Tuesday, 18 October 2016


Many years ago I was at university. It was before special snowflakes, safe spaces and triggering, before micro-aggressions, white privilege and Mickey Mouse degrees in subjects which don’t exist. I did a lot of acting, and during the miners’ strike I took part in a benefit review for Thatcher’s downtrodden. Of course, we didn’t know in those far-off days that Harold Wilson closed more mines than Thatcher, but she was Satan. The BBC said so and so did all your friends.

The theatre group organising the event had got themselves a real prize; a genuine miner. He was from a Kent colliery and not only was he going to attend, he was going to perform. On the day, he strapped on an acoustic guitar and played a couple of songs. I think he played Woodie Guthrie’s This Land is Your Land and some other protest song. The students looked on in awe. Imagine! A genuine member of the oppressed working class is performing for us! Then things started to go wrong for the student body.

The miner finished his competent renditions and started telling jokes. You would have expected humour tilted at the Tories and Margaret Thatcher, but you would have been disappointed. This chap’s gags were more in the Bernard Manning line (American viewers will have to look up Manning on YouTube, and I recommend it). Mothers-in-law, ethnic minorities, women, this guy nailed them all. I thought it was hilarious, not just the jokes themselves, but their effect on the reverent students. They began to shift and squirm in their seats. Muttering was heard. Finally, some walked out. The miner, you see, the real person in the room, the one with callouses and coal dust under his skin like poorly inked tattoos, had not kept to the script.

We now fast-forward some 25 years. I am now working as a live-in caretaker at a block of flats next to Westminster Cathedral, as you might expect for a Doctor of Philosophy. The block was almost a century old, with an unreliable lead pipe plumbing system which never would behave itself. Three doors away was a blue plaque announcing that Winston Churchill and his beloved Clemmie had lived there right up until 1939, when events elsewhere persuaded Winston to move house. I saw Gordon Brown come out of there once on the morning he was due to appear on television denouncing those who had used his child for some news angle, the hypocritical bastard. I watched him and he watched me, becoming increasingly skittish until he summoned a security guard and pointed me out. The guard got on his mobile and I waved to them both with a cheery grin before going back inside. But I digress.

Due to its proximity to Victoria train and coach stations, the end of the street in which this block nestled was now home to several Romanian men. They would drink and cavort, cavort and drink, leer at women, stare aggressively at men, defecate, urinate and sleep wherever it so pleased them. It was a charming precursor of the multicultural enrichment which is now beginning to accelerate in London. They were, not to put too fine a point on it, a fucking nuisance. More than once, I saw them ogling the small children playing in the school playground opposite their carnival of unpleasantness.

Now, there happened to live in one of the flats a woman I particularly despised. She was one of those bourgeois Lefties. Plenty of money and a ‘Free Palestine’ badge. Having had our Romanian friends mentioned to me a couple of times by concerned single women who felt threatened, I asked her – board member that she was – whether there was anything that could be done about the problem. She scolded me. It was not, she had me know, the fault of these poor refugees that they were homeless. If the Tory government had a heart they would have homes and jobs. Yeah, one of those.

Six weeks later, she approached me and asked if I would be prepared to make a statement to the police. Certainly, I said. Concerning what? It transpired that she was on her way to the cop shop to make an ‘impact statement’ concerning the Carpathian cavorters. They had started to affect her life adversely, you see, and the Left are only happy with immigrant dysfunction when it takes place nowhere near them. Another Leftie pulled up short by reality, stupid bitch.

Last year I was in Amsterdam for a few days, never having been and wanting very much to see van Gogh’s paintings in situ. One evening, I was drinking bourbon in a pleasant little bar when I struck up conversation with a young barmaid. She was about twenty, and you can curb any salacious thoughts that might be squirming in the mired sewers of your filthy imaginations. I’m too old for all that shit. At one point, the conversation drifted towards the political, and it is always instructive to see the tabula rasa of the millennial mind when it comes to matters political. I mentioned that I found Geert Wilders and his treatment by the Dutch establishment to be very interesting. Boy, had I pulled the trigger.

The smile vanished from her face. She looked at me as though my face were covered with open, running sores. Did I know, she enquired, that I was literally evil? She went on in this vein until I drank up and left. I was going to remind this self-important and witless little cunt that she was in the service industry and I was the customer, but what was the point? I merely hoped that her job would soon go to a cheaper Eritrean. I have to admit I also hoped she was raped in half by Arabs.

And thus the Left. Everything is fine in Looking-Glass Land until reality walks through the saloon bar doors looking for a fight. If you wish to understand the modern Leftist, imagine a spoiled, brattish child whose nose has been put out of joint and decides to hate Daddy even if it means ruining the holiday for the whole family. I simply will not and would not have Leftist acquaintances. I despise them and the onerous world they are creating. I hope their children, if they have any, suffer hard and suffer long.

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