Wednesday, June 29, 2016

The Saga Of Jeremy Cantgovern

SCENE: Little Humpingham Town Hall.

The residents of Little Humpingham have gathered to elect a new Mayor.  The audience watch expectantly as the Chairman invites the candidates - VIOLET SENSIBLE, HENRY SAVAGE, TARQUIN TITTERING-BERK and JEREMY CANTGOVERN - to make their closing arguments.  At the back of the room, two local JOURNALISTS look on.

CHAIRMAN:  Ladies and gentlemen, your final statements, please.

VIOLET SENSIBLE:  We should immediately close the nursery, fire the postman and blow up the donkey sanctuary.

HENRY SAVAGE:  Let's invade our neighbours in Dogdickington village and beat them with hockey sticks.  It's for their own good and it's the only language they understand.

TARQUIN TITTERING-BERK:  We need to be realistic.  I think we should all be racist.  Not racist in a bad way, but racist in a very reasonable way.  Reasonably racist.

JEREMY CANTGOVERN:  Well, I think that we should be nice.  We should all be nice in a faffing, ineffectual, slapstick kind of manner.  We should also be weird and get bizarrely annoyed about matters that are ultimately fairly unimportant.

(Polite applause) 

FIRST JOURNALIST:  They'll never elect Cantgovern.  He's a dinosaur.  He doesn't even like hitting people with hockey sticks.

SECOND JOURNALIST:  He'd be a disaster.  If they elect him, we'll almost certainly catch Anthrax until we die.

CHAIRMAN:  Thank you.  And now we will take a vote...

(The audience vote). 

CHAIRMAN:  There...  Well, the votes have been counted and I can announce that Jeremy Cantgovern has won by ninety-eight votes to zero for any other candidate.  I hereby declare that Jeremy Cantgovern is the new Mayor of Little Humpingham.

(Polite applause) 

FIRST JOURNALIST:  Fuck me.

SECOND JOURNALIST:  (Scrawls in notepad: EARTH-SHATTERING CATASTROPHE)

CHAIRMAN:  Mr Cantgovern, you have the floor.

JEREMY CANTGOVERN:  Thank, you Mr Chairman.  Can I just start by saying that now is the time -

SENSIBLE:  Boo!  You suck, Cantgovern!  Boo!

SAVAGE:  You're shit!  You can't lead!  You're a lightweight!

TITTERING-BERK:  Resign, resign!  Have you no shame, sir?  Have you no shame, even now?

(The CHAIRMAN bangs his gavel and calls the meeting to order) 

CHAIRMAN:  Order, order!  Mr Cantgovern, I would thank you to tone down your remarks.  This is no place for that kind of intemperate rhetoric.

JEREMY CANTGOVERN:  Apologies, Mr Chairman.  As I was saying, I think that now is the time to take immediate action to tackle child poverty in the village, perhaps through the medium of interpretive dance.

SENSIBLE:  That's an awful idea!  You're a moron!  You stink like pissy cabbage!

SAVAGE:  The man's a liability.  He must go.

TITTERING-BERK:  What a retard.  I hope he dies.

(An AUDIENCE MEMBER stands up)

AUDIENCE MEMBER:  Why don't you let Mr Cantgovern speak?  I want to hear what he has to say.

SENSIBLE: (Aghast)  Mob rule!

SAVAGE:  Unbelievable fascism!

TITTERING-BERK:  This blatant intimidation is unacceptable!  Call off your thugs, Cantgovern!

CHAIRMAN:  Order, order!  Mr Cantgovern, please try to control your supporters.  We can't have hooligans terrorising us with their foul language.

JEREMY CANTGOVERN:  Yes, please calm down everyone.  If you must show disapproval, please don't shout.  I suggest that you click your fingers instead.  It's less aggressive, and also quite fun.  (Clicks fingers)

SENSIBLE:  Incredible!  He's egging them on!

SAVAGE:  Shocking, unbelievable conduct.  The man's a psychopath.

TITTERING-BERK:  And he's racist.

(The audience - Sharp intake of breath) 

FIRST JOURNALIST:  That proves it.  Cantgovern is the new Mussolini.

SECOND JOURNALIST:  (Scrawls in notepad: CANTGOVERN = NEW MUSSOLINI)

CHAIRMAN:  I'm sorry Mr Tittering-Berk, I'm not sure that I heard you correctly.  Did you just say that Mr Cantgovern is racist?

TITTERING-BERK:  He's tremendously racist, and not in a good way, either.  In a bad way.

JEREMY CANTGOVERN:  This is an outrageous slur.  I abhor racism in all its forms.

SENSIBLE:  Yes, but do you condemn it?  Do you denounce it?

JEREMY CANTGOVERN:  I utterly condemn racism.  I denounce it.

SAVAGE:  He's a liar.  Just look at him, you can smell the fucking racism.  And the evil.

TITTERING-BERK:  How much to you despise racism?  Do you despise it times a hundred?

(Gasps) 

JEREMY CANTGOVERN:  I despise racism times a thousand.   No, actually, I despise it times infinity.

(Shouts, fainting) 

TITTERING-BERK:  Put your hands on your head and say that.

JEREMY CANTGOVERN:  (Puts hands on head)  I despise racism times infinity.

SENSIBLE:  Hop on one leg and say you despise it.

JEREMY CANTGOVERN:  (Trying and failing to hop with hands on head)  I despise... Look, I'm sorry, my knees...

(Gasps, screams from the audience)

AUDIENCE MEMBER:  Oh my God, he's a Nazi.

SENSIBLE:  THIS MAN IS LITERALLY HITLER.

(A young boy runs into the room and hands the CHAIRMAN a note) 

CHAIRMAN:  (Bashes gavel)  Apologies everyone, I'm afraid I've just received some rather bad news from Mr Cameron, the bank manager.  He says that he's very sorry, but he's burned the bank down...  All of our money... Utterly destroyed...  We are doomed... All going to starve.  Sorry again.

SAVAGE:  This is your fault, Cantgovern.  You're a fucking liability, mate.

SENSIBLE:  Resign, for the love of God, resign before you ruin us all!

JEREMY CANTGOVERN:  But this isn't my fault.  It wasn't me that burned down the bank.  I wanted to abolish the bank and replace it with a wholefoods shop.

FIRST JOURNALIST:  Why won't he just shut up and go away?  God, I hate him.

SECOND JOURNALIST:  (Scrawling in notepad:  SHAMELESS JEREMY CLINGS ON, DENIES BURNING DOWN BANK)

(Uproar in the Town Hall.  The CHAIRMAN brings the meeting to order). 

CHAIRMAN:  Order, order!  Well, given Mr Cantgovern's appalling behaviour, it's clear that we need to have a new election for Mayor.  Candidates, would you please give us your opening statements.

SENSIBLE:  We should immediately blow up the postman, close the nursery and fire the donkey sanctuary.

SAVAGE:  Let's invade Dogdickington and beat the residents with crowbars.

TITTERING-BERK:  I think we should all be racist, and not in a reasonable way, but in a bad way.  Badly racist.

JEREMY CANTGOVERN:  Well, I think we should be nice to everyone... except the other candidates.

(Sharp intake of breath)

JEREMY CANTGOVERN:  In fact, I think we should be quite rude to the other candidates.  In a comically faffing and ineffectual manner.

(Screams) 

CHAIRMAN:  UNBELIEVABLE FASCISM!

Thursday, June 23, 2016

Bring Back The Free Owls

It's the ten-year anniversary for the blog today, and it's ironic that it falls on referendum day.

When I started, my declared aim was: If there must be bullshit, at least let it be entertaining bullshit.  I like to think that I succeeded, if only occasionally.  I was young at the time, and I had a naive fear that the growing reach of social media was making us all angrier, more resentful and less tolerant of each other.

Well, I needn't have worried.  The only blogs that anyone reads these days are the professional ones like Guido Fawkes, and the only people who read those are politicians, political journalists and cunts.

The maximum political content that most people get out of e.g. Facebook in the average day is likely to be their racist uncle sharing one of those dipshit photo memes - Army veterans are homeless, but Abu Hamza lives in a castle made of tits with a champagne moat, and he guzzles taxpayer-funded Micro-Chips.  Britain First!

To be honest, going by the last few weeks, I'd say that the mainstream news orgs are more than capable of providing all the anger, resentment and intolerance that we could ever need.

Still, since it is my anniversary, it's probably worth a few observations on the referendum, for old times' sake.

What does this tell us about ourselves, as a nation? 

This question has mainly been coming from the Hey Guys, Why Don't We Stage an Inclusive Democratic Revolution, Right Here In The Church Hall? wing of Labour Twitter, and it strikes me as a reasonable one.  What have we become, lads?

Well, let's have a look at the respective campaigns and try to draw some conclusions.

Remain has been pretty much what you'd expect from a modern political campaign, insofar as it's been a barrage of focus-grouped, feelgood horseshit with continual outbreaks of hysterical terror.

And to be fair, it's probably true that we'd all be a bit poorer if we voluntarily left one of the world's largest trading blocs - maybe even considerably poorer.  On the other hand, we would probably manage to survive.

Without going into detail, the Remain campaign has mostly been deceitful and fear-crazed, but that's pretty much standard in the modern era.

Still, I have a particular affection for the earnest pundits who have spent the last few months anxiously warning us all that If Britain leaves the EU, then It will make Vladimir Putin happy.  I have no idea why the hacks are so certain that any part of the British electorate gives a shit what a Russian gangster-politician thinks about anything, but lots of them are absolutely convinced of it.

On the Leave side... Well, I don't want to exaggerate, but practically every statement out of the campaign leaders' weasel mouths has been a flagrant misrepresentation, an outrageous lie or an outright incitement.  The Leave campaign is a vast field of poisoned slurry, trailing a hateful stench that will stink out the entire nation for decades.  A lifetime of determined hosing won't shift it. Every single person involved in it should be ashamed of themselves and every notable figure within it should be immediately drummed out of public life.

If we end up voting to leave, we won't even be able to claim that we were suckered by clever, polished PR men.  We'll have enthusiastically bought a fistful of farts and fuck-all, from what may be the most blatantly crooked clique of conmen ever assembled in British politics.

And even now, it looks like Leave have a good chance at winning!

It's not too early to draw conclusions from that, and here's what it tells us - that you can promise us a lovely roast duck on a silver platter, and then serve us up a donkey-dick on a dishcloth, and fifty percent of us will love you for it.

So, that's who we are.  A huge chunk of the populace are the type of people who joyfully vote to slash their own public services and then blame foreigners because they can't get a doctor's appointment.

But again, this is normal.  Many other countries are exactly the same and have been forever.

And while so many pundits are commanding us all to respect the views of Leave voters, it's worth pointing out here that

Class is a major issue this referendum in the same way that meerkats are a major issue in car insurance

My dad's a mechanic, and he's voting remain.  Mrs R's dad was a miner, and he's probably voting leave.

The campaigns themselves, by contrast, are led a shower of galloping Hooray-fucking-Henries, and their various opinion-creatures are Oxbridge down to their last straw boater.

Treat anyone who tells you that the referendum is about class in the same way that you'd treat an urgent email from Prince Billy Akatakatawengo, who has five million pounds going spare and only needs a handy bank account to keep it in.


Oh my, how surprising! 

But my absolute favourite thing about this referendum has been the sheer number of people who are just staggered, astounded, to discover that e.g. racism is popular with racists, or that politicians are happy to peddle racism for votes.

Seriously, the number of hacks that I've seen asking some variation upon - What is Michael Gove doing, associating himself with racists and cranks, in a bid to gain political power?  It's awesome.

What in the world could a politician be trying to achieve, by sucking up to racists for political benefit?  Truly, it is an enigma wrapped in a mystery and stuffed into a cough-medicine bottle. 

I can summarise this one in an image, from Monday's Times...

Yes, that is that awful Mr Farage, forcing that nice Mr Gove and Mr Johnson to be all racist against their will.

The idea that a fool like Farage could force anything on his Tory chums is hilarious, and it tells us a lot about how far certain people will go to either delude themselves, or just to keep themselves in the good graces of the powerful.

And while this may be funny, it represents a far more serious problem.  The reason why this type of campaign was even possible - the reason why it wasn't fragged into electoral space-dust, the very instant that it started plastering up pictures of refugees - is because the political mainstream isn't just accommodating of open racism.  It's courting it and stoking it, and it's been doing so for a very, very long time.

Ten years ago people laughed at Michael Howard's rubbish election posters, but I notice that they're not laughing now.  Now that our outright xenophobia has reached the point where it can bring the nation to the point of financial calamity, it's not quite as funny as it used to be.

And that's the really important point here.  For a while, overt racism was a characteristic of the political fringe.  And yet here it is, front-and-centre on the nightly news, on the front page of the Metro.  This is the product of years-worth of earnest articles about the Very Real Concerns of voters; of hand-wringing and poll-watching, of politicians and pundits haggling amongst themselves to establish what is the permissable level of prejudice in any particular campaign.

The BNP used to get a million votes in this country, but now that Nigel Farage is a figure of fun and a even a celebrity in his own right, they've all miraculously disappeared.  Where did they go?

The answer - they all went right into the heart of the political mainstream, into the sensible centre of establishment politics from where this referendum sprang in the first place.  The mushy middle of politics, where Times columnists announce that Leave should pal up with the French National Front, because their leader doesn't deny the Holocaust like her dad does.

And the really awful thing here is, we won't admit that this is mostly just old-fashioned racist nationalism, any more than we could admit that the Leave campaign were selling old-fashioned racist nationalism. The Guardian has the balls to call its own readers all manner of fannies, but none of the others will ever tell their customers what they are to their faces.

To be blunt about it - if we can't even admit that we might have a racism problem after a Nazi has gunned down an MP in broad daylight, for no better reason than because we're so very addicted to ticking off a bunch of metropolitan hipsters for snobbery, then we have a long, long way down to fall yet.

And to think, it's only been a year or so since our worst national concern was a crippling fear that that communist firebrand, Ed Miliband, might start handing out free owls.

Compared to Cameron's awesome idea of giving the country a nice, cleansing referendum, it's difficult to imagine what Red Ed could've done that could possibly have been worse - mandatory petrol for toddlers maybe, or the reintroduction of anthrax in the wild.  Thank God we listened to all those sensible centrists.

Ah, 2006 doesn't half seem like the distant past.  Lordi, Zinedine Zidane headbutting Materazzi, carbombs in Baghdad.

It wasn't especially great at the time, but it was surely better than this.

Friday, May 20, 2016

I Hear There's a Lot Of Terrorism

I've been swithering for days over whether to write about this, which is usually a sign that I'm about to annoy somebody or to make a damn fool of myself, or both.  Since I have a few minutes free though...

Anyway, I was thinking this week about my student days.  When I was there in the mid-to-late nineties, the university I went to had the highest proportion of Northern Irish undergraduates on mainland Britain, so pretty much everyone's classes and social circles would feature a relatively large number of people with sharp accents from the various counties, usually mercilessly mocking each other.

Which may seem like an odd point to raise, but I think it might be mildly useful in making sense of the circumstances around the Royall inquiry into anti-semitism at the Labour Club at Oxford, for people who like me who haven't been students for a very long time.  The inquiry has now concluded with a rough verdict of - no institutional racism, but several issues that need to be urgently addressed.

So what are the similarities?  Well, on any given night out, I'd say that there was a reasonable chance that any Northern Irish friend would bump into somebody who would drop something pretty crass or daft or just plain offensive about Northern Ireland into the conversation.  Northern Ireland may now be better known for Game of Thrones and the European Championships, but bombings and shootings were still big news back then, especially after one of our fellow students was killed in the Omagh bombing in 1998.

Mostly, this was of the Oh, you're from Bangor?  I hear there's a lot of terrorism in Northern Ireland variety - basically well-meaning chatter from people who have grown up on BBC News broadcasts and crap Hollywood action movies, and are just saying the first thing that comes into their heads.

Other people probably just had some thoughts on the topic that they wanted to bounce off someone who could tell them how right they were, and I get the impression that some folk found Northern Ireland a bit dangerous and exotic.   I think others maybe just really liked U2 and didn't have a very good grasp of geography.

Most of the Northern Irish folk I knew had a story to tell about the daftest things that people had said to them - my mate Gavin, for example, once had a guy relate a story about how his soldier uncle had nearly been blown up in Belfast by "the UCLA", which is news that would've shocked the administrators at the University of California.  The same guy later backed up and announced that actually, the terrorist organisation in question was "the ULA", i.e. the one that Sean Bean belongs to in the movie Patriot Games.  Either way, quite a surprising amount of Scottish people had friends and relatives who had nearly been blown up, at one time or another.

On the other hand, there were quite a lot of people around with some very daft ideas, and more than a few with some outright unpleasant ones.  This was Scotland after all, and even twenty years ago people were less reticent about unexpectedly raising touchy sectarian issues than they are now.  As you can imagine, there were plenty of zoomers knocking about with extremely wacky ideas about Ireland, Britain and the paramilitaries, and I can remember more than one occasion where some guy from Glasgow or Ayrshire decided that a random Wednesday night out was the perfect time to get into a deep discussion about e.g. who blew up which pub in which county in nineteen-diddly-five.  And this could get quite heated, if the drinks had been flowing, or if some idiot started up with the old traditional tunes.

Most of the people I knew used to basically dick this stuff off as an annoyance by silly folk, employing the level of biting sarcasm that you'd expect.  For the most part, this stuff really was daft and even occasionally aggravating, but perfectly survivable.

Apply this to the kind of issues that Lady Royall is talking about however, and I can see why people would be far less inclined to treat this type of behaviour with equanimity.  There are major differences between the situation I'm talking about, and the one that she investigated, not least

- Most Northern Irish people are distinguishable as Northern Irish because of their accents, whereas most Jewish people aren't.  If I was Jewish and people kept striking up conversations with me about the Palestinians out of the blue, I'd probably start to wonder what people were saying about me when I wasn't around.

- Northern Ireland is a country, whereas Judaism is a religion.  I doubt whether any of the people I knew had any direct experience of terrorism beyond being huckled out of the swimming baths after a phoned-in bomb threat, but they were at least from the same geographical location as the issue being discussed.

If folk regularly showed great enthusiasm for talking to me about the same godawful conflict on the other side of the planet, one that had nothing to do with me...  Well, that's the kind of thing that would get my goat in pretty short order and I doubt I'd be inclined to be polite about it either.  

(Note here: It's certainly true that the current Israeli government is one of the world's most egregious conflators of religion and nationality, but that's no excuse at all for not showing discernment yourself).

- And, annoying as all of these enthusiasts could be to the average Northern Irish student, there was at least a variety of political theorist to speak to.  Whenever some joker opened his cakehole to talk about The Troubles, there was at least a little mystery as to the content of his chat. 

On Israel/Palestine, I imagine that the patter is a bit more predictable.  British universities are full of young, weakly leftish people and demographically speaking, it's likely that any of them who have political views about Israel as a country are going to have quite negative ones*.  Additionally, for all that talk about Northern Ireland may have been hotter and nastier in 1996 than it is now, the average student then probably got their information from the Beeb or the newspaper, rather than from the type of poisonous nonsense that proliferates online these days.

Hell, I'd only been bickering about wars on the internet for a short while before I learned to heave a sigh of exasperation whenever somebody decided to arbitrarily crowbar Hamas or the Israeli Defence Force into a conversation, and that's with "faceless people communicating with strangers using text", rather than face-to-face chats at the Student Union about very touchy political and personal issues. 

Anyway, I could go on.  My point here is that I can see precisely why some Jewish students might find British universities less than congenial places, and I'm talking here about apolitical types who are just trying to get through an average day like the rest of us, rather than people who arrive there with an axe or two to grind, or who find themselves sharpening a couple after a few months.

In the end-up, I'm not at all surprised to find that Lady Royall found issues to be addressed, and I'd be even less surprised if they extend further than the Oxford Labour Club**.  A lot of this is just people being people but I suspect that a lot of it is people being insensitive or unpleasant arseholes, and occasionally a good bit worse.

As for what to do about this, well, I have few ideas about how we go about improving this situation.  The Northern Ireland one kind of sorted itself out after a mere few hundred years of war, recrimination and negotiation, and it certainly doesn't look much like any amount of inquiries are likely to help in the short term.

(Generally speaking, I'd close this type of Oh-Why-Can't-We-All-Get-Along post by recommending greater accuracy and mutual understanding.  Given that I've just wilfully smashed together two wildly different conflicts in entirely different contexts in very different eras however, that's probably a bit of a hypocritical request to be making today).

*I don't think there's much need to get into why this is here, but I'd guess that Dan's view on the matter is closer to reality than most other commentary I've seen has got.

**Although this really has been an odd issue, this Oxford story - one that apparently tells us a great deal about the Labour Party but one that, surprisingly, tells us very little about Oxford itself or the type of person that studies there.

Saturday, May 14, 2016

Something Stirring

Right everyone, I need to tell you a bit about And The Land Lay Still, a 2010 novel by James Robertson.  I need to tell you about it because it's one of the best books I've read in years, but also because it's jam-packed full of in-depth political thought, and those politics are absolutely mental from start to finish.

Twenty pages into it, I asked if it was just decades of men complaining in pubs before joining the Yes campaign, and it is.  But it's so much more than that.

It's a state-of-the-nation book, covering over fifty years of life, laughter, sadness, love and loss in Scotland, from the end of the war through the establishment of the Scottish Parliament and onwards.  Theoretically it's about the decline of Scottish industry and the intentional immiseration of entire towns, and its depiction of fictional mining communities in Fife chimes almost exactly with my experience of their real-life equivalents [1].  What it's really about is the rise of Scottish nationalism, told with astounding sweep and grandeur: it's emotional, epic, incredibly ambitious.

If you want a literary analysis of the book, there's plenty of it about.  This is an intentionally political book though, so I'm going to talk about the politics, because they are utterly deranged in the most entertaining way imaginable.

The book is split into sections, each introducing new characters.  Twenty pages after meeting each one, we're given their thoughts on home rule, independence and the SNP.  Whether for or against, each one is full of angst and confusion about the constitution.  Is Scotland a proud nation, they cry endlessly, or merely a diddy backwater?  They doubt, they brood and they question us - what are we doing, where are we going, and what do we want to be - at punishing length.  I've lived here for thirty-eight years and can confirm that this type of thing is very much a minority pursuit, but in And The Land Lay Still, it is everywhere and within everyone.

There are three types of proto-nationalist in the book.  The first is the enthusiast, long since sold on the need for home rule.  These characters are forever feeling something stirring within them as time and events awaken long-repressed desire for independence and a better nation.  When they listen to folk music, they find that the songs were already in their hearts [2]; when they learn Gaelic, they discover that the words had been within them all along, just yearning to be set free.  Patriotic longing is always exploding out of them like a chestburster in the movie Alien, or they have sudden gut-feelings impelling them to urgent action, like a two-flush dump.

One character, a traumatised ex-soldier, is so horrified by our rampant consumerism that he leaves home one day and spends the rest of his life wandering the fields and streams of Scotland, connecting with the land and handing out stones to children.  The tone of these chapters is much like a Kate Bush video, but with Kate mooning and swooning and hurling herself around to Runrig, rather than Wuthering Heights.

The second type is the reluctant holdout, decently but wrongly putting his faith in socialism and solidarity [3].  These men ponder Scotland's plight like the rest but misplace their hopes with Labour blowhards and bickering union bosses, and are worked into the grave for their pains.  Think - like Boxer the horse in Animal Farm but with Thatcherism rather than the glue factory.

These characters are the heart of the book: miners and factory workers.  Deep down they know that the SNP are right about everything, but their traditions and allegiences prevent them from acknowledging it.  Their role is to despair of their heroes, while being gently prodded and ticked off by their friends and family members for not getting with the Nationalist programme.  At one point a Pakistani family move into town and within two pages, the father of the family is gently chiding a shame-faced character for not demanding freedom for Scotland [4].  It is mad as fuck.

The third type of protagonist is where the book really comes alive, though - the villains, a Tory MP, an MI5 spy and other assorted bastard Quislings and apparatchiks of the hated British deep state.  Even these characters spend an eternity bemoaning The Scottish Question, but from the opposite direction, striving to prevent home rule and hating themselves for doing so.

Both the spy and the MP loathe themselves for their anti-Scottish treachery, which is the result of early infection with the virus of Britishness.  The spy is recruited by MI5, an organisation that mainly exists to disdain and despise Scotland and the Scots, and is used to undermine the Nationalist cause by making them look like nutters.  The MP suffers from a crippling hidden shoe-fetish, a perversion that - I kid you not - may or may not be the result of a childhood meeting with Thatcher herself.

And we really need to talk about the English here because, with the exception of one fruity nurse, the English in this book are irredeemably horrible braying bureaucrats, rampaging snobs, treacherous snakes, effete bell-ends and Thatcherite Loadsamoneys.  Their sole activities in life are extorting money out of decent, hardworking people; disrespecting Scotland and thinking up ways to fuck Scotland over.

I'll do a bit of violence to Robertson's dialogue here with an impersonation of his style, for effect:

SIR SIMON TWIDDLINGE-MOUSTACHE, MI5 BOSS:  MacTraitor!  Why are you wasting your time with real, important espionage work?  Don't you know we have to fit up a lot of Scottish Nationalists and convict them of terrorism, in order to discredit their drive for devolution?

BOABY MACTRAITOR, QUISLING BASTARD MI5 AGENT:  Sorry, master.  How may I serve the British establishment's insane hatred of my countrymen?

TWIDDLINGE-MOUSTACHE:  Get on a train to Glasgow.  We need to maybe-murder or maybe-not-murder a Scottish MP, for reasons that are hinted at but are left opaque, because openly stating them would make the author look like a maniac!

MACTRAITOR:  But why should we murder or not murder a Scottish MP, master?

TWIDDLINGE MOUSTACHE:  Because we need to crush Scotland's desire for freedom, so that we can steal all of their oil and spend all of their money on hookers and cocaine, MacTraitor!  And because that's exactly the kind of thing that the corrupt, venal swines of the British state would do!

MACTRAITOR:  (Drinks self to death because of his self-loathing)

And so on.  In a twist, it turns out that the Twiddlinge-Moustache character is Scottish himself, but was raised out in the hinterland of the Empire, which explains why he hates and wishes to destroy his own nation.

Britishness and Englishness in particular in this book infect and undermine Scotland and the Scots - they are insidious, sneaky, all-seeing and all-powerful.  London is a venal, corrupt Babylon filled with cackling capitalists, creeping perverts and the dirty prostitutes who serve them.  This is some crazy shit, right here, and it goes on like this for about a hundred and fifty pages.

I've been reading all this with rising astonishment and really, I couldn't wait to share it with you.  In terms of broadening your understanding of how others think, it's been like Rowdy Roddy Piper putting on the sunglasses in They Live and suddenly seeing all the aliens walking amongst us.  It's a cracking book, but utterly deranged - like if War & Peace had the Rostovs stop every few pages to eulogise the glory and dignity of Protestantism and to denounce the baleful influence of Rome.


[1]  The caveats I'd add here are that in Robertson-land, working class people don't much e.g. vote Tory, buy the Sun or rage against immigration and political correctness, and their communities are mainly welcoming of outsiders and difference.  I grew up in a small ex-mining village and now live with the daughter of five generations of miners, and I can tell you that this doesn't reflect my experience.  It's a small objection, however.

[2]   I felt this way about Enter The Wu Tang, but I doubt that this portends an ingrained affinity for New York.

[3]  And when I say "His", I mean it.  Women are mainly secondary or supporting characters here, offering guidance and support but rarely impelling the action.  Maundering about the fate of the nation is man's work apparently, as they do all the political heavy-lifting.  For a book about a movement filled with strong women, this book is a sausage-fest.

[4]  Because a man who has been forced to flee a country that was bloodily born in partition would definitely be attracted to the idea of his adopted country separating from its cousins, innit.

Tuesday, April 26, 2016

A Picture Paints a Thousand Words

There's plenty being said about the verdict in the Hillsborough inquest today but for me, most of the questions about it tend to come back to those cages, to the metal fencing that penned in the Liverpool supporters and fans of other clubs, in those days.

How could a crush at a football game have been so deadly?  Because the people there were jammed into cages to watch their team play, and couldn't escape onto the pitch.

How was it possible for any kind of cover-up to take place, when the whole terrible thing had been captured on film?  Why would the Sun print outrageous slanders against the victims of the disaster?  Why were there so many people willing to believe those lies, and why are there still so many even today?

Because the people who died were the type of people that could be put into cages, without any real or material objections from anyone who could've put a stop to it.

The cages tell us a lot about the regard in which football supporters were held by the people responsible for their construction.  And not only in big flashpoint games or high-risk matches between rivals, but every game, week-in, week-out.  Ordinary men, women and children, the old and the young.  People just like you or me, any one of us who has ever been to a football game.

The truth of Hillsborough, not least the absolute contempt for the public at the highest level of society that led directly to it, has been public knowledge since I was a kid.   So why has it taken twenty seven years for some kind of justice to be done?  Why did the victims' relatives have to fight tooth-and-nail for the result that they got today?

And I'd say, just look at the cages.  That picture paints a thousand words.

Saturday, April 09, 2016

The Imaginary Bacon Rolls Of Terror

Brendan O'Neill isn't happy with the liberals and multiculturalists this week, or any other week, for that matter.

He's concerned about that Charlie Hebdo think-piece, the one about how the Muslims are oppressing everyone by wandering around wearing headscarves and so on.  Specifically, he's worried that  

"...chilling of discussion around Islam encourages a climate of mutual apprehension and tension in European communities, where non-Muslims are implicitly told to keep their concerns to themselves while Muslims increasingly come to live in a kind of protective bubble of non-criticism or just non-discussion".

And I mean, he has a point here.  It's certainly true that you can attract plenty of hysterical abuse, simply for speaking reasonably on various Islam-themed topics.  I'll add that the same is true of sport journalists who get on the wrong side of football fans; critics who e.g. give superhero movies bad reviews and women who have the temerity to say things while being female.

Still, Brendan's describing an existing phenomenon here*, and the Hebdo case is very unusual in that it's one of very few involving the threat of actual violence, rather than just some twatty comments on social media.

It's worth noting though that the Hebdo piece didn't piss people off because it was telling us uncomfortable truths.  It mainly annoyed people because it's yet another example of folk intentionally acting like stroppy, belligerent dicks, while theatrically complaining about how they're not allowed to act like stroppy, belligerent dicks.  Basically much like The Spectator, but French.

And of course, folk have every right to act like stroppy, belligerent dicks if they so please, much as other people have every right to respond by calling them racists, or whatever.

Is it racist, to kick off on a mad ramble about how pissed off you are that the Muslims won't even let you buy a bacon roll in an imaginary bakery?  Is it bigoted, to make illogical claims conflating headscarves and nailbombs?

Well maybe it is and maybe it isn't, and the distinction doesn't really matter much to me.  The iron rule remains the same either way - you don't have to be racist to be an arsehole.

That being the case, the Hebdo piece looks to me like that very modern form of opinion journalism - the deliberately antagonising cry-wank.

All I did was deliberately go out of my way to annoy people, and now they're all annoyed because they are so very thin-skinned and unreasonable.  Oh, woe!

And none of this is happening in a vaccuum.  The French generally are a bit more... robust than we are, on such issues.  Their public figures certainly aren't afraid to say precisely what they think.  French intellectuals routinely announce that Everything Is Fucked because white people are too nice to the ethnics, and it's always seemed to me that there's a strong undercurrent in French thought that foreigners can never be French, mostly because of their wacky religious beliefs.

And let's remember that there is currently a cultural and political movement that is rocking like a hurricane in France, and that it isn't self-censorship or bashfulness in the face of fruity foreign fatwas.  It's the fucking National Front.

While the hacks wail in terror about snotty Tweets, the actual real far-right is booming.  Let's not insult Brendan, or any of the other howlers and chucklers, by assuming that they aren't aware of precisely the type of politics that is driving headscarf bans or pork-only school lunches.

I think that ultimately, what we're looking at here is deep confusion** about the difference between

- Secularism
- Intentionally being as dickish as possible, and
- Media types going out of their way to annoy people and then complaining about tyranny when people get annoyed.

Secularism itself involves two basic propositions. The first is the strict separation of the state from religious institutions. The second is that people of different religions and beliefs are equal before the law.

I'll leave it up to you to decide whether e.g. boiling with resentment about the unavailability of imaginary ham sandwiches is an example of secularism, or just of people being as dickish as possible.  

What I will say is that this confusion isn't at all cost-free.  It's precisely this kind of nonsense that's brought us such unedifying occurrences as:

British soldiers kicking down doors in Helmand in order to liberate Afghan women from their husbands, fathers and brothers; 

The French government freeing women from oppression by threatening them with arrest if they wear the wrong outfits, and French authorities giving schoolkids the choice between eating pork or fucking off, and

The British government trying to help oppressed Muslim women by deporting the ones that don't speak English.

If there's some kind of intellectual battle going on here, I suspect that it's between people who are trying not to be dicks about everything, and people who are determined to be as dickish as possible, all the time.

It's not always easy to tell which is which, because there's a hell of a lot of overlap between the two sides and because both deploy similar levels of apocalyptic boo-hoo, but it can be done.


*As it happens, I often agree with Brendan on most free speech issues.  I think it is problematic that many political and media types are afraid to speak their minds openly because they think they'll be branded racists.  As I've argued in the past of characters including Nick Griffin, Nigel Farage and David Starkey, the best thing for everyone is to encourage cranks to be as frank as possible, and to let the public decide whether they're arseholes or not.  I'm very confident about the public's judgement on that, at least. 

**A deep confusion that is being intentionally sown by hacks including Brendan O'Neill, by the way.

An Evil Genius

Let's say that you were an evil genius along the lines of The Joker in The Dark Knight*, bent upon creating the most chaotic, hostile world imaginable, as quickly as possible.

How would you go about engendering the maximum amount of mutual distrust, discord and suspicion amongst your fellow human beings?  Would you e.g. hijack boats full of citizens and prisoners, and force them to choose which of them would be destroyed with high explosives?

Probably not.  A better way would be to maximise everybody's exposure to the sections of society that most hate and fear them, people whom they would never usually encounter.

To do that, you'd need a mechanism that exacerbates existing faults in society - a way of pitting people against their immediate religious, political or cultural foes.  Ideally, you'd want to ensure that this occurs in an intimate and familiar setting where people feel most safe.  Somewhere like, maybe, their own homes, just to really make them feel threatened and uncomfortable.

What you'd want, would be to bring vulnerable or just mildly thin-skinned people into contact with all manner of highly aggressive idiots.  You'd want earnest feminists arguing with the most bitter misogynists; ardent secularists being brought into the orbit of religious zealots; devout Muslims discovering that there are legions of people who utterly despise them and their religion; to find ways of bringing even the most atheistic of Jews into the immediate proximity of rabid Holocaust-deniers.

What you'd want really, is just a way of making sure that insecure and irritable people - by which I mean, normal, everyday people - are roundly and thoroughly abused by others who deliberately seek them out to offend and upset them.

And, most important of all, this has to happen in an environment where nothing, nothing at all, could ever possibly be resolved, and where the arguments can only ever get angrier, nastier and more fraught with bitterness and mutual recrimination, rather than less. 

Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce you to Twitter.  If you want to bring the haters together with the hated, accept no substitutes.

Some academic should run an experiment on the prevalence of social media and perceptions of personal and communal persecution, before and after.  I think the results would be stark.  Truly, it is one of the few venues I can think of where the prey willingly and enthusiastically line up to be introduced to the predators.

Whatever your opinions are, on any damn issue, Twitter in particular has some idiot somewhere on Earth, just desperate to call you a Commie or a nigger or a faggot, or whatever derogatory racial/religious/political/sexual etc. slur it is that you'll find most offensive, just for conveying them.  Simply log in, express yourself, and there's a good chance that they'll turn up eventually.

Now, I recognise that most people who use social media don't have to deal with this type of this stuff, most of the time.  I'm guessing that my brother's Twitter account, for instance, is mostly comprised of footballers and comedians, and that he doesn't get much abuse for posting the occasional photo of his dinner or an opinion on a film.

Nonetheless, for lots of people like me - mainly, mouthy twats who want an audience to sound off at about their super-controversial views on lots of micro-political issues of minority interest - it's a much more hostile environment**. 

And yet, still.  You can't open a paper without finding out all about the sudden upsurge of bigotry against... well, whoever anyone hates, anywhere, as evidenced by some sad berks with Twitter accounts.  Of which there are millions of examples worldwide. 

For the most part, this signifies nothing, beyond the fact that vindictive people all over the planet who would otherwise have had to have satisfied themselves with merely being horrible to their neighbours, now have a swish application that allows them to be vindictive to strangers on the other side of the planet.  And it's sure not restricted to Twitter.

But let's remember - the biggest internet squabble of the last few years wasn't about, oh, the rise of ISIS or the genocide of the Armenians.  It was about video game reviews written by girls, and it got really, really nasty.  Nowadays, people get death-threats for saying that they don't like superhero films or particular computer games.

I think people mistake all of this emboldened cuntishness, where what was once unspeakable is now said openly, for an upsurge in prejudice.  It probably isn't - it is, after all, only twenty years since a good chunk of the Scottish populace went bug-fuck mental at the idea that a teacher could tell a pupil that it is, theoretically, okay to be gay.

The major difference is that every dipshit, almost everywhere in the world, can now speak where they can be heard.  It'd probably be a good idea for us to work out how to deal with that, sooner rather than later.


 *But less shit than The Dark Knight.

**I'm fine with this myself - I am, by and large, as much of a complete dick on social media as I am in real life, and so I expect to get a certain amount of dickishness in return.  I appreciate however that others aren't trying to be dicks like I am, and try to moderate my behaviour.  Occasionally, at least.

I'm also not letting Facebook off the hook here.  I've seen shit on there that would turn your hair white, and from family members rather than acquaintances.  Twitter just gets more scrutiny, because there are more politicians, celebrities and journalists who use that platform regularly.

Thursday, February 18, 2016

Euston Ten-Year Anniversary Open Thread

From what I can gather, Nick's eulogy for Euston is a proper knee-slapper, full of the usual wails and screams but at a particularly piercing pitch and tone.

Tragically however, it's paywalled for me, and I'd rather have my wisdom teeth replaced and then pulled all over again than pay the Spectator for the privilege of perusing it.  So I'll just have to wait until it appears somewhere else.

Going by past experience, I'm betting that it's mainly some mixture of  

The wars that we demanded have left half the planet in flames and have - incredibly - elevated our bitter political foes to power, and this is definitely somebody else's fault, and  

Our political project was an abject failure, but that had nothing at all to do with the godawful behaviour of the people who promoted it. 

Still, I know some of you have read it and that you, like me, have many fond memories of the era.  For those of you who want to pick over the rubble or to discuss any notable departures from universal values, consider this an open thread.