Tuesday, 25 April 2017


Repeat after me

Ain’t it strange?

Patti Smith

I found myself in a strange town
The Jam

Isn’t it strange? We live, not in a world but in a hemisphere, in which you can choose your gender. Even if you have the inconvenience of hosting a penis, you can be a woman, or any one of a Heinz-like 57 varieties of gender. If you are white, and find this an encumbrance, you can self-identify as black. Bored with being human? Simply elect to be Otherkin. A dragon, say, or unicorn or space alien. It seems to be Western means to be able to choose anything you like.

Except your opinions.

If you are the owner of a swinging dick, hair on your chest, a deep voice and an Adam’s apple, they are mere ephemera. If you have all these things and wish to be a woman, so be it. But if you express your opinion that such a person is delusional, or a fraud, or an attention-seeker, or flying in the face of biological fact, beware. Ask not for whom the Kommissar knocks. He knocks for thee.

If you face the irksome but irreconcilable fact that your parents are white, but you wish to be black, we can arrange that without a salesman visiting your home! Simply frizz your hair, or grow a little jazz beard, buy some tanning agent, adopt the infantile pabulum that passes for black speech, and hey, homes! You be like wack!

But hop on to social media and state that you think Shaun King and Rachel Dolazeal are fraudulent or deeply disturbed individuals, and the biens pensant will rise against you like the Mongol hordes.

And, as the English used to say, mind your Ps and Qs. Homosexuals are permitted to call themselves ‘queers’ and, indeed, will let no opportunity to do so go to waste. I would strongly recommend, however, that if you are straight, white and male, you do not try this at home, on your computer. That way lies the Big House.

Women are another protected species. They are, of course, the equal of men, until one gets punched in the face at a rally, in which case the male puncher becomes a violent patriarch picking on a poor, defenceless woman. Incidentally, while we are on the subject, the woman to whom I refer is a soft-porn actress called ‘Moldylocks’, who specializes in hirsute porn, meaning that she does not shave her vagina, but does have it repeatedly photographed. She also has an online post stating before the rally that she intended to claim ‘100 Nazi scalps’. O brave new world, that has such people in it!

Of course, the gold-medal-winning, top-of-the-class, champeen of halting your freedom of speech is Islam, a powerful brand enjoying encouraging sales spikes and fully endorsed by the leaders of Western governments. A man was recently given a year in jail in the UK. His crime? And, before you answer, remember that you have to try quite hard to get prison time in Britain for, say, burglary. He wrapped bacon around the door handle of a mosque. Kevin Crahan died in jail, six months into his sentence. There has never been an explanation given, certainly not one reported in the MSM, or anywhere else. And I have looked.

A member of the political party Liberty GB, Tim Burton, faces a long and costly court case for referring online to a Muslim as a ‘mendacious, grievance-mongering taqiyya artist’. I, for one, applaud both the construction of the phrase and its accuracy, but the law may take a dimmer view. ‘Lawfare’ is, of course, one of the many ways in which Islam – and the elites – protects its brand. And, even if their opponents have money, which I do not imagine they do, it is a lot easier to fight a court case in your own, leisurely time when your sugar daddy is called Saudi Arabia.

To paraphrase P G Wodehouse, here is the news, and here is Markie reading it. If you are not a recognised member of a designated victim group, you are far from free. Your speech is curtailed, both at work and in your private life. Curiously, it is also policed in your social life. Facebook, for example, used to be a lot of fun, and a great way to stay in touch with family and friends, particularly when you have relocated to Central America. And then it changed.

As Corinthians reminds us, there comes a time to put aside childish things, and I find Facebook may soon be included in that inventory. There are two main reasons. The first is Mark Zuckerberg, a disgrace to Marks everywhere. He is a very nasty little man and an enemy of free speech. Perhaps the clue is in the name. The surname, I mean. The family name. It is after all, a big, powerful family.

The second is my disappointment with so many people I used to know, like and admire. The rule now seems to be this; as well as being a light-hearted social market-place, Facebook is also a political forum, provided that your comments are orthodox Left-wing. Anything vaguely to the Right, politically speaking, and the finger-wagging and sour faces begin. I have ditched a lot of people I have known for years. I have no wish to speak to them again. As you see, I have quoted from Shakespeare’s The Tempest, and the title of this piece is a mangling of the same speech, given by one of Shakespeare’s most charming female characters, Miranda. A few lines later, her father Prospero makes a remark which sums up my attitude towards the friends I have discarded due to their political prudery.

Let us not burden our remembrances with

A heaviness that’s gone.

It never bothers me. As the young people say, I don’t really ‘do’ friendship. People either interest me or they don’t.

But this is no brave new world. The West is a craven henhouse with a rampant fox already inside. It is a strange situation in which the farmer is allowed to notice the presence of the fox and the danger posed to his chickens, but not permitted to fetch, or even mention, his gun.

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