It was Theresa May who made me realise that the world had gone mad. It was just after a couple of greasy cretins put some fairy-lights in a bucket and took it on a train full of kids, in an attempt to burn their faces off. It was just a small thing – don’t know why I didn’t realise it before.
It was when she said what is said to us each time similar greasy cretins do their thing. To paraphrase:
“Islam is a religion of peace so you’d better not criticise it after some of it’s followers have tried to kill you, or it’s followers will try to kill more of you.”
There was no irony intended. This was our Glorious Leader seriously telling us that people we are supposed to view as peaceable fellow citizens will naturally be homicidally triggered by us questioning why it is that, each time some freak runs amok with a claw hammer or machete, he is howling “Allahu Akbar!” and not shouting something a bit less Islamic, say, the lyrics to Abba’s ‘Dancing Queen’, or an excerpt from a Kipling poem.
There was sanctimony there: well, if we will be so bigoted that we get pissed off about kids being killed at concerts, what can we expect?
Worse – there was a threat. Shut up and die in silence, or else.
That a British prime minister would say this, on a day when four terrorist attacks were carried out in Europe, made me realise, she, and in fact, everyone in command of us, is actually mad when it comes to Islam, to a degree which would be comedic, if only the body count wasn’t growing.
Having abandoned suspension of disbelief, I realise the rejection of logic is everywhere.
After the instruction to die without a squeal, came May and Rudd’s outrage at Donald Trump’s correct prediction that the attackers had been in the Met’s sights, when only the most determined Guardian reader imagined otherwise. Yes, it’s mad – but such greasy cretins always are in the Met’s sights, along with literally thousands of others known to be trained killers.
But fear not: the CPS boasts of having cracked down on ‘hate crime’, including a new category, ‘bacon crime’ – usually putting a piece of Sunday breakfast on or near a mosque – for which an otherwise blameless man was recently sentenced to a year’s imprisonment.
Plenty of madness there, to be going on with.
And then there is Lily Allen Syndrome: the inability to realise that children don’t have five o’clock shadow and crow’s feet.
The bag bombers were in foster care, and apparently nobody noticed they left the basin full of whiskers on a regular basis, or, if they did, they convinced themselves that thick facial hair was a result of rough travel, which would worry female back-packers, if true.
So dedicated to this particular delusion are LAS sufferers, that they consider inspecting migrant’s teeth to verify whether they should be put in a refugee camp for processing, or dressed in Sponge Bob Square Pants PJs and put to bed with some cocoa, to be a violation: far greater, for example, than that suffered by any girls subsequently gang-raped under a bridge for having the audacity to go out wearing perfume.
Next on the mad list is belief in the ‘refugee crisis’ in it’s entirety.
Oh, yes, The Guardian and it’s illegitimate sprog the Independent persist in showing pictures of weeping babes in the arms of gratefully smiling women, but pull the other one.
UNHCR figures show that 75% of those arriving, and quickly disappearing into the Schengen woodwork, are healthy males, aged between 19 and 45.
Only the unhinged would see this as the demographics of a humanitarian crisis. These are foot-soldiers. If not yet active ISIS operatives (and the Lebanese, who have processed many, claim at least 8% of them are) at the very least, they are healthy adult males who left their women, children, and old folk to the tender mercies of ISIS, which hardly makes them deserving of sympathy.
Actually, this isn’t strictly true, because only 20% of those arriving started their journey in a war-zone. But the Islam Mad demand we believe that any shifty-looking male who turns up in an unconventional manner – even from neighbouring, desirable holiday destinations – is a victim on a par with Anne Frank.
A broader madness features the absolute denial that there is any connection between violence, sexual assault and Islam, regardless of such things as the rape epidemic in Sweden, where 86% of rapes are carried out by North African migrants, and despite a public beheading being viewed as a fun family day out in, for example, Saudi Arabia, where they take pride in reflecting the purest manifestation of the Prophet’s life.
It’s logical to assume that being taught that the perfect man was a dark-age war-lord who burned apostates to death in cages, personally boasted of killing over 8000 people, and raped on such a scale that he has left a permanent DNA marker in the regions he so brutally invaded and occupied, might lead to problems adjusting to western liberal society, but remember, when it comes to the official attitude to Islam, logic is off the table.
In an effort to deflect from the problem of Islam never having peacefully assimilated anywhere, ever, smaller inversions of sanity are promoted, such as it being ‘liberating’ to wear the hijab, when – on Islamic turf – women are thrashed for not doing so.
I will pass over Gays For Sharia with the words “turkeys” and “Christmas”. Suicide is not illegal. Your call. You’re adults.
But it’s unforgivable when the madness is inflicted on children. With over 6,000 cases of FGM in the UK last year, there has not been a single prosecution. According to social workers it doesn’t do any good for parents who inflict this horror on their little girls to serve jail-time. In a sane world, it might be thought that to see a few parents go down for life – and for their children to be brought up by people who hadn’t sliced them up with razors – might be kinder to the children, and serve as a warning, preventing this from being done to others.
But who needs sanity, when you’ve got multiculturalism?
And then remember that – in a nation where the age of consent is 16 – a group of men just sat round a table and decided that girls who were gang-raped are not entitled to compensation for the fact that the crimes had been covered up by local authorities, because 12 year old children can consent to sex as long as there’s a 90% chance the men involved are Muslims.
A female judge two years ago set the legal inequality ball rolling by saying men who rape Asian girls should be jailed for longer than those who rape white girls, because little white girls suffer less from being defiled: rape messes with Asian girls’ chances of arranged marriage, you see – which they shouldn’t have, anyway, because, you know, this isn’t Bangladesh.
Other insanity: it’s right to protest fox-hunting, which is cruel and backward (I agree) but racist to protest people slashing animal’s throats, then keeping them conscious in agony and terror while they bleed out, so they can hear incantations to the Moon God.
What next? Oh, yes – the insane creed that it is intolerant to oppose an ideology which, left to it’s own devices, beheads people for drawing cartoons, stones raped women to death for adultery, and throws gay men off buildings.
As a central tenet of the insanity, this is matched by the insistence that normalising and endorsing beliefs which have remained stagnant for 1400 years is social advance.
But of course, maddest of all, is the delusion that the majority population will let the lunatics run the asylum indefinitely.
So it’s finally been admitted that Europe is in danger. Well, who’d’ve thunk it, eh? It’s not as if there was ever anything vaguely suspicious about endless boatloads of healthy young Islamist males arriving – well fed, armed with smartphones and money but no papers – demanding to be kept. And it’s not as if there was then a rash of rapes, and murders, which have destroyed all sense of peace and safety across Europe.
Dear me, no. Nobody in their right mind could have predicted that there could be a problem.
After all, didn’t gaggles of bored housewives line up with placards saying “Refugees Welcome”? And weren’t all those who thought this was a silly idea – including those official groups monitoring the situation who pointed out that 8% were known to be ISIS operatives, and even the Dalai Lama – called ‘racist’ ‘bigot’ and ‘Islamophobe’ for doing anything other than offering Halal snacks and free access to children in swimming pools? Isn’t it Lily Allen we should emulate in all things?
Well, as the boats now arrive from Morocco – in the week in which Moroccans have slaughtered innocent people in Spain, Finland, Russia and France – it seems the penny has dropped; too late for thousands, of course, those already dead, those who will die tomorrow, or next week, or next month, or next year – because it’s too little too late, and nobody is actually suggesting doing anything about it – such as deporting all those proven to be past puberty, and warning that any boats arriving will towed back before they hit coastal waters, or sunk if they resist, so they’d best turn around and go back.
And I doubt if it will dent the general unreality of those who see Islam as just an expression of diversity, something exotic which we can all live around.
The unreality is born of arrogance, of course – the fantasists believe that if the Islamophobes weren’t so common/uneducated/aggressive, they’d agree with the fantasy. And it’s also born of layers of ignorance: those who believe we can all shake down happily together (a) have never seen their town taken over and experienced the aggression and persecution which ensues when Muslims are in the majority and (b) don’t know that Islam is a total system of belief, in which all are taught to emulate Mohammed, who alongside being a blood-soaked conquering war-lord, and mass rapist, also knew a thing or two about faking refugee-hood.
After all, it worked well for him in Medina – taken in as a ‘refugee’, within five years, he had killed every Jew in the place, and it was occupied by his followers.
As with all things ISIS – which too many continue to believe is a perversion of Islam – this invasion is in fact the ‘real deal’ and the only reason most Muslims don’t concur is that human beings are intrinsically good, or, basically, can’t be bothered.
But the ‘real deal’ is always there, ready to be triggered, and, when numbers are sufficient, or the existing power is compliant enough – as it is, right across Europe – then the take-over begins. And it’s working already – for a 4% minority, the sway Muslims have is quite outrageous.
This is the way it worked in sub-Saharan Africa where the first Christian nations in the world were enslaved by Islamists, and in the once-enlightened Middle East, once home of science, art, and reason – now reduced to a collection of backward, violent hell-holes, and in South East Asia, once Buddhist.
But the fantasists – who hold themselves morally superior to the dangerous realists – appear to think that we are all living in a Richard Curtis film, say, a drama in which charity boss Colin Firth is working with a dashing, westernised Muslim, and they introduce each other to their sisters, and are coyly smitten.
They are, of course, part of a jolly group of diverse friends, joined at the hip, and Ahmed just happens to be a bit browner than the comedy Welsh artist. Firth’s sister – maybe a feisty health-club manager played by Emma Thompson – fights her attraction because she’s debating whether she wants to date men anymore, but eventually, perhaps at a wedding at large country house, they get down and dirty in the shrubbery. And Colin Firth is intrigued by Ahmed’s sister, who is saucily flirtatious from behind a bit of gauzy veiling.
Then war breaks out in Daftestahn, or whichever minor Arab state Ahmed and Aisha hail from, and Ahmed gets religion in a big way – but only enough for Emma Thompson to wrinkle her brow thoughtfully as she is veiled by some inexplicably welcoming Muslim mother in law who really isn’t fazed that her son is getting hitched to a 30-something infidel who’s been round the block a dozen times. The last scene would be of Colin Firth looking appreciative as Aisha steps out from a Burka, to reveal she is only wearing a thong bikini, and they frisk into the sea together. Cut to titles, with Dido hooting about love across the miles.
Only this isn’t how the story really ends, wherever Islam gets the upper hand. In the real world, the alternatives are to expel Islam or to bend the neck. And those are the only options, as has been proven in every single country which is targeted for formation of the Caliphate and is stupid enough to allow a toehold.
The “integration” fantasy is suicidal – why do any of those who defend it, think things will be different here? Perhaps it’s born of social and financial security – after all, when we are taken back to the dark ages, 90% of those who despised those who struggled against it, will be able to afford a flight to a new life, in a pocket of the world as yet untouched – far from the horror their naivety enabled.
Let’s get this straight: Sarah Champion, who spearheaded the enquiry into the mass-rape of children in Rotherham, has resigned her position as Shadow Secretary of State for Women and Equalities, because some people who favour lies over little girls threw a hissy-fit.
I read some of the outraged comments by Labour supporters on the subject and their main beef was that she published her opinion piece, which stated that we have a problem with Pakistani men grooming little white girls, in The Sun.
Many of these comments appeared to be posted by the kind of ‘feminist’ who teaches her toddler son that he is a potential rapist, so the moral flexibility in disliking Rupert Murdoch more than a plague of predatory men who evidently can’t see an adolescent white child without needing to defile her is quite something.
Sarah might, of course, have had her piece published in the Telegraph, where columnist Tom Harris was so scathing of Jeremy Corbyn’s condemnation of Sarah’s outspokenness, but then, no doubt, the now morally-destitute Labour footsoldiers would have shrieked that she had bared her soul to the Tories. Because let’s face it, The Guardian wouldn’t have touched such honesty with a disinfected barge-pole. By today’s warped standards, they are far too nice.
Street grooming is defined as targeting vulnerable children, plying them with drugs or alcohol, preparing them for the ensuing rapes and other violent abuse by gang members and their associates. A clear, proven 75% of those convicted of such crimes were described as ‘Asian’ – whether born here or immigrants – and the overwhelming majority of them are found to be of Pakistani origin or Pakistani born.
Think about this in real terms. In 2011, 1.86% of people in Britain self-identified as British Asian of Pakistani origin. In 2015, 503,000 British residents identified as being of Pakistani birth. We’re not really talking vast numbers of people, here – and remember, less than 50% of them are male, and even fewer are of an age to be sexually active. And yet, there it is.
Maths isn’t my strong point, but even I can see the implications of any minority group being so obscenely over-represented in such an abominable crime.
The figure of 75% was produced by Channel 4 News which is swimming in riskily truthful waters while desperately clinging to the life-raft of Political Correctness by describing those convicted of mass rape at Newcastle, and Rotherham, and Oxford, etc, etc, etc, solely as ‘Asian’.
In so doing, they not only implicate a selection of men ranging from Native Americans to Gurkhas, who have literally nothing to do with any of this, but blunder into territory last infested by people who liked a shiny pair of jackboots and a spot of genocide.
Because what all those who broadly describe the attackers by race are normalising is ‘racial determinism’ – the belief that race in and of itself in some way influences a person’s behaviour or worth. That is chilling, regressive, and deadly, as well as being grossly offensive, arrant nonsense.
And it’s symptomatic of an entire state of mind – i.e., that of lab rats trained to recoil at nothing – that, just as those who claim to hold the moral high-ground are happy to sacrifice the victims rather than mention the connection-that-dare-not-speak-it’s-name, so they are happy to sacrifice the reputations of a huge diversity of innocent men from the world’s most populous continent for the sake of not having their knuckles rapped.
And for what? Perhaps so as not to offend the kind of man who describes white women as “only good for men like me to f**k and use as trash.” Who else does the truth offend? Women like Labour MP Naz Shah, apparently, who hysterically defends her cultural roots against all honesty and moral decency – describing telling the truth as “incendiary and irresponsible” – despite having been shipped to Pakistan and forced into marriage.
Are these people really rational or reputable enough to justify abandoning our commitment to telling the truth?
Read the facts again.
The vast majority of members of street grooming gangs are not ‘Asian’ – they are specifically Pakistani, culturally rooted in a nation whose government this week threw out a proposal to ban child marriage on grounds that to do so is ‘unIslamic.’ The grooming gangs are culturally inspired, and racially motivated, and children are being sacrificed to the wish that it wasn’t so: in other words, to a big, fat lie.
And it’s a big, fat lie which needs uprooting and examining closely, to determine precisely the source of the drip-fed insistence that one cultural group is considered to be so far above criticism that we must defend them with our children’s lives. Were 75% of street grooming gangs notable for being, say, Danish Lutherans, nobody would be hounded, disgraced, branded a Nazi, or forced to resign, for saying, loud and clear, that there is something rotten in the state of Denmark.
We live in what Orwell described as a time of great deceit, in which telling the truth becomes a revolutionary act. But try it, because telling the truth is never wrong – only lying is wrong. Read that, repeat it, write it on your mirror in lipstick. Truth is our only hope. It’s wrong to lie, and those who persecute you for refusing to lie are acting in the worst traditions of every despotism throughout history.
Because this isn’t like telling a friend their bum doesn’t look big, when it does. Denying this truth is deadly serious. If we know facts which would help protect children from the unspeakable evil which grooming gangs inflict, as Sarah Champion does, then we are right to speak out, as she did through The Sun, and we are morally bankrupt in submitting to peer pressure and resigning, as she did subsequently.
She held the moral high-ground and should have stood firm on it.
Sarah read the court transcripts of the Rotherham horror, heard testimony from little girls who were the victims of savages – but then, when challenged, apologised for telling the truth.
Only a gun held to her head excuses such a betrayal.
A female Labour politician has apologised, and resigned, because she wrote the truth about Muslim grooming gangs and the mass rape of little white girls.
When Kate Hoey expressed concern over this, several people supported her resignation on the grounds that they disapproved of the newspaper which published her article.
Anyone who believes that her voice should be silenced, is morally bankrupt.
The MP herself is a disgrace for apologising.
And Labour? You are dead.
A vast mass of barely-distinguishable toxins have been milling about together in Virginia over the weekend. Apparently, someone left the gates to the sewers open, and this lot spilled out.
But take a special look at the toxins flying the Nazi flag, as opposed to the toxins flying the Antifa flag (which was flown by the killers of Drummer Lee Rigby.)
These days, the insult “Nazi” is thrown at people for simply not wanting to be killed by lunatics, so spot the difference between the excrescences waving their Swastikas, and, for example, a Trump supporter who doesn’t want Mexican drug dealers swarming into his town, or, for another example, a UKIP supporter who doesn’t want Albanian Mafia lurking in alleys near his children’s play-park.
You get it? You see the difference? You on the far left there: now that you’ve seen what pro-Nazis actually look like, will you stop throwing the ‘N’ word about like confetti, belittling purest evil to the level of a meme of a smiling cat, in your attempts at social control?
I detest Antifa – a violent gaggle of shrieking fascists deluding themselves that they stand for social justice, while espousing most known malignancies – but they have, as an excuse (a small one, but real) that they have been told, and convince themselves, that they stand on the side of ‘good’ – at least, they do if ‘good’ is the deliberate destruction of all that stands between us and surrender to the barbarism Antifa romanticise. That delusion in itself is a by-product of those who flew the Swastika over Europe.
The toxins flying their Swastikas over Virginia have no such excuse. None whatsoever. They are wilfully channelling the lowest forms of western human life, and enjoying doing so, without any believable pretensions of ‘justice’ or ‘defence’.
Some no doubt claim otherwise – they would probably point to the months of whining provocation by ‘not-my-president’ snowflakes, who have been blowing snot-bubbles for the best part of a year because the old lady they supported wasn’t given the big job – but that’s just rubbish. They have no excuses.
The fact that they have dressed up as the most devastatingly putrid people in European history – in effect dressing as Satan, but with Zyklon B in place of hell-fire – presents one of the most sickening sights imaginable.
How dare they? How dare they fly that flag? How dare they besmirch decent people by claiming to represent them in any way? I don’t expect them to know anything of history – I doubt their collective average IQ is in triple figures – but under that flag marched Europe’s Nemesis: not only for the millions who were killed on grounds of race, or sexuality, or disability, but for the other millions who died tearing down that flag, for the children of my parents’ generation who went hungry while their fathers fought, for all those innocents who struggle, still, with a collective, unearned guilt.
Europe has never recovered from the last time that flag was followed. Germany, once seen as a romantic land of musicians, writers and dreamers, is forever damned by it: generations later it still hangs like a vast, ugly, black-and-red shadow over them, which has led to them sacrificing their children to another brand of evil, in fear of being accused of Nazism if they resist.
Like invoking the devil, the name ‘Hitler’ is hissed at anyone who cherishes western culture – even though the pin-heads bellowing and strutting in Virginia know about as much about western culture as I know of nuclear physics.
Nazism is an unhealed wound, stitched together loosely, still an agony for Europe. How dare these little pseudo-warriors tear it open again, when the graves of half-a-million young Americans are scattered across the world, having died in the struggle to stem the flow of blood from the original cut?
Those who supported that flag – the various countries who sought justification to ride on it like parasites on a sheep’s rear – are forever condemned. How dare these creatures in Virginia, whose land doesn’t bear the scars of destroyed heritage, fly that flag now?
Looking at the clips of the toxins mingling together, claiming to oppose each other but actually unified in degrees of insanity under their differing banners of hatred, none of them speaking for anyone sane or good, I long for a brief moment of fantasy, a Game Of Thrones moment in which a mad Queen can swoop down on a CGI dragon and eviscerate the lot of them for the worthless fools they are.
Daenarys Targaryan – where are you now?
A funny thing happened during the late 1990s, which I remember as a fairly chilled-out decade, although that may be because I spent a lot of it wandering around the woods, or on the beach, with my children. There is a natural wisdom to children – being close to the beginning of things, they know a natural order, with its own morality.
But at some point, while our backs were turned, ‘natural’ was rejected by some beaming Common Purpose consensus, and morality was turned – quite literally – upside down.
I don’t mean sexual morality because what adult, fully consenting humans do to get happy has nothing to do with morals. I don’t happen to think a prerequisite of being a good person is to have nether regions so arid that they rattle like autumn leaves, nor do I believe some deity looms up like an angry angler-fish at a ship’s porthole the minute anyone gets their kit off.
I mean morality for life: the aspirations, and the requirements, of being a whole person, worth respecting, knowing how to love and when to fight.
I was a very young Mum, and hadn’t absorbed any theories, so I just had a general idea that if a person was kind and confident, they wouldn’t go far wrong, being good to themselves, and to others.
There are baby-steps, in teaching someone to be kind and confident.
In the first place, I wanted my kids to know that I loved them more than anything else on Earth, that they were exceptional and I was enormously proud of them.
But at no time should they demand that anyone else should feel that way about them: it was just me, for the very good reason that they were mine.
And I fully accepted that every mother at the school gate felt the same way about her own children – but not about mine. We love what is ours more than anything, and we should enjoy our pride in it, and our sense that it is exceptional.
Another accepted fact back then, was that it was a fine thing to be able to speak freely, with nobody to silence us or threaten us for saying things others maybe didn’t want to hear. That anyone should think to clip the wings of free speech was unquestionably terrible. We could and should use this free speech for defending the things we naturally loved and valued, and in doing so, we were the stuff of heroes.
While people were born equal, not all their practices were equal, and there were things which were bad, for the very good reason that they hurt people – practices which were unarguably wrong, which we should strive to eradicate, not embrace, because it’s not kind to allow people to be hurt. Compassion was to save people, not enable those who would harm them.
Courage was a virtue: the grit to stand your ground unless genuinely overwhelmed or in danger, the confidence to seek help when that was the case. And it was important to know when the time was right to seek help – because there were few things more despicable than the snitch, the tell-tale, the hated runt-kid who everyone had to habitually pussy-foot around because if not, he’d run blubbering to teacher, dripping crocodile tears, to destroy those he couldn’t compete with otherwise.
So – to recap, before we all booked our ‘Millennium do’, it was considered good to be personally confident, selectively loving, independent, honest, compassionate, and brave.
Now, for some years, those virtues have been despised, excluded, and – where possible – eradicated and criminalised, in an establishment-led, media-enabled campaign to force us to believe that wrong is right, and that those who hold fast to what is morally right, are dangerously Far Right and must, for the Common Good, be destroyed.
In fact, to destroy those pre-millennium virtues is to cripple, even kill, western civilisation. And if you think that can be done without destroying the light of the world, you are a triumph of the inversion of values.
This week, I read a long article in i paper by a journalist who will remain nameless, not because I want to hide his shame, but because I forgot to write it down before using his un-stirring words to line my cat’s litter tray. In it, he had decided, once and for all, to subdue all sense among anyone British, that we should do anything other than hang our heads in shame at the mere suggestion of any emotion other than abject self-loathing.
With the fervour of a demented spinster Puritan thrashing a pretty orphan for looking in a mirror, he ranged widely, dismissing any British achievement or notion of identity – from pride in farm produce to the music industry, claiming that Daft Punk (who’s name is inspired by a British musical phenomenon and an English
adjective) and Bjork are on a level pegging with the infinite list of British musical greats.
Bear in mind that the same people who deny us taking pride in our nation of birth, are those who demand to take pride in just about everything else from the bizarre to the banal. If I were an obese, cross-eyed kleptomaniac with tusks and a predilection for defecating on door-steps, they’d be able to find me a ‘pride’ group, and, no doubt, an emblem. But thousands of years of heritage? Shame, and clanging bells.
His point was that we are not exceptional in any way – because other countries are. Not only is he talking nonsense, but he misses the point entirely. Other countries are most certainly exceptional. But so are we. And we are all entitled to take pride in that without a bunch of pearl-clutching hand-wringers fearing it will drive us to war. War is born out of misery and resentment. But a feeling of self-worth, while acknowledging the worth of others to themselves, creates happiness and acceptance, ergo, peace. Confidence and kindness – you see?
And then, there is the Newcastle grooming scandal – yet another example of the industrial-scale rape of poor, white children by men who openly claim them as spoils of jihad. The male Muslim population of Britain is around 2% of the whole, and obviously, not all of them are of an age to be sexually active. And yet, 90% of all ‘grooming gang’ members self-identify as Muslim.
For some reason – and I am genuinely at a loss to know why, although no doubt there’s a whiff of oil money at the back of it – the authorities are on a mission to deny that any Muslim is other than the delightful and much loved Mr Shah, the Glasgow shop-keeper who was butchered outside his shop by a fellow Muslim, for the ‘crime’ of wishing his Christian customers a happy Easter.
To this end, in a glorious display of self-righteousness, sternly facing down those with a fondness for facts, the perpetrators of these disgusting crimes were described by MSM as “Asian” – thus neatly implicating men ranging from Native Americans to Koreans – in an effort to avoid dealing with the fact that, living among us, are men who take the ravings of a dead dark-age warlord (himself a DNA-identified mass rapist, who married a six-year-old child when he was fifty) as literal, and accept said war-lord as the perfect being.
Wildly deflecting in all directions, MSM accused realists of racism, while describing the rapists by race, which – of itself – is and always has been, irrelevant to people’s behaviour or value.
The campaign of white-washing Islam doesn’t confine it’s cruel, wilful blindness to the rape of white children, but extends to the mutilation of non-white children, nor does it stop at slandering all ‘Asian’ men, but deflects completely: the poster-girl chosen for Barnado’s anti-FGM campaign is white, the race least likely to have their clitorises removed by mad old women with razors. (The CEO of Barnados is a Muslim.)
Little girls whose parents inflict this horror on them are not protected – social workers decree that jailing the parents serves no purpose, thus ensuring the horror continues due to lack of any deterrent.
Little girls, no matter their ethnicity, are clearly considered expendable collateral damage in the war to convince the West that all cultures are equal.
Twenty years ago, we were allowed to speak freely and acknowledge that it was not so, and that barbarism must be defeated. But then, twenty years ago, we were allowed to take pride in our own lack of such barbarism.
And finally, we come to snitching – the venom of people incapable of refuting arguments, who seek to destroy the arguer.
This week, Country Squire Magazine, which hosts the most eclectic voices online, published an article which was derogatory about Ireland. Actually, the historical facts mentioned were all true. Ireland has quite a murky history, since independence, for a nation so small, powerless, and young.
Quite apart from being one of only three nations to maintain diplomatic relations with Nazi Germany, using ‘neutral’ status as an excuse to hand downed RAF pilots to German authorities while allowing Luftwaffe to drop in at shops and buy cigarettes, and then stripping those Irishmen who took up arms against Nazism of rights which were only restored in 2013, the full horror of the ‘Catholic Taliban’ which held sway there is only now coming to light with the discovery of the bodies of hundreds of ‘immoral’ mothers and their babies.
And the widespread hatred of Britain and the British, which for many Irish people is the key factor of their national identity, is also a fact.
The open loathing, and glee at the prospect of harm to us, as voiced in several Irish newspapers, including the Irish Times, is both pathetic and shameful, in particular as we have in recent years offered financial bail-outs in addition to the EU funding we provide, defended Ireland when they were pilloried by the EU, and even allow them to vote in our elections, including the referendum of 2016.
But we take this on the chin – as does every other nation. Brits, Americans, French and Germans don’t howl in hysterical outrage and make accusations of ‘racism’ if criticised. But this is precisely how Irish readers reacted to the horror of not actually being complimented. It was a ludicrous vomiting of bile, ironically confirming the opinions in the piece, as well as the historical facts, which nobody attempted to refute.
But what was most contemptible, was that one of them – Philip Boucher Hayes, who works for @rte – set himself up as a sort of crusader: not by attempting to argue with the piece, as you might expect from a representative of what purports to be a world-class broadcaster, but by whirling into a self-emasculating frenzy of bunny-boiler style vengeance by trying to remove non-existent advertising revenue from the magazine and by inciting a frenzy of histrionics including this demand from one representative of the nation which gave us Keats: “why do you have spastics writing for you??” – heavily embellished with Irish flags.
All Country Squire writers were targets for what was, in essence, the insane revenge of a sort of collective jilted tart. Jim Browne, a true gentleman, 76 years of age, resigned in order to keep the peace, in a dignified, humble letter which should – but no doubt will not – put the cry-bullies to shame. So many of these ‘heroes of the republic’ complained about me, that Twitter suspended my account: bravo, cry-bullies! I’m homeless, and all that stands between me and total destitution is what I earn by writing.
The extent of their petulant, childish fury is revealed to me by the stats on my blogs: I am being obsessively ‘stalked’ by several viewers in Ireland, who repeatedly trawl all my blogs and, presumably, the rest of the internet, no doubt looking for dirty linen to seize upon, howling like werewolves.
But what was even more tragic, and diminishing for them – not their targets – is that being a cowardly tell-tale-tit has become so normalised that among the many comments indicating contempt for those who turn bully while claiming victimhood, there were actually alleged men praising this employee of their national broadcaster for his Glenn Close impersonation, rather than demanding to know why he didn’t use his alleged journalistic skills to tear the article to shreds.
What is heartening is that after reaching a peak of awfulness a few years ago, the fad for being a hysterical, hypocritical, neutered coward is on the wane. This was actually underlined by the startling nature of the Irish reaction. Such shrill outbursts of witch-hunting are no longer the norm; the fad is being replaced by a restoration of common-sense, and clearly only lingers in its full ludicrousness in backwaters.
Likewise, the MSM who attempted to deflect from the horror of the grooming gangs are being overthrown from within, and even the self-hate brigade are on the retreat: the article in i was arguing against far bigger fish.
The forces of cowardice and hypocrisy won’t go down without a fight (or at least, without snitching on more people) but we’ve got them on the run.
To the barricades, mes amis!
I’ve never really paid much attention to Philip Hammond, except to notice that he looks a lot like the love child of Nanny McPhee and Topo Gigio, a TV puppet mouse I was fond of in childhood.
No, I tell a lie, that’s not all: I’ve also noticed that, while he has been as omnipresent in recent governments as the proverbial fart in a space-suit, he never actually seems to achieve anything.
Oh – and one other thing I noticed, during the most profound expression of democracy this country has ever known, in 2016, was that Mr Hammond opposed what turned out to be the democratic choice.
Why, then, is he in any position to influence anything whatsoever about the manner of our parting from the EU? And why has he, of all ineffective, unrepresentative people, been sent to speak to the Argentinians, who still circle the Falklands like wasps around a jam jar?
In fact, why is Philip Hammond?
Is Theresa May – herself a Remainer, who recently led the worst election campaign, on the least relevant issues, in living memory – trying to provoke civil unrest?
Last week, with Mrs May safely on holiday, Hammond effectively informed the world that Brexit – the choice of more British people than have ever voted for anything in the entire history of the United Kingdom – would not happen.
Why? Because, Mr I-heart-EU Hammond said, there would be a ‘transitional period’ of three years following official Brexit in March 2019, during which we would be unable to conclude trade deals, would be constrained by the single market, would have free movement which would complete the destruction of the British working class and public services, and would have to continue to finance the whole sorry circus, at whatever rate set by the overlords we rejected last year.
Oh – but we wouldn’t have any say in anything.
In other words, a Remainiac’s dream-come-true, in which we are wilfully, permanently ruined for having the temerity to suggest that a country which has functioned magnificently as a sovereign entity since 1066 should be able to do quite nicely, thank you very much, without being involved in the declining years of the latest pyrrhic attempt to roll the glorious, diverse box of chocolates which is Europe, into a sort of dusty, puce-coloured blob of old Plasticine.
There was immediate backlash to this, of course, because nobody who can countenance Britain being so destroyed should have any role in government. And even those few who didn’t feel inspired to use Mr Hammond as a piñata at an Independence-Day street party could see, the transitional period he suggested, has already begun. It began the day Article 50 was triggered nine long, dithering months after we should have been able to rest – assured we would have the freedom we had chosen. It must end – for the sake of everyone’s sanity – in March 2019.
We don’t need another three years for weeping Remainers to endlessly say goodbye like doomed lovers on a railway platform. They must either pull themselves together, or go in search of the glowing opportunities they imagine are on offer in their beloved, tottering continental empire.
And anyone fretting about “cliff edges”, as if we may all plummet inadvertently off Beachy Head while distracted by an improperly bent banana, needs to get a grip. There’s no need for such timidity. We are ending a brief social experiment in our nation’s long, illustrious history, not forging a new colony on the Moon.
But then, just as people might have been thinking that Philip Hammond was an actively malign entity rather than just an inconsequential person who is given jobs because he sharpens the pencils and makes a nice cup of tea, his moment of sinister triumph was over when “sources” at Downing Street – and, not least, Liam Fox, arch Brexiteer – basically confirmed that Operation Bugger-up Britain was just Hammond talking out of his arse again.
So what I ask again is, why is Philip Hammond? What the hell is the point of such a man, in any role other than doing a bit of light housework, at this pivotal moment when we are in so many ways defining our place in the world for the rest of the century?
I admit, Brexit is a cause so close to my heart that I yearn for the impossible. My personal Brexit Dream Team would be made up of sweet-natured trio Andrea Leadsome, Gisela Stuart and Kate Hoey to erroneously convince Guy Verhofstadt that we give a toss about anything he or any other supporter of the Beige Brussels Beast has to say, Priti Patel to lure Donald Tusk out of the haunted cave he hangs upside down in during daylight hours, David Davis and Liam Fox to handle the paperwork and look worryingly evasive, and Nigel Farage and Daniel Hannan to point and laugh at Martin Schulz.
It would be led by Jacob Rees Mogg, a man so cool and clever he could reduce old Druncker Juncker to double incontinence by finding legal justification for holding all discussions in Latin. In attendance, in an advisory role, would be Prince Philip, no longer constrained to reduce his use of the Anglo Saxon vernacular to only one word per sentence, and armed with a horse-whip.
I realise this is unlikely to happen, unless I find a silver lamp and feel compelled to polish it and a strange mist pours out of it and forms into the shape of a giant middle-eastern looking gentleman in a turban who grants me any wish I choose; and I realise that is even more unlikely than my dream team getting together in the real world, because I don’t take any drug stronger than coffee.
But it can’t be denied, with the Magnificent Ten on the case, we’d get whatever deal we wanted. And that – no ifs, buts, or maybes – should be our only consideration now.
What we certainly don’t need are Remainers to be involved in the process, because, frankly, they can’t be trusted. They don’t believe in Brexit Britain – they told us, before we hit the polling booths on 23rd June last year, that they didn’t believe in Brexit Britain – and it’s not as if politicians ever lie, is it?
At this point in our history, those whose loyalties lie with the old order are not relevant to the burning questions of the day, and Philip Hammond, who manages to be irrelevant at the best of times, is certainly not the man of the hour.
We need people who passionately believe in Britain, who understand that heel dragging and an apologetic, sackcloth and ashes approach to negotiations will not be tolerated.
Above all, we don’t need Philip Hammond. Did anyone, ever?
The soldier made of Flanders mud, placed in Trafalgar Square to commemorate Passchendaele is, in my opinion, the most poignant work of war-art ever made. Watch him melt, destroyed by the weather of another wet summer, and to understand the 3rd Battle of Ypres, you hardly need Siegfried Sassoon’s chilling words: “I died in Hell. They called it Passchendaele.”
The First World War provided several images of the inferno – the one known as Passchendaele lasted ninety-nine days.
At 3.50am, on 31st July, 1917, the first British attack began, of a campaign intended to take the last ridge outside Ypres, finally break the German line, and end the war. It should have been dawn, but unbroken cloud, heralding the endless rain to come, and the windless, sunless days which would ensure the pulverised ground never dried, meant it was still dark. The day ended with three British brigades driven back with 70% losses. The campaign ended on 6th November, when the Canadians took Passchendaele.
It is a collective memory of countries who were considered family then, and to which we still feel bound by blood, language and culture: British, Australians, Canadians, New Zealanders, South Africans, all drowned in the shell-holes in the endless liquid Flanders mud, alongside war horses, and men burned and blinded by the mustard gas released by the Germans.
With distance, it became fashionable to ignore historical record and label the First World War a meaningless blood-bath, a mere squabble between royal cousins, but nobody thought so at the time – because it wasn’t so. Those floods of men who volunteered during the first two years of the war, before conscription was enforced for the first time in our history, supported the aims of the conflict because the integrity of nations was under threat, not because they were stupid.
There was no benefit to war, for any of the nations of Europe which had built empires and alliances and were enjoying a golden age. German expansion within Europe was an aggressive aim, fuelled by resentment at having missed out on grabbing a ‘place in the sun’ during the years when Germany was a hotchpotch of argumentative Ruritanian mini-states. Russia, with enviably vast ‘living space’ and France, with that long disputed border, were on the Kaiser’s shopping list long before shots rang out in Sarajevo.
The Von Schlieffen Plan – to violate Belgian neutrality in order to invade France, which is what brought Britain into the conflict – began to be put into practical action in 1905. The building of railway stations with platforms a quarter of a mile long, ideal for embarkation of troops, in tiny border villages, was reported by our man on the ground – such an inept spy that he was nick-named ‘Mon General Rosbif’ by locals as he cycled around Alsace-Lorraine with his binoculars – but the Liberals were so keen to avoid war that they did nothing to nip it in the bud.
The bullying by the Kaiser of the doddering Austrian Emperor Franz Josef – so senile that in the end he declared war on Russia in a letter sent to the Tsar by ordinary post (“…gas….electricity….Rasputin’s bar-bill…oops, we’re at war with Austria-Hungary..”) – was the act of a man crazed with power, but when he finally realised the magnitude of the impending doom, he was unable to stop things for the most Teutonic of reasons: his generals told him the train time-tables were fixed for the following six months.
It was a relentless German war-machine, not a royal hissy-fit, which pulled the pin on the grenade which detonated in Europe, and we insult those who were there, when we deny history.
My grandfather was a regular with the East Surreys, a standard-bearer for the Old Contemptibles, and Passchendaele was part of his war when he was twenty-three years old. At the age of seventy-nine he would still sometimes, without warning, drop his head into his hands and rock. Although he didn’t die in hell he certainly revisited it often – but he never thought it had been senseless, and, twenty-one years later, seeing how the wind was blowing, he volunteered for service again.
To truly respect those who fought, we must respect what they fought for. As you buy poppies and post memes honouring the dead, think how, if you were about to step on a train to hell, you would like to be assured that the things you loved were in safe hands.
After much bickering, the number of British and Commonwealth casualties during the Passchendaele campaign has been put at just over 275,000 killed or wounded, around 116 men down every hour of the campaign. This means that, over the past century, there were between three and four million babies who were never born, because the men who should have passed on the shape of their hands, the colour of their eyes and hair, and the talents they had inherited, instead became one with the mud of Flanders fields.
And that’s just one campaign.
And that means that those who were born, who carry on the lines which survived the inferno – you, me, even those men or women you pass in the street, who you think are thick, or annoying, or in need of cultural enrichment – are the progeny of men who survived hell, or who went to war leaving children who would grow to adulthood without them. For the sake of those men, their descendants are infinitely precious.
Among the descendants are those who have inherited the military traditions which have guarded us for centuries, have already faced savagery many prefer to pretend is imaginary, and stand ready to defend us still – belittled, beleaguered and underfunded by the kind who were equally short-sighted a century ago – while we pour resources into some nations who have differing collective memories and may yearn to see us brought to our knees, and into others who avoid responsibility for their own stagnation by blaming us for their failures, like malcontent middle-aged children who won’t quite leave home.
Those men and boys who left the shires, kissed wives and children goodbye, were given packets of sandwiches and twists of tea and tobacco, wore scarves knitted by hands which they would never hold again, and are now names carved on plinths of sad memorials in villages which lost their hearts when they lost their sons and fathers -what would they think of us, if we don’t defend the land they died for, the homes they dreamed of, and the children who are their immortality?
For a man who once claimed he would ‘hit the ground running’ Tony Blair actually proved in one respect remarkably lazy. After all, instead of creating a party in his image from scratch, he simply latched onto ailing Labour, eviscerated it, and gave it a shiny new coat of paint. He himself was shiny and new in 1997 – at forty-three, the youngest Prime Minister since 1812 – and with the gloss worn off Thatcherism, people were ready for the Caring Nineties.
A generation which had started adult life as technologically obsolete, jobless renters had created businesses and bought, renovated, sold and re-bought homes which were reduced to negative equity and tripled mortgage payments, impossible to pay when those businesses crashed because too many of them depended on a bubble which had burst. It was a slow crawl out of the pit, we were all tired and disillusioned, and, with money proven to be a fickle God, it was time for a little kindness. New Age therapies were an antidote to feeling the burn, Britannia was cool, and things could only get better.
This was the horse Tony rode in on, and I suppose we can be forgiven for not realising that the object of the exercise was always the power of Tony Blair.
The problem with Tony Blair is, he doesn’t seem to understand, then is not now. He should be forced to watch the video of his arrival at Number Ten, adored by thousands – and his swift, silent departure. Maybe then, he would understand that we know what he is about, now – but I doubt it, because his connection to reality is ever more threadbare; he’s preoccupied with his next fix, just as he was as we hailed new beginnings in 1997.
Power is a drug, and there, unbeknown to us – dangling just within reach – was the prospect of an EU presidency, power over hundreds of millions of people. To attain that, having sharpened his knife on the Labour party, Tony Blair convinced himself that the evisceration of Cool Britannia herself was surely not a step too far.
It’s normal for a Wunderkind to become a Bete Noir, but in the case of Blair, his betrayal is so shameful, his legacy so globally apocalyptic and permanent, that he has almost taken on aspects of the Anti-Christ in popular imagination. Aside from figures of legend, or Hitler, who else is so universally loathed?
Where once his was the Midas Touch, now, whatever he lays his hand on turns to slime in the minds of those he once saw as obliging pawns, and so each time he argues, as he did last weekend, that it is imperative that we don’t leave the EU, vital that democracy is subverted, there is a sort of collective shiver, as if we all feel a draught from the crypt.
To agree with Tony Blair now is practically akin to demanding that Josef Mengele be called in to restructure the NHS.
Tony Blair represents a particular kind of corruption, of which he is somehow both source and symptom: only Blair, who called our forces to war more often than any other Prime Minister in our history, could have been made a peace envoy to the middle east he helped trigger, during a period in which a middle eastern nation which considers a public beheading as entertainment, was given the UN chair on Human Rights. That corruption is now written on his face – power and politics ages the best of people, but Blair looks like his own portrait in the attic.
We will not recover from the Blair years for generations, if ever. The gentle tolerance which informed the 1990s has stretched to snapping point. And Blair’s reach has been long: even David Cameron is rumoured to have employed him as an advisor, and George Osborne praised him as “the master.” To see Cameron, Clegg and Miliband lined up together, was to see peas in a Blairite pod.
We don’t vote for cookie-cutter Blair-alikes now, but Tony will probably never accept that. He’s still crying for power, for the glory days when he was puppet-master to Dubya, a Forrest Gump of a president, and was adored by Americans even as he helped discredit the Republicans to the extent of paving the way for America’s own version of Tony Blair – fellow arch-Globalist and war-monger Barack Obama.
In 1913, a single square mile of Vienna was simultaneously home to Hitler, Tito, Trotsky and Stalin, whose co-existence on the world stage was devastating.
I suppose we must be grateful that the hey-days of Obama and Blair didn’t overlap quite so exactly.