I have long suspected that the trope ‘a glass of red wine
a night is good for you’ was a product of the vintners’ public relations
operation, but it didn’t exactly come as a total surprise to learn that the
gubmint's Chief Medical Officer now says there is no safe level of imbibition
of a deadly, if socially acceptable, poison. Cue the outrage. What, you have to
say, you lied to us all those years? And as you say it you must adopt a posture
of indignant incredulity, as if you are entitled by some natural law – human
right, if you will – never to be misled.
Millions of mostly muslim immigrants are dangerous, or
they aren’t, depending on what agenda you wish to pursue. And the moon is made
of cheese, the earth is flat and your chances of winning that roll-over lottery
were less than your chances of dating a supermodel, apparently. Actually, all most
men need to date a supermodel is to win the lottery, or at the very least their
chances of doing so are increased immeasurably. The non-sequitur as argument is
rife and probably always has been; a popular Owen Jones question used to be “So,
the immigrants take your jobs, or they live on benefits... which is it?” He
used to trot this conundrum out as regularly as clockwork, as if it killed the
debate and won the day.
Of course the answer is both, either or neither, but any
answer is an unhappy one if you are the homeless ex-squaddie watching refugees
being housed while your potential wages are too low to afford rent and you can’t
access benefits from the system you’ve paid into without an actual address. Is
it the immigrants’ fault? Almost certainly not. Does the system appear to be skewed
in their favour and against yours? Absolutely. Is this a fair appraisal? It
depends. It depends whose over-zealous hands hold the facts and how they choose
to air them.
The entire leftist cultural attack on the greater
majority of the population relies heavily on impressing a sense of guilt on
their otherwise uneventful and fairly blameless existence. You get up in the
morning, go out to work, feed your family and bring up your kids to follow in your
footsteps and then one day it turns out you are an over-privileged, xenophobic
little Englander with hatred in your soul for anybody not like you. You are a far
right, racist, sexist, islamophobe because seeing muslims behead non- muslims
prompts you to question whether we should be more careful who we allow into the
UK.
“All refugees are not terrorists” does not mean that some
refugees are not terrorists. And even one terrorist can terrorise, can kill, a
lot of innocent people. The nonsense argument that more Americans die at the
hands of white, gun-toting Americans is utterly irrelevant to the discussion of
the sagacity of importing sworn adversaries with a divine mission to slaughter
the infidel. The world over, you are statistically more likely to suffer harm
at the hands of people you know than otherwise and often for good – or at least
comprehensible - reasons. Why would you deliberately compound your chances of
coming to harm by adding a barbarous ideology to the risk cocktail?
Yes, there is hatred and fear and yes there is even an
element of ‘hate speech’ but the cultural Marxists have time on their hands, a
misguided missile of an agenda and a far larger PR machine to mobilise pop-up
protest and suppress dissent by labelling normal as Nazi. Nobody with an ounce
of normality could look on Europe’s self-inflicted migrant invasion and not
feel trepidation and a sense of anger and helplessness, but calling that
reaction xenophobic is to wantonly miss the point for unhelpful political
purposes.
Poison... but whose is it?
But there is an answer. Next time you hear a lazy attack
on your natural concerns, sticking an unfriendly label on your sensible
objections, or shouting you down with spurious statistics, let them have their
say. Let them rant and rave and foam and froth and hold their protest placards
up aloft. Let them state their case whereby they turn the aggressors into
saints and the victims into criminals. And when they’ve exhausted their repertoire
of well-rehearsed but ultimately meaningless string of unconnected slogans,
calmly look them in the eye and ask, “Or is that just bollocks?”
