Tuesday, 30 August 2016

The Last Taboo

A World War two evacuee recently spoke on the radio of the miserable two years he spent separated from his parents and sent, for his own safety, away from London where he and others were routinely groped and otherwise abused by a succession of foster parents and officials. In my own young life, although spared the fumbling, I encountered, second-hand, the phenomenon of the kiddy-fiddler  in the form of a school teacher and an assistant scout leader. And also an uncle who the family referred to as ‘you know, a bit that way inclined’.

The strange and unwanted attentions of weird ‘uncles’ seems to be a constant throughout history but only very recently has the use of the term paedophile become widespread and the problem been passed on to, you guessed it, der gubmint. Not so long ago the meddling fingers of the monster in your midst would have been discreetly ‘sorted out’ by a community lynch mob and sent packing with a few broken bones and a deep shame. I don’t expect or want you to feel sorry for them, but many such broken humans committed suicide, or else committed themselves to a life devoid of human contact lest they be tempted.

Following the commentary during a break in the Olympic tennis the BBC apologised cringingly for the ‘casual homophobia’ committed by the commentator during what came to be dubbed ‘kisscamgate’. When he suggested that it might be unfortunate should the camera linger specifically on a male couple he voiced what many would probably have thought. And although you are not allowed to have such feelings, millions of viewers may have been disquieted at the sight of two real men kissing; real, as opposed to the nightly parade of obligatory same sex public displays shoehorned into every episode of every soap opera, in order to reflect the approved version of reality foisted upon us by the mainstream media.

Fifty years ago, however, that behaviour could land you in jail; it would certainly have had you targeted and hounded out of town, if not lynched on the spot. Today, whether you actually feel it or not, you must overtly embrace the gay and repeat after the nice lady at the diversity class that there is nothing unusual or abnormal about a man sticking his cock up another man’s arse. It’s as natural as breastfeeding, apparently. And if some of the lovely gays are so excited they want to parade their man-love in pubic and in uniform well, who are we to tell them to stop?

So, here’s the thing; homosexuality, sado-masochism, shoe fetishes, auto-erotic asphyxiation, latex, leather, bondage and any of the hundreds of furtive private peccadilloes are all, to some degree or another accepted, tolerated, ignored or excused under the general heading of sexual preferences. Even paedophilia has had its attempt at reform under the aegis of PIE, painting sexual attraction towards the pre-pubescent as just another different-but-normal human urge. No doubt bestiality and necrophilia also have their champions.


But there remains the orientation that dare not speak its name. Once referred to as ‘normal’, the tide has turned against those who dare utter their preferences out loud and woe betide the public figure who speaks out  against practices once considered perverse and unholy. What was formerly thought repulsive must now be defended, its practitioners’ rights upheld and the details promulgated to all. But if you are heterosexual, married and discreet about your love-play you should hang your head in shame.

Monday, 29 August 2016

Normal Service Resumed

I’ve had a week off. ... ... What do you mean, you didn’t notice? Anyway, it turned out that my blog is not the only thing keeping the world spinning, which is frankly a relief as I’m not sure how to cope with that kind of pressure. What am I saying, pressure? Pur-lease, that’s for the whiny inhabitants of All-about-me-Land, or as I have decided to call them, Menstrual Millennials – and lest you berate me for implied sexism, I include certain males in this description; how some of them haven’t grown clitorises through their desperate efforts to empathise defeats me.

In the meantime the fires of anguish have been stoked by the French Burkini Ban and the hilariously butthurt reaction to the #MakeAMovieIslamic hashtag on Twitter, which inventive productivity showed once again that when a community can’t take a joke, it has yet to earn respect in a civilised society. And Nigel Farage has managed to get Hillary Clinton to do the impossible and up her crying game after his very favourable reception at a Trump rally. It really doesn’t take a lot to get them going, does it?

Common sense seems to trigger spasms of shrieking, garment-rending misery in the growing proportion of the population that believes everybody should be shielded from all harm, from all directions. It’s as if decades of child-centred education and individual-focused social engineering has produced a generation of helpless, supposedly ‘empowered’, yet unemployable people who nevertheless believe that it is up to them to shape society in their image.

But what image are they going for? Once we had coopers and clockmakers, blacksmiths and bakers; people whose job title actually told you what they did; people whose purpose was clear, defined and necessary. Now, however, we harbour a growing army of nebulously monickered entitlement enablers. It is your human right to never be offended, to which end we have spawned an entire industry engaged in the antithesis of productivity. Arrived at the apotheosis of understandable enterprise? Then aim for the unintelligible...

If somebody can define what you do they can strive to it better, cheaper, faster. But if instead of leading the mob you are the distant voice which yells from the back “string him up!” and eggs on the dim to believe they are worthy you can name your price. There are, particularly, rich and easy pickings to be had by fanning the smouldering embers of the always easily combustible race issues and as we suffer the stabbing season also known as the Notting Hill Carnival (5 stabbings at the time of writing) I await with curious anticipation the cries of racism which inevitably accompany any attempt to suggest that ‘communities’ curb their more violent tendencies.

"Try not to block the pavement next time you get stabbed, sir..."
Vibrant Britain - business as usual

Amidst these bubbling pots of discontent, these spinning plates of neediness, somebody has to keep their head while everybody else is being taken in by the prestidigitator’s sleight of hand life goes on. When agitators are crying out for resources to tackle the ever-growing list of imaginary race and sex and inequality crimes somebody is needed to keep pointing out that the emperor’s bollocks are still fully visible and swaying in the wind. I’m back... and you’re welcome. 

Friday, 26 August 2016


Nigel Farage stood on a stage with Donald Trump and the lefty world exploded into a frothing maelstrom of outrage. This is fascism, wrote Tom Peck in a fine example of the type of journalism that has Owen Jones fans salivating and self-flagellating as they express their love of all humanity via the medium of unbridled hatred. Quite a few of the usual suspects joined in to form their own little Nuremburg Rally of irony as they sought to rouse their army of compliant drones to retweet their righteous fury. It was hilarious.

Other things occupying the minds of the eternally offended were the French burkini ban, Jeremy Corbyn’s train journey shenanigans, bodies washing up at Camber Sands and the annual horrorshow of callow youth opening manilla envelopes to reveal their pointless exam results to a disinterested world. Odd then, in this sea of business as usual, that the tragic and catastrophic earthquake in central Italy got so little social media coverage. But maybe that was because it couldn’t be blamed on Brexit, islamophobia, climate change deniers, Tories... or Nigel Farage.

The prepossessions of the left are tantamount to religion; absolute faith in something that defies reality. Who am I to deny anybody their obsessions, just so long as it does nobody any harm? For many people religion offers a lifelong comfort and it would surely be wrong to deprive somebody of that security, but when following the creed starts to turn nasty, as many religions have, dissenting voices must be heard. For most people, however, religion is a mere cultural backdrop to their life, most falling out of touch with their church except for certain ritualised gatherings. And many happily do without any form of faith throughout their lives.

But, I’m guessing you can tell the atheist from the agnostic not so much by what they do with their time on earth but what they do as they near the end of it. On which thought I am reminded of the old man and the priest:

The old man entered a Catholic church, sought out the priest and requested access to the confessional. The priest escorted him to the booth and they both sat down. "I am 82 years old, Father,” he began “And I have been faithfully married to the same woman for almost sixty years.” The priest smiled from his side of the screen and asked “So, what of your confession?” The old man excitedly told him “Last night, I had full-on, lustful, extended sexual relations with a pair of twenty-three year old twins!”

The Priest was taken aback, but recovered his composure to ask "How long has it been since your last confession?" To which the old man replied “This is my first time. I'm Jewish." The priest was annoyed and demanded to know why on earth he was here, wasting the church’s time and telling him all about his sordid little adventure. The old man replied “Hey, I'm telling everybody!”

Saturday, 20 August 2016

You'd better believe it!

I sometimes think that Polly Toynbee exists purely to give taxpayers somebody to belly laugh about. The other day she went into a full on, straitjacket-required, anti-Tory rant about obesity. It seems that fat is a socialist issue. Odd, though, that in her diatribe she recommends that we should “offer a diet of self-esteem, good jobs and social status, and the pounds will fall away”, because this has been the Tory solution since forever, whereas the ragged-trousered remnants of the Labour Party would legislate people thin by passing laws which always end up punishing 'the most vulnerable in society'.

Meanwhile, Theresa May’s government are going on about tax and taking a leaf out of Labour’s good book to soak the rich, or more particularly those who manage to avoid giving more than a few million to the Exchequer. Thus do political movements symbiotically survive by each feeding off the other’s ideas until they come to resemble one another, or else spawn new offshoots such as the Social Democrats and New Labour. One step forwards, two steps backwards, like an evolutionary gavotte, spinning and wheeling and never leaving the spot. We can send man to the moon in a single generation of effort, yet after millennia we still don’t have answers to questions posed by Plato.

In some less well evolved parts of the world there appears to be a determination to reverse the process entirely and consign all of man’s achievements to the dusty archive of archaeology; will a newly-excavated ancient London be sacked like Palmyra in a few thousand years’ time? People in the enlightened west have been talking about atheism for centuries but there must be something hidden deep in the genetic code of mankind’s monkey brain that reflexively clings on to fable, rather than fact.

The responsibility lies with everybody to educate their children that life is theirs to make the most of and they should not blindly follow faiths without challenge nor accept explanation without question. So when young Jamie asked his father “Dad, how did we get here?” his father replied “Well, first there were Adam and Eve and one day they made a baby. Then their babies grew up and made more babies and so on and so forth until there were millions of humans, all making babies and well, here we are! But don’t just take my word for it, ask your mum.”

Jamie duly sought out his mother and asked her the same question. Mum, having a doctorate in evolutionary biology – for this is one of those modern stories where the women get the life affirming role while the man merely plays the part of a dullard father – said “Well, first there were inorganic compounds that became organic and began to replicate. Then there were bacteria and later more complex animals. Millions of years later, fish evolved that could leave the sea. From there we got small shrew-like animals and eventually the great apes arrived.”

“Great apes?” asked Jamie, eyes wide. “Yes” continued mum “our ancestors were primates, the same as those of the chimpanzees and the orangutans we see today. The fossil records prove that we all belong to the same ancestral line.” Jamie wasn’t sure how to reconcile these two very different answers so after some thought he returned to his father. “You lied!” he stated, “I asked mum and she told me we came from monkeys!” His father calmly replied “She was talking about her side of the family.”

Thursday, 18 August 2016


A considerable amount of press time is still being devoted to trying to put as cowardly a face on the prospect of Brexit as possible. Yesterday’s news - contrary to the Today programme’s pet economist commentator’s hopes and dreams – of lower unemployment and higher ages must have come as a hammer blow. Still, there was some consolation for those wishing for the worst by making a huge deal over holidays. The cost of a European holiday, they say, has increased by 20% because of the devaluation of the pound.

But the foreign holiday is an exotic, recent import into people’s lives and is far from being an essential component. It falls firmly in the category of discretionary spending and it’s up to you whether you do or you don’t. For many the costs are fixed anyway, if by ‘holiday’ you mean the all-inclusive package deal that you bought like so much discounted tat from a comparison site on the Internet. Lying like corpulent pink slugs around a pool full of other people’s kids, wearing wristbands to show which hotel you are the property of and spending the days getting pissed and burned seems to me less like a holiday than an ordeal.

The weather is oft cited as a reason for going away but we have weather in Britain; we’re famous for it. And because it isn’t as reliable as, say Spain’s relentless beating heat, we have lots more variety to enjoy. As they say, there is no such thing as the wrong weather, only the wrong clothes. Maybe if you live a life of idleness on benefits, dossing about the house all day every day, a foreign escape is at least a change of scene, but sod you; your existence is one long holiday from the realities most people have to contend with.

But seriously, why go abroad, cattle class style, to be despised by those who wait on you and clean up your shit for a pittance, to wait in long queues at airport check-ins, to lose your luggage and then afterwards discover your teenage daughter has gained her own extra baggage via the local Latin Lotharios and Montezuma’s revenge has taken control of your lower bowel. The tan will fade and all you will be left with is a bit more gut overhang and those identikit selfies that you put on social media just because everybody else did and now you don’t know how to remove. Oh and you will be broke again. Call that a holiday?

But right here, in one of the rest of the world’s highly rated tourist destinations there is a ‘hotel’ where the beds are familiar and the food is up to your expectations. A place where everybody speaks your version of English and where the facilities are familiar and close at hand. Instead of all that Benidorm bollockry, close down that holiday browser, take your finger off the mouse and put your credit card back in your wallet. Instead of all that holiday hullaballoo – packing, parking, queueing and crap – take a deep breath, settle into your favourite chair and actually, you know, relax.

Go for a walk. Or if you live in a busy city, drive somewhere nice and then go for a walk. See some local sights, have a pub lunch and just talk bollocks for a few hours. Make the most of these balmy nights while you can – the clocks go back in a few weeks’ time, after all. Have you been to the local museum? Lazed in the local park; fed the ducks? With the money saved you could go on a shopping expedition (if that’s your thing) in real shops in a town centre, not just the local Tesco megastore. You could try that new restaurant in the high street, or just pig out on a takeaway in front of the telly.

Whale spotting...

Package holidays are for mugs; don’t play their game. The doom-mongers despise you and will happily use the possibly increased cost of your annual jaunt abroad to point out your ugly nationalism. Prove them wrong by choosing not to be that chav in Union Jack shorts being escorted from the plane on the SiX O’clock News at Malaga airport and be proud of Britain while actually being in Britain. Make the most of it though, because it’s forecast to piss down next week.