Legally speaking...

I’m rather constrained today, given that it’s Friday and the shaggy dog story has become something of a tradition. But given yesterday’s judicial decision that democracy doesn’t necessarily mean Parliament should pay any heed to what a majority of the electorate want, I would be remiss were I not to at least touch on it. Most of us who have waited forty-one years to get another chance to leave the sclerotic club of unelected ruling elites who have gradually been killing off national identities and impoverishing millions of people, while enriching its officials beyond the wildest dreams of those who are ruled over, know exactly what it was all about.

If leaving the EU was going to involve impossible legal contortions you’d think that somebody – anybody (just one?) - in Westminster, might have thought of it and consulted beforehand. Why not? Because nobody ever believed the vote would go against those who have for years regarded elections as mere contrivances for giving the appearance of democracy. Or maybe they knew full-well and so it was left to a private – and extremely wealthy – citizen to bring a court case challenging the right of the government to invoke Article 50 despite there having been a six-to-one majority in the house to let the population make that decision.

No matter how they try and twist this so they can say they have given us what we wished for – Parliamentary sovereignty – they are totally missing the point. The ‘destination’ that Tim Farron keeps wanking on about was always clear; out of the EU. Not with one hand still grimly clutching on to the flotsam from the wreckage but free and clear and independent again. Free to fuck ourselves in the arse if we so wish. And most particularly, free to have laws which reflect the culture that shaped the entire world’s civilisation; not those of a despotic, dynastic tyranny masquerading as democracy by having only one option on the ballot paper.

This is the reason that people don’t trust lawyers. Maybe not the family solicitor, the humble conveyancer, or the barristers that do their best to defend the wrongfully accused. But those who from on high decide that foreign rapists have a right to a family life and assistance from the public purse. Those who decide cases not on clear merit but on obscure points of law for the benefit of the highest fee-payer. Those who give the legal profession its disdainful face and literally lord it over the rest of us. If there is ever another peasants’ revolt it will turn on the decision of a High Court Judge. Them and us, them and us...

And the winner is...

Following a decision that pleased the establishment but nobody else and sent newspaper copywriters into a spin, dreaming up punning headlines about deaf, dumb and blind lady justice, one such judge was riding home in the back of his limousine when he saw a man eating grass by the roadside. Such odd behaviour piqued his curiosity and he ordered his driver to stop. He wound down his window and barked, “You, sir! What the devil do you think you’re doing?”

The peasant replied, "We don't have any money for food. I lost my job to a Lithuanian who is paid half what I used to get and when we couldn’t pay the rent any more, our council house was given to a Somalian family.” The judge thought for a moment and then said “Oh, come home with me then. Hop in, chop-chop!” The man hesitated, then said “But sir, I have a wife and four children” and he indicated his family who were also chewing grass a little further along the verge. The judge insisted that they were welcome, too.

They all climbed into the limousine and set off. After a few minutes of uneasy silence, the commoners uncertain whether they were allowed to engage in conversation with one so lofty, the wife cleared her throat and tentatively said, “Sir, you are too kind. Thank you for taking us all in like this.” The judge beamed the smile of the righteous and replied “Don’t mention it dear lady, "The grass in the paddock must be two feet tall.”

Foaming?

We moved out of our street just about when the beheading started. Chucking the gays off the taller buildings and setting fire to women who dared show their hair was one thing; we thought, you know, it’s just their way. But it turned out that being male and straight wasn’t enough and those who couldn’t grow a half-decent beard in double quick time soon found themselves on the wrong end of the sharia patrols. Oh and when the chippie shut up shop we knew something wasn’t right. Keith had kept that shop open all through the Kentucky fried chicken riots and the kebab wars; he even dared to stay open late, after the pubs had turned out, but one Saturday evening he just didn’t turn up and that was that.

Next thing we knew it was a halal paper shop or something and we all remarked about how quickly the sale had gone through. After that it was almost a race with house after house putting out For Sale signs and each one being knocked down to less than the last. You hear about house prices in that London – sellers’ market and all that - but here in the old steel towns you take what you can get. I’m bound to get stick for saying it but here on the outskirts of the town my family have lived in for generations everybody says that Enoch was right. Even those who don’t know what an Enoch is...

A story in the Express talks about the bifurcating towns of England; towns splitting on cultural lines and in a follow up, Blackburn comes in for particular scrutiny. If you want a glimpse of pie in the blue sky thinking here, from the first link, are the words of Professor Ted Cantle:

“The focus of policy needs to shift, this is not just about minorities. Politicians and policy-makers need to encourage white British residents to remain in diverse areas. To choose, rather than avoid, diverse areas when they do re-locate, encouraging similar choices with respect to placing pupils in diverse schools. In other words to create a positive choice for mixed areas and a shared society.”

He clearly hasn’t been involved in the process himself. Yeah, right Ted, you keep on smashing away at that square peg all you like but the only way it will fit into the round hole is if you irrevocably damage it.

Multiculturalism is an ideology imposed by clever people who only really associate with other clever people, who are so clever they have trained themselves, yogi-like, to transcend the mortal plane and can’t see cultural differences except as fascinating anthropology. They are so clever that they can look at people from different racial origins and declare they are identical; so clever they can imagine equality and diversity living in harmonious communes. So clever are they that the emperor’s tailors could sell them whole wardrobes of nothing and they could look in the mirror and see only finery.

Well, call me racist but it really isn’t like that at all. Once, the inhabitants of these islands comprised separate warring tribes and many centuries of war and interbreeding finally united the kingdom under one monarch and one set of cultural norms with regional variants but common purpose. Incomers were rapidly assimilated and despite the aphoristic marching whine of the sociologists: ‘we are a nation of immigrants’ the British were largely genetically homogeneous until around the mid-nineteenth century. Immigration didn’t so much change us, but we certainly changed immigrants; that’s why they came here.

But that’s not happening any more. Our oh-so clever and oh-so egalitarian social engineers have ignored the cries of the displaced masses and imposed what amounts to a cultural invasion too big to assimilate and in refusing to integrate it is reversing that homogeneity. The biggest threat to our security is not racial, however, it is an ideology called islam. Soon there may be not only muslim-only sectors, but entire muslim-only towns. When there are British towns in which no British people live - for islam sets itself above history and heredity - we are back to antipathetic, warring tribes. Who does not now see portents of "the River Tiber foaming with much blood'? 

Poppy Daze

Another day and the swooping wrecking ball of outrage swings low over the land. Yesterday was like all the bottled up bile of the weekend bubbling up biliously and spewing itself over the newspapers and social media. First off, the Poppy Nazis – people who are angry if you don’t wear a poppy and believe that not to so do is mocking those who died. Those who – it is often tediously repeated – died to defend your right to freedom of expression. The face-palming irony of it all. They didn’t, though. They went to war for far less well-defined reasons and their memory, while it is deserving of respect, in no way commands it.

If you believe, as @crimesofbrits seem to do, that their deaths were acts of post-colonial hate crime brought on by the arrogance of British expansionism then, as warped as that view may seem to you, it is their view. You don’t have to respect it, but you can’t deny them the right to hold it, however misguided you believe it to be. As soon as you start to shut down or shout over opinion – as we are all guilty of at some time in our lives – you provide justification for the leftist trope that freedom of speech does not include freedom to offend. Except it surely must.

While white Britain, especially male white Britain is fair game for all manner of organised and prolonged hatred the very opposite applies to one particular preserved sub-variant of humanity; the muslim. It has been ordained from on high that we have reached nowhere near the required number of bloody atrocities for anybody to officially raise even a murmur against islam. To which end even tin-pot dictatorships like British Gymnastics feel the need to toe the party line – the Communist Party line, I’m assuming – and censure Louis Smith for a joke.

They are right in a way though; islam is not a joke, it is an invasive, doctrinaire, human-hating affront to civilisation which, alongside other religions has wrought little but misery on mankind since its inception. But speak out against it and you are labelled ‘islamophobic’ as if that was a bad thing. Listen, you are right to be afraid of islam, there is nothing irrational about it, just as there is nothing rational about believing in the literal word of a non-existent god. islam is against all reason and it must be mocked for its obdurance and utter lack of perspective.

Brendan O’Neill, as always, puts the case particularly well. And while mechanisms of state are still cowed before the muslim council and desperate not to make a stand, they must realise that attacking those who do openly oppose this alien way of living can only take the country in one direction. Who knows, maybe the government would prefer insurrection and rampant vigilantism from those most directly affected by the invasion; it makes the establishment look tolerant. Well done British Gymnastics, you may just have precipitated a holy war.

Latest government statement on sharia councils

But if that doesn’t do it then islam is more than ready to provide ever more fuel for the fires. The issue has never gone away but this week sees some tentative moves to quantify and codify so-called sharia councils. They act outside of British society, British laws and British interests; this much is indisputable. As always, the official line seeks to mollify this vexatious phenomenon by suggesting the estimate of around 80 such bodies to be an exaggeration. At a guess I wouldn’t be surprised to discover there were this many in Birmingham alone. Watch this space... 

Shock and Orgreave

One of the more ridiculous stories of the last few days is the NSPCC’s claim that concerns about the US presidential election has resulted in an increase in British children turning to Childline to report their worried little feelings. Brexit, naturally, is also blamed for heightening the anxieties of the poor wee would-be sufferers. There always has to be somebody to blame, it seems and of course the law of unintended-but-entirely-foreseeable consequences means that if you open up a channel for grievance, the solemn ships of umbrage will sail right up it.

This doesn’t mean that the hurt isn’t real but every incident of crying for recognition feeds the all-about-me culture whereby every imagined slight must somehow be atoned for and as the clamour of the compensation klaxon increases the general mood of sympathy is diluted. Nobody wants to see children in genuine pain, but the more finely the butthurt cake is sliced, the less everybody’s appetite for redemption is satisfied. It’s like charity; the greater the number of demands for your patronage, the less inclined we are to keep giving. Chugging is an inelegant way to rob your peers.

And so to Orgreave. Since Ed Miliband’s disastrous leadership of the Labour Party it seems that every slight, perceived or real, must be answered by a public enquiry. The coal miner combatants can’t ‘move on with their lives’ without some acknowledgement of wrongdoing. They must have ‘closure’, which these days means somebody has to pay many lawyers to prolong the agonies and dig up all the forgotten hurt and lay it out so everybody can see, whether they care or not, what a horrible time was had by all.

It’s, frankly, pathetic. Were they not watching the quiet dignity of the 50^th anniversary of the Aberfan disaster just a week or so ago? There, 115 children and 28 adults, all entirely innocent of provocation, lost their lives. Public inquiries and hand-wringing statements from current officials on behalf of their forebears don’t constitute ‘closure’. Tony Blair ridiculously apologising for slavery he had no hand in healed no wounds; like all such token gestures it merely aggravates old sores and reminds people that these days they must feel wronged by somebody or other.

Whatever happened to ‘mustn’t grumble’? I’m not actually belittling the grievance or loss or wrongful accusations you feel have been levelled at you. I’m not denying that sometimes it really was a despicable action against you. I wouldn’t for a minute presume to know what agony you feel or what remedy you need. But I can see a bandwagon when I see one and these days bandwagons travel in battalions. The squeaky wheel gets the grease, is the saying, but there is only so much grease to go around.

That's it, I'm calling Esther!

Every action, Newton said, has an equal and opposite reaction. Currently the public mood is still, marginally, on the side of those demanding recognition. But there is a growing compassion fatigue which makes us wearier, year on year. Sympathy can quickly become indifference from over-exposure. Some grievances are best kept private, where the wounds can heal naturally... the British way. You might want to think twice before you ask the public to care about your own personal feelings. Maybe the Orgreave Hurty-Poorly Society could phone Childline?

Horror story

The time of evil approaches and as the clock ticks slowly, so slowly, towards midnight and the pendulum creaks ever lower, the body on the cold stone below groans in torment as he recalls the words of the ancient prophecy: “Darkness falls across the land. The midnight hour is close at hand. Creatures crawl in search of blood, to terrorise your neighbourhood. And whosoever shall be found without the soul for getting down, must stand and face the hounds of hell and rot inside a corpse's shell.” A thrill rushes through his body. He shivers and closes his eyes...

How had he got here, to the place of his transition to the other, ungodly world? And who would take his place on Earth; who would exchange the Jones boy’s unsullied spirit for an evil, old soul to stalk the night with malicious intent? From midnight until dawn he would suffer the twilight world of purgatory, undergoing the tortures of purification while the undead malevolence re-entered the corporeal world in his body to enact revenge on those who had condemned him to an eternity in hell.

Many years ago a bargain had been struck, a promise made, never believing he would have to pay the price. It had all happened in nineteen-sixties Oxford. A night of student high jinks and much drink had brought them all together to the séance. He recalled it as if a dream; the warped and condensed essence of a hidden memory, tantalising sequences juxtaposed with random irrelevances. But one thing was real; everybody around that board had gone on to reap great rewards from life; glittering children growing to equally scintillating adulthood.

The incantations had begun in a fit of giggles as a young female host tried to gather them around the Ouija board in the tiny bedsitting room. Another boy, Peter, a few years her junior was trying to intone the sacred words of the Necronomicon but he lost his way several times as he stifled jags of spasmic laughter. Owen himself was biting his fist in an effort to control his own sniggers. But, suddenly, the temperature dropped ten degrees and the lights went out. In the centre of the table a stub of a candle nobody remembered lighting sputtered and gave off a feeble yellow glow. Silence stood heavy over the assembly and the three, as if on command, took their seats.

The evening seemed to pass in seconds and afterwards none would ever speak again of what had happened there. But deals had been made, Owen remembered that much. Without any obvious talents they each went on to the success they had bought that night. Polly, craving recognition, became a famous Guardian columnist. Peter, who had always seen himself as better than the common herd was ennobled and entered the House of Lords as Baron Mandelson. And now Owen Jones, who had coveted and been granted eternal youth, was paying the toll.

Owen lay there, held immobile by an unseen force. The same stubby candle put out a feeble light but its smoke intensified and for a moment took the form of the foul creature from below and he was suddenly vouchsafed a glimpse of the demon he had pledged to trade places with, over half a century before. The eyes! Those dreadful windows into the twisted soul of one consigned to burn in the fires of hell; a tortured soul who would not accept death. Owen screamed as he beheld the face of evil itself...

Heeeeeere's Tony!