Hate Crime?

No matter how much the crazed Caliph of Holyrood might insist it is so, there is no such thing as ‘hate crime’. Hate is a base emotion, and not worthy of a truly intelligent person, and is definitely an accelerant for certain types of criminal behaviour, but hate itself is not a crime. If hate were a crime then so too could love, joy, despair and misery be legislated against. Preposterous, you may think, but this idiot country is in danger of proscribing all of them.

Delight in seeing your own nation’s flag flying is already, it would appear, bordering on the criminal. But that’s patriotic pride, as opposed to the ‘new’ pride, which is a bonus point on your social acceptability score. You are expected to celebrate the joy of being abnormal, in an absolutely correct sense of the word, yet love of your own tribe is definitely a prosecutable offence if that tribe is white, and especially if it is white and male.

And what if you ‘hate’ Hitler? Is that a hate crime? Who gets to define what kind of antipathy is actionable and which is to be applauded? Loving Hitler is definitely going to see you in court at some stage, as will any mention of final solutions to intractable ethnic problems. Is a love for Hamas a hate crime… or a love crime? And while we’re on the subject, how’s that Labour kinder, gentler antisemitism going for you?

The way the nutters who run this asylum are leading, misery is set to be criminalised by the widespread abuse of the mental health excuse for not working. Now, some might say that the control of and promulgation of misery is already the business of government as it hounds and harries landlords, taxpayers and indeed anybody who makes a positive contribution to life in the UK. In contrast, those who contribute nothing and spend their lives with their begging bowls held out must not be miserable, by diktat.

It all springs from the nebulous and shape-shifting definitions of ‘human rights’, whereby the human rights of some are deemed more important than the human rights of others. If, for instance, you are a law-abiding taxpayer who goes the extra mile to put food on the plate and fire in the hearth you will be milked forever to provide what you have to those who never lift a finger. You don’t even need to belong to this country for your human rights to trump those of the indigenous.

Suddenly, after only, oh, half a century or so of being told all this, the morons posing as representatives of the population are beginning to point out the idiocy of ‘equity’ and ‘diversity’ and to question the wisdom of seeing everything through the lens of critical race theory and all the other crackpot dalliances of the simplistic Marxist children. Something must be done, they demand, seemingly unaware that the power is theirs to so do.

But it is all too late. (Maybe this is why they suddenly feel able to spout off their platitudes.) The damage has been done and the sheep have been groomed for the coming slaughter. Your emotions are no longer under your control but are legislated by the state. You will be happy, sad, triumphant, dismayed and disappointed when you are told to be. And woe betide those who have the wrong emotion at the wrong time, or for the wrong reasons. 

The left has longed for a time when they could tell you that you were happy, and you would accept it. Or tell you to get angry and you would obey that command. At the drop of a hat, the gays march for Palestine; at the click of a finger, those made comfortable by cheap energy glue themselves to roads to end it all. "You will own nothing, and be happy." But for now, ladies and gentlemen, please turn your attention to the telescreens in readiness for the two-minute hate.

Allegory

On the day God punished the Africans – thousands were wiped out in Gambia – Abdul Vazçèq was too busy tending to his wilted vegetable plot to notice. He was concerned that the dispute with his neighbour may have brought divine retribution to his door so he was busy. He was not watering the produce, for that was God’s work, but praying devoutly for his intervention from the heavens. But he had to go into town to join the compulsory daily mass demonstration at the behest of the supreme prophet; the holy father of the state religion and God’s representative on Earth.

Before the coming of the Great Silence we were assailed by the clamour of the devil, in the form of newspapers, television and the internet. It was a continuous babble of misinformation and contradictory truths. Nobody knew what to believe and the conflicts between those who voted for one outcome and those for another had become more and more frequent; the normal functions of society were disrupted on a near daily basis as London’s streets were clogged with protesters. But now it was clear that there can be only one truth and at last we have found it.

When they cut down the tree of knowledge (the world-wide-web-of-lies)  life was supposed to get better for the devout and given that Vazçèq’s life was now a power-less, jobless, hungry existence he could only assume that his own lack of unthinking faith was to blame. He couldn’t exactly blame god because, well, that was illegal and god was omnipotent. If it wasn’t in the holy book it wasn’t true and he knew on which side his bread was buttered. Or at least he would if he had any butter. Or bread for that matter. It had been a while now.

As he crossed the town square, looking up at the cloudless sky and worrying about his vegetables he was only vaguely aware of the screens broadcasting god’s retribution on the Africans. Floods; how ironic. In a corner of the former market place – markets were now banned as unholy – a small gathering was busy stoning somebody who had expressed ambivalence for divine government in earshot of the religious police. At least there was now law and order. And everybody had the same opinion, if they wished to stay alive.

But where was the rain? And what must he do to appease the almighty; if only there was a sign. A hundred loudspeakers crackled into life and a booming, voice of authority commanded that all face the screens for their act of devotion. An old still image appeared and the crowd began to bay. The last remaining means of generating electricity now that god’s will was being done was reserved for the generators of state and church. The crowd repeated the mantra and the hated figure – now long dead – became for two minutes the centre of their universal excoriation.

I am the Alpha and the Omega, the Epsilon and the Upsilon...

A siren signalled the end and the crowd began to recover from their trance-like state of angry arousal. The face of Nigel Farage faded from the screen, to be replaced by the calming image of the supreme leader. People began to return to their normal business of finding enough to eat. But none would forget the experience and tomorrow they would worship again, their beliefs reinforced. A small cloud appeared in the sky and as Vazçèq headed for home he saw that his faith was strong; he was on the side of the righteous.