Without doubt, Twitter would have stopped the invasion of Iraq and it is going to do similar things in the future. It’s instant public approval or critique, and politicians and consumer brands are paying close attention…
Old Holborn, from an interview with The Daily Telegraph
If the Web has a soul, then a loathing for censorship stirs it.
Nick Cohen, You Can’t Read This Book
To St. James’s Park, and an evening in the excellent company of Libertarian Home [LH]. LH is a loose collective whose interests revolve around, as you would expect, Libertarianism. Libertarianism is regularly heckled and lampooned in the mainstream media and among the political class and their catamites, so the discerning boulevardier simply knows instinctively that there has to be something in it, and gravitates to these events with pleasure.
LH meets monthly in an agreeable hostelry, and a talk is the focal point of the evening. I gave one myself, on free will and determinism with reference to Socialism; it can be found here. This month, we were entertained by Old Holborn, scourge of Twitter, defender of free speech and – according to cretinous comic The Daily Mail – ‘Britain’s vilest troll’.
Twitter was made for this age of perpetual offence. The race industry has been notorious for years for their ramping up of outrage, accusation and concomitant anti-white rhetoric, but now others can join in too. The transgendered, the Welsh, children with ADHD; as long as you are a member of a designated victim group, you can be offended. And, with the cunning new innovations of micro-aggression, trigger words, psychological abuse and other supposedly unconscious ways of giving offence, the store of potential grievance is effectively limitless. Enter Old Holborn.
At 53, Old Holborn is a year younger than me, and so we share a cultural memory bank. Like him, I have seen the gradual erosion of freedoms in our lifetime, with freedom of speech at the fore. In my experience, this has even extended to the workplace. I recall a particularly half-witted martinet, posing as my ‘line manager’, constantly telling me to ‘watch the tone’ of my emails whenever I had pointed out one of her many, many schoolgirl errors.
Old Holborn is deliberately provocative, as a quick Google search will confirm. His policy is to push the limits of free speech in order to find out what they are. This in itself throws up an interesting observation; the ruling cliques themselves, and their provisional arms in the police and media, don’t know what is and isn’t acceptable free speech in terms of the speech itself. It’s not a question of producing or shaping an acceptable lexicon. All they know is that free speech qua free must be gradually closed down. The ongoing battle against freedom of expression is a battle concerned with control, not the definition of legality or permissible boundaries.
Old Holborn is an engaging, animated speaker, keen to share his life with his audience because his life is what he does. He and his family are relocating to Europe, so sick is he of this country, where our police 'service' have wasted a lot of our tax money harassing him. He ran for Parliament under the name Old Holborn, and did much to popularise the ubiquitous Guy Fawkes mask now so beloved of hacktivist-anarchists Anonymous (although actually first used by people protesting against The Church of Scientology).
By what I assume was coincidence, Anonymous were in the middle of the so-called Million Mask March in the Westminster streets right outside the pub, and I wondered what his take on their antics would be. I had walked from Westminster tube station, curious to see what was happening. In fact, I passed through Parliament Square just a few minutes before what turned, predictably, into a riot of sorts. Unforgiveably, the protesters threw fireworks at police horses, one of whom was blinded. Old Holborn shared my contempt for these retarded, spoilt brats. “That’s not anti-authority”, he spat, gesturing out of the window towards the clatter and shouting.
I asked one question, which came out as more of a statement, which earned a round of applause and one sentence from which I mentally filed for reproduction here. It is an old saw of mine; that there is no such thing as ‘offence’. Offence is a wily way of converting anger – of which no one takes any notice – into something which will command rabid attention. The relation between offence and anger, I ventured, is that between ‘marketable tender and an unbankable coin’.
There is little I can add to the weary subject of free speech, late lamented of this parish. We certainly no longer enjoy it. You wouldn’t get a feature published in a newspaper about, say, IQ, genetics and race, not if it were honest. No freedom of speech. I would not get far in central London wearing a T-shirt reading ‘Infidel’ or ‘Veiled women give me the horn’. No freedom of speech. Supporters of Liverpool Football Club were given a leaflet, several months ago, telling them which words (sissy, man up, poof) would get them banned from Anfield. No freedom of speech.
And the central point of Old Holborn’s speech was a simple one. You and I, if we desire free speech, have to save it ourselves. Politicians will not do it for us. They have no freedom of speech themselves, due to our pathetic media and their obsession with political correctness, ‘gaffes’, and appeasing Leftist, Islamist, black, feminist and gender pressure groups. And one of the best ways of joining the fight, according to OH, is to get on social media and make a noise. Put people’s noses out of joint. Speak, and speak freely. You know social media is a good thing when you see how many journalists despise it. All those people writing for others without so much as a Media Studies degree.
Don’t allow cultural Marxists to stop your mouth. Push back. Kick back. Freedom of speech is ours to lose.