy brain. I hope and pray Andrea’s ex hadn’t eaten any takeaways that night and made it out alive.

But even if he didn’t, thank god Andrea did. And with a home in LA it’s no wonder she’s so at ease chewing the fat with Kimble about how great California is and reliving terrifying memories of her bleak childhood at the hard-as-nails Church High girls’ school in dog-rough Jesmond.

Which couldn’t be further from the luxury in which she and Kimble now reside. As the genial host smugly put it while grilling Andrea for more information about the northern slum she was forced to grow up in: ‘It’s funny because you hear Newcastle and you think it’s some shining city on a hill’. Far from it, Jimmy. There are plenty of hills in Gateshead but the only thing you’ll find at the top of them is another hill. And if you do see something shining it won’t be a sparkly palace but the bald dome of the man who sticks a knife in your cheek and steals your jacket.

No, the only city that shines is Tinseltown, which not only has the warmest weather and whitest cocaine but the most principled people on earth. People like Jimmy, who was so horrified by the revelations that a seemingly decent Democrat like Harvey Weinstein was something of a sex-pest he avoided making jokes about it for a whole week.

And this is now Ms Riseborough’s world too – a word where no-one would dream of drinking something that rots their bladder, where no-one ever eats pigeons or pisses themself watching Hamilton, where the only thing as debauched as a night out on the Bigg Market is a night in with Bryan Singer.

Combined with the comfort of being surrounded by a coterie of secret junkies and liberal misogynists, it’s not hard to see why Brit actors are queuing up to embrace the most virtuous place on earth. And with barely enough out-and-proud right-wingers to fill a Klan meeting it sounds like the perfect safe space for a modern progressive. Indeed, I’m half tempted to take Andrea’s lead myself and forge a new life among people richer, happier and better than me. It’s just a shame I haven’t the slightest clue how to act, sell drugs or wait tables.

Still, under Corbyn’s government perhaps there’ll be hope for provincial dumps like Newcastle, a town so in tune with the zeitgeist its flagship newspaper ran a front page story about an actress appearing on a chat show in 2016. Failing that, he may take a rare leaf out of the Tories’ book and write off the area altogether like Thatcher did with Merseyside. At least that would get working-class Geordies back on the dole where they belong and give Jezza and co. some fresh victims to exploit and patronise. Hmm.

I’m staying put. Sorry Andrea, it appears home really is where the heart is. And when that home is five minute’s walk from the dole office it’s a no-brainer. The prospect of PM Corbyn sweeping to power and allowing me to carry on making that sacred journey every fortnight is just too good to pass up. In the words of President Jimmy Connors when he landed at Newcastle Airport in 1967 to retrieve Malcolm Luther X’s lost luggage: