The Racing News

You knew this was going to happen, didn’t you? The ‘African Queen’, Ngozi Fulani, so deeply wounded by Lady Susan Hussey’s interest in her ancestral origins, turns out to be a fraud. Born of Caribbean immigrants in London and christened Marlene Headley, she later adopted the teachings of the race industry and graduated from SOAS – the London college renowned for churning out prominent activists obsessed by skin colour.

Like Shola Mugabe Umbongo and Behind-you Andrews, the products of SOAS seem hell bent on finding offence where none is intended and invent micro-aggressions to feed their outrage. Susan Hussey was only asking exactly what Marlene has spent her own life asking. Maybe she was more affronted because she actually didn’t know the answer. Given the context of the event, “no, where are you really from?” seems to be an entirely reasonable question, especially as the supposed ‘charity’ she was representing is very clear who its clients are – abused white women need not apply.

Representing herself as a proud child of the dark continent and prominently sporting a Jamaican headband, and especially having espoused her African origins so deeply, why didn’t she answer the original question with the response any reasonable non-race-baiting grifter might have offered in such company? “I was born in England, my parents came from the Caribbean, but I have adopted an African name to show my proud heritage” would almost certainly have elicited a delighted response. “How marvellous, my dear. Tell me all about it.”

But that would be entirely contrary to the purpose of this, just the latest in a prolonged and very deliberate attack on whiteness. For all her protestations – she has been all over the airwaves talking loudly about how she didn’t want to cause a fuss – the whole thing has played out perfectly. Ask who you are not allowed to criticise, said Voltaire, and you will know who rules over you. And we get it: white supremacy, bad, but how does that make black supremacy good?

How safe do you feel now, Whitey?

Sistah Space, the charity runs by Ms Headley doesn’t just go to bat for abused women of colour, it also runs courses to train white people in ‘cultural competency. Because, yes, it is white people who are the problem. Just imagine the headlines if a white charity ran courses in ‘how to leave the machete in the jungle’, or ‘please don’t rape her just because she’s white’? It’s all gone far too far and it is high time we learned not to pander to the critical race theory mob. Back in your box, Marlene.

It's All Gone

News of the 504,000 net migration figure comes along with a host of excuses. Oh, that’s post Covid re-entry; it’s overseas students; it’s genuine refugees and entitled visa holders from Afghanistan, Ukraine and Hong Kong… and anyway, it’s good for the economy. But wait just a goddamned minute there; how can it be ‘good’ to employ overseas visitors (who will almost certainly become permanent residents) when we have record numbers of British born people economically inactive? (There are currently over 5 million people on out-of work benefits. Yes, really!)

Amid a decades-long housing crisis, how can it be good to need to provide a brand new mid-sized city’s worth of housing every year, especially when we are not building at anywhere near such a scale? When the economy is already tanked how can we afford to pay for perfectly able people to remain idle out of the taxes of incomers on minimum wage? In fact, a minimum wage employee is a net recipient of welfare and only those paying over at least £6000 a year in taxes can be said to break even, so where are all these £30,000+ cleaners, delivery drivers and ethnic restaurant staff?

Communities tend to look after their own, and the more family oriented the ethnic origin, the more solidly stands that principle. In the UK we have, for many years been doing our collective damnedest to break up the nuclear family and replace it with a moral equivalence framework in which however you wish to live your life has exactly the same value. So if you sit on your arse and breed indiscriminately you are just as valued a member of society as somebody who lives within his means and remains faithful to his brood.

I am beginning to think that maybe Jack Straw was right and that the English (and the Scots, the Welsh, and Northern Irish) are finished as a race; it certainly looks that way. Pay a visit to any of our mass-market stores and watch the human dregs schlepp around in baggy sportswear that has never seen a track or a gym. And what is it with the current trend for flip-flops and socks? Once, if you were to be seen in public you would make an effort; now it has become acceptable to wear your sloth on your sleeves.

And just what is the current population, anyway? A decade ago we were told it was 68 million, today it remains the same despite annual net incoming figures at around a third of a million. Can nobody in the government do the maths any more, or – which is more likely – have they just given up? Because that’s what it feels like. We have given up on immigration, law and order, education and society in general. Nobody has the will to carry on.

Britain today, in one picture...

When the government itself won’t recognise, or can’t see, the problems it is little wonder that they don’t act. When every move they make is opposed by forces entirely antipathetic to the survival of Britishness you can see why they are nervous. It really feels that this is now very much an existential crisis, and I fear for the good citizens of the UK whose rights to self-determination are being stripped away in front of their eyes. I am no Little Englander, I have long been critical of the worst of our own, but for pity’s sake will nobody speak up for our island race?

Keep Calm and Twitter on

So, the Muskmeister has proposed a general amnesty for suspended Twitter accounts, provided they haven’t ‘broken the law’. But what law? US law, international law, nebulous ‘non-crime hate incident’ law, or delicate-soul Twitter law? The rules have never been particularly clear; while one is banned for using a formerly perfectly everyday phrase which might just be contrived to contain a germ of antipathy, another gets to freely  dispense literary sewage without sanction.

I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that Twitter algorithms employ anagram solvers in their quest for offence, instantly banning any mention of g-i-n-g-e-r, or slicing up proper nouns like Scunthorpe to discover the hidden outrage gems inside. So, if you are a white, western male you have to suck it up while persons of hue call for your painful eradication from the planet, yet you could be suspended for asking why such speech is allowed.

But let us look ahead to the glorious reinstatement of my account. Which account though? I’ve had so many that I’ve lost track. Will I get back my parody Len McCluskey account, or the one I set up for the cat? Is it possible I could regain the thousands of followers I had steadily amassed under my original handle, or will I have to be content with my last one, which relied for validation on a mobile phone number not my own? Can I even remember who I said I was supposed to be?

I can’t even really remember why I joined Twitter in the first place, having heard it was all about people tweeting their breakfasts, but having hopped aboard I found it much to my taste. I never grasped Facebook, especially when, about ten years ago, they changed the format and I lost interest altogether. LinkedIn I found just creepy, as people who vaguely knew me would look me up and contact me. Why, goddammit, why?! When a work colleague sought me out I deleted my account. I don’t know why, but I’d rather be an anonymous internet nonentity than have to deal with the ignominy of being ‘out’.

As for other platforms, I have never been tempted by the Instagrams, Snapchats and Telegrams and I am utterly indifferent to TikTok. Unless you are seeking unearned fame and dubious fortune, or else you are a business reaching out to as wide a customer base as possible, I can’t see the reward for plastering your every thought and minute-by-minute photographs of your day across the canvas of the worldwide weird web.

Of course, if I am back, so too will be all those accounts who blocked me – knocking on for a thousand – as well as many who will by now have become deceased. Will I remember those whose banter I cherished, back in the day, or will I look on in bewilderment as folk I don’t recognise try to greet me as a long lost friend? And will all of our accounts be returned with original settings intact, or will I see again those who I blocked or muted in turn?

Will it even happen at all? Or will we all be banned again within days? If we have learned anything from Elon Musk’s very special and very public managerial techniques it is that even the daftest, doziest and most out-of-touch of us have the ability to become the richest man on the planet. It seems to have little to do with genius, much to do with luck and everything to do with getting away with it. See you on Twitter?

When you wish upon a star

There never was a star to represent each country in the European Union, but both Brexiteers and Remainers like to pretend that the UK had its own. And depending on which side of the argument you stood it either represented freedom, the reclaiming of our own national stardom, or it served as a token of our membership of a club of friends. Forget about the star; the star is not going to save you.

Clinging to an idea is not the same as making that idea come to fruition. Having a vision, no matter how grand, how aspirational, how very admirable, is not the same as realising that vision. The world as we knew it is pretty much fucked and there is no going back. No amount of petty pontificating is going to get us out of the harm we have inflicted upon ourselves. Not as a result of Brexit, but as a result of weak politicians leading pampered electorates. Now that the heat is on, it turns out that very few can stand to be in the kitchen.

We used to be an industrial powerhouse. To a great extent Germany still is. But no, successive governments decided that we should abandon that which had allowed us to bestride the word as an industrial Colossus and instead become a ‘service economy’. How did we allow ourselves to agree that we could build wealth and future happiness on diversity and the hospitality industry? Oh, and greedy bankers, money launderers and City crooks.

Now, because of the Green agenda, we can’t even contemplate a return to manufacturing, reduced instead to offshoring our emissions by buying everything from overseas in a dismal attempt to claim net-zero credentials. Our high streets are awash with money transfer shops, bookies, fried chicken outlets and modern pawn brokers. We are broke, busted, brassic… screwed.

Boris Johnson and others like to talk about the thousands, nay millions of jobs in the Green economy, but where are they? Not in manufacturing, the bit that brings in the big bucks, but where? Designing and commissioning green energy systems requires talents we hold in only scarce quantities, having sent generations of school leavers to study how to be offended by everything. And installing such systems requires aptitudes and abilities we squandered by telling kids they were above such menial labour.

So we have to import our intellectuals from Eastern Europe and our grunts from anywhere where the minimum wage is three shekels a day. There is no grand vision to do otherwise, no plan to recover our national dignity. Instead we will simply allow the overthrowing of all that this country once stood for, and for what? So that we can pontificate from the World Cup sidelines about our record on LGBT rights? So that we can stand proud of our bi-monthly Black History Months? So that we can recite, over and over again, the mantra that diversity built Britain until people actually come to believe it?

Whatever you think this represents, you're probably wrong.

I might once have said ‘not on my watch’, but it was never up to me. Governments have failed us. Our judiciary has failed us. Education produces so little of realisable value that we may as well just offer degrees in finger painting. Our infrastructure is crumbling, our services shot to hell and our borders flung wide open. We have already welcomed in the Barbarians, we may as well just do as they tell us.

Talking Cure?

 On the drive home the other day I heard a report regarding the state of the current workforce, or perhaps more correctly the current shirk-force. It seems that many have not returned to work after lockdown. On hearing lockdown I paused for a moment. Oh yes, that brief period in 2020 when the government went mad and paid everybody to stay at home… except for those whose job it was to regularly come into contact with many strangers.

I remember the interminable online discussions about the situation and the crazy conspiracy world of anti-vaxxers and others who yearned to tell the world how elite cabals had planned it all down to the last detail. I think the ensuing fallout confirms, however, that it was way more cock-up than conspiracy. Anyway, back to the malingering workers, and I choose my words deliberately.

It is a long-established matter of record that if you keep on telling people the same thing, they will eventually, no matter how sceptic they were at the outset, come to give that thing some credence. Maybe it starts off with a grudging acceptance that rather than being actually untrue it maybe does have a kernel of veracity for some. Once embarked on the journey the confines of the rabbit hole become more comfortable and eventually, the ‘wisdom’ of crowds dictates that it is so.

For years now, the populations of developed countries have been berated for benefiting from the spoils of earlier generations and their now questionable morals. It is little wonder then, that being browbeaten for so long, those same populations become susceptible to accepting the blame for pretty much everything. To then be told that in bearing that burden it is likely they will suffer from poor mental health, it is little wonder that – hey presto – we are in a mental health pandemic.

A very large part of the reason – dare I say, excuse – for the new absences from the workplace appears to be because of ‘mental health’. I note that qualifying adjectives are no longer required. Today, to have mental health appears to mean the exact opposite. And across the country former workers are seizing the opportunity to sit on their arses and not be challenged because of their perilous mental state.

Oh, come on! Swinging the lead has never been so accepted, and now that it is becoming normalised it is hardly surprising that more and more are taking it up as the easy option, rather than getting off their fat backsides and doing their bit to rebuild the economy. Over 20 per cent of working-age Brits are economically inactive, neither in work nor looking for it. This is a national disgrace. Worse so because those jobs will end up being taken by incoming low-grade workers in the main.

If you can work from home, fine. And if you can afford to retire, fair play to you. But if, as I strongly suspect, a huge proportion are playing the system the burden falls once again on the backs of those of us for whom anything other than working is sheer luxury. I just submitted my tax return. What a kick in the teeth then, to recognise that most of what I pay will go towards the upkeep of so many human grazing stock.

What’s the cure for depression, anxiety, feelings of inadequacy, morbid fascinations, portents of doom, unease about the future, fear of climate change, the upwards spiralling of the cost of living and all the things that people fret over? Talking about it? I don’t think so. It’s about time we stopped letting people talk themselves into illness and started prescribing some stiff-talkings-to and a good old-fashioned British kick up the arse!