Mandy & Me

Day four and he still hasn’t risen from the grave; they don’t make Messiah’s like they used to. As the Mandela Grievy Train ambles down the track, flanked by acolytes spouting fawning eulogies, left and right each claiming him as their own, you would be forgiven for thinking that the world economy, climate change and the sum total of global human happiness itself depended entirely on finding the right words to praise him; Hosannas in the highest. And every single commentator appears to have had a deep, personal and beatific relationship with Saint Madiba. My, the old boy must have put it about a bit.

Obnoxio the Clown put it all rather well in his blog on Friday. Me? I’m not much moved. Actually that’s an overstatement; I am as underwhelmed by all of this as I was for Marc Bolan, John Lennon, Kurt Cobain, Dozy Diana, Michael Jackson and all the other false idols worshipped by people who, frankly,  just haven’t thought it through. Because no matter what you think, no matter what flimsy fictional connection you believe you had, not one of them is coming back with the solution to mankind’s selfish, self-made problems. You have to do it for yourselves.

Tony Parsons wrote in The Sun about how Mandela made racism unacceptable. Palpable bollocks, of course because among some sectors of our supposed ‘community’ racism has gone from strength to strength, the likes of Diane Abbott and Lee Jasper proclaiming that black people cannot be racist while simultaneously spouting poison about the vile whites. In South Africa itself the race-inspired killings of white farmers continues unabated. So you’ll forgive me, Tony, if I don’t share your misty-eyed yearnings.

In Blighty, the criminalisation of the perfectly normal recognition of difference has made racism an industry – so I suppose you could say, in a way, that Mandela has done something for the British economy, although to be perfectly honest we did it to ourselves. We used to be a model of civilisation. Migrants came here to BECOME British - it was a worthy ambition. Now they aren’t allowed to integrate. No, they must form into ghettoes and occasionally foment sporadic violence on our streets. And not just here but all over Europe, although the UK establishment prefers to preserve the idea that racism is a uniquely British evil.

So, what did Mandela do for me? Well I have reappraised my life and decided I should no longer hide my real feelings. I should reach out to the wider world and embrace my deep inner humanity. I’m going to become a massive racist - you know, proper like; go professional. After all, having given up on productive activities it is one of the few growth industries left in the UK and lest you think I have taken leave of my senses, don’t worry, there is method to my madness.

You see, my ‘condition’ will be treated with disbelief and in this world of the so-called expert – the most gullible in the land being psychiatrists, diversity champions and race relations lawyers  – I will be diagnosed as having a treatable mental aberration.  They will conclude that my grief over Mandy (That’s what I called him, we had a special bond) has unhinged me and as racism no longer exists I must therefore be delusional. After a few months of treatment and re-education in the new secure psychiatric facility in Somerset I will be released and tell my story to the press in a public show of humility

Christmas - we celebrate the birth of Mandela

Then I can write a book – the Long Walk to Frome, or something - and so complete will be my redemption that I will become an advisor on race affairs. In fact, to finalise my transformation and show my deep empathy I will have my skin died a deep ebony... get the lips blown up… nose job – the lot. Then, when I’ve made my fortune I can retire to be with ‘my people’ on a Caribbean island where, in a show of solidarity I will only employ poor black folk on minimum wage to do my bidding. I’ll be heralded as a fucking Saint!