Football – or soccer, for my north American reader - until recently, has not been much of a politico-cultural barometer. It certainly ticks all the boxes as far as racial diversity is concerned, but that has come about as a result of market forces and meritocracy. As both of those phenomena are in bad odour with the Pansy Left, football is not a favourite of Progressives. This dislike is exacerbated by the fact that the audience is predominantly white men, a species the Left would like to see brought to extinction. In the last few weeks, however, Progressives have shifted their ongoing cultural war of attrition onto the pitch.
First was the FIFA ruling that the UK home nations not be allowed to wear the traditional poppy, at least in the form of an armband, in games played on Armistice Day. This kind of petty, vindictive nastiness bears all the hallmarks of the Pansy Left, of course. Nationalism, war, maleness and whiteness are all represented by the poppy, and these things are increasingly haram. Let us leave to one side the issue of any guidance or direction whatsoever being made by FIFA, an organisation so rank with corruption it makes Zimbabwe look like The Salvation Army.
How different was the treatment of another visual image sported by soccer players in the last week. Rainbow laces are now all the rage, to show football’s support of the LGBQT ‘community’. That acronym may well have expanded in the time it took me to write that sentence. If I have got it in the wrong order, even as an ex-sub-editor, it is not a fact worth the checking. As seen in the photo above, captain’s armbands have also been worn in the modish rainbow design. These are the gayest of times.
Before we proceed, homophobia is the only -phobia that genuinely disgusts me. These endless phobias are, of course, part of the programme of the cultural Left to pathologise Right – and now Alt-Right – thought. I suffer from most of them, but not homophobia, despite my glib use of ‘poofs’ and ‘pansies’, ‘bumboys’ and ‘benders’. The hatred of gays is one of the several reasons I dislike Muslim culture and, even more so, black culture. Let’s say, as a little thought experiment, that I am waiting for a train, me, a heterosexual white male, as noted rapidly becoming an endangered species if the Leftist elites have their wicked way. The train is the last one back into my home town and, if I miss it, I am, as my good friend Barry Shand would say, proper fucked.
Now, the extraordinarily efficient train announcer would have me know that the approaching train is formed of four coaches. Each coach has exactly one spare seat. The first coach, I am informed, is full of white English football supporters on their way back from a game. The second is full of young black men. The third is full of Muslims. The final carriage is full of homosexuals. Which one, gentle reader, do you think I am going to choose?
Some moments burn themselves into the mind’s CD for retrieval at a later date. I was working for a large London media company when I took one day a lift to the very top of the formidable tower in which its employees lived and breathed and had their being. In the lift with me was a personable chap from the post room, and what was obviously a new recruit to the team. I couldn’t see his appointment lasting, at first impression. He was standard-issue young south London black. Stupid braided corn-row hair with which he constantly fussed. Trousers worn in prison style – and prison was where he was heading at one hundred miles an hour, I fervently hope. His clown’s trousers were at half-mast, giving us all the delights of his underwear and buttocks. Why is it, incidentally, that these rabidly anti-homosexual miscreants always look as gay as a yellow feather-duster?
He was engaged in conversation with his co-worker. Why, he was whining, did he have to go all the way to the top of the building and work his way down, while other posties got to start on the lower levels? His fellow postman patiently explained that he would have to get to know the whole building before beginning the route proper. I imagined he had assumed his job would involve goofing off in the post-room improving his already Ozymandias-like self-image. The black sucked his teeth in that pleasant way and pronounced the whole situation ‘racist’. To his credit, the old hand said it wasn’t racist, he just wanted the job done properly. These were the days in which pride in a job trumped fear of losing it for fear of ‘being labelled racist’.
I travelled to the top with the new boy, me standing stock still and him jigging and prancing like a marionette. When the doors slid open, I ushered him to go first with an old-fashioned gesture. He sneered at me, walked out ahead of me with his loping pimp’s swagger, and began to ‘sing’ the ‘lyrics’ of a ‘song’. I will never forget this couplet as long as I live. It went;
Rude boy com inna twenty-firse senshree.
Batty man im nah get entry.
Now, for those of you who may require sub-titling for this gibbering pabulum, our friend was of the opinion that, while he and his brethren of indignant sons of croppers and cane-cutters would gain a joyful ingress to the new millennium, the same right of access would not be granted to homosexuals. Many lyrics of the ‘dancehall’ variety and others celebrate the killing of gays.
It was not the fact that this was openly directed at me that concerned me. I have been taken for gay my entire adult life, partly because I learned manners from my father, and all displays of gentility and social pleasantness are deemed homosexual traits by many blacks. What I mused on, as I do again now, is that this is such a widespread attitude among young urban blacks, and yet it is not something the ‘authorities’ are prepared to do anything about for fear of… well, you know the tune.
The police would not dare to parade through Peckham or Tooting lecturing blacks against homophobia. They would be laughed out of town, most likely with a boot up the arse to speed them on their way. Give authority the chance to tell white men about the dangers of even criticising gays, however, and top sportsmen in the land will be issued with rainbow laces even though they are not allowed to wear poppies. Top marks, incidentally, to England and Scotland for defying that petulant and overtly ideological ban.
The poppy represents the selfless heroic sacrifice of hundreds of thousands who died fighting for their countries. It represents a tragic past. Rainbow laces represent the self-absorbed cowardly ideology of those who will only fight against the freedoms the war dead helped to secure. They represent a tragi-comic future.