Month: December 2015

No one would probably recoil in shock at the news that our government lies to us. It’s a modern, post-Christian government, isn’t it? Of course it is. So it lies.

Thieves steal, muggers mug, burglars burgle, our governing spivs lie. Truth has no independent value for them, lies no stigma. Whatever works at the moment.

At the moment Dave is trying to ‘negotiate’ with the EU. That’s his word for begging that wicked setup for some token concessions, no matter how meaningless, that will enable him to trick the people into voting to stay in the EU.

Even before such crumbs have been swept off the EU’s table into Dave’s gaping mouth, he’s already announcing triumphantly that “a pathway to a deal” has been found. We all know what this pathway is paved with: lies.

One such lie involves the scale of immigration from the EU, something about which few Brits are happy.

Enough immigration to sustain a few restaurants serving flavoursome food, fine, we can live with that. Cheaper plumbers, scaffolders and builders – perhaps, although one sometimes wonders if there’s a single plumber left in Poland.

But so much immigration that Britain no longer looks or feels British, that our infrastructure begins to creak at the seams, that it now takes a fortnight to see a GP (which is fine, if you don’t happen to be bleeding too fast), that the crime rate is climbing? The natives may become increasingly restless.

That bothersome state just may lead to the kind of referendum results that will frustrate Dave’s ambition for having a political job for life, for rising majestically above the quotidian national concerns, for telling the next British prime minister what to do from the height of Dave’s Brussels perch.

Hence the problem of excessive immigration must be handled. Or rather the impression to that effect must be created and maintained until the day after the referendum. How does one go about it? If one is Dave, one lies.

Comparing the number of EU immigrants claimed by the government with the number of National Insurance numbers issued to that group, we discover that the latter number is 1.1 million higher than the former. The actual number is 1.9 million over the last four years. The claimed number is 751,000. The difference between the two is the size of the lie.

Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs responded to a direct Freedom of Information request by tacitly acknowledging that what we’re dealing with is indeed a deliberate lie, not an honest error:

“HMRC continues to believe that releasing information in the form requested would, at this stage, be unhelpful to the negotiation process.”

Allow me to translate: this means that, should the truth be known, Dave might have to stop impersonating a dog standing at its hind legs at its master’s dinner table, begging for some leftovers.

He just might have to act, in however a meek and transient manner, as Her Majesty’s Prime Minister, not the EU gauleiter. Lying through his teeth – or through his agencies – is much easier, especially since it comes naturally.

Truth of any kind is always ‘unhelpful’ to modern democracies, for they deal in perceptions not facts, in virtual rather than actual reality. The scale of immigration is only the most recent example of how much more helpful lying is to them.

Everywhere you look, the fog of virtual reality is being released out of various governmental orifices… sorry, I mean offices.

Our economy, teetering at the edge of a disaster created by promiscuous government spending and borrowing, is being portrayed as prosperous. Our cosmically stupid foreign policy, mainly in the capacity of America’s poodle, is portrayed as sage. Our social policy, not just destroying the family but effectively redefining it, is portrayed as healthy.

Our education, which used to be the envy of the world and now is its laughing stock, is portrayed as being effective – and for once our governing spivs aren’t lying.

The education they’ve spawned is indeed effective in churning out ignoramuses incapable of seeing through the lies, or at least drawing the right conclusions from what they see.

Having said all that, the cynicism displayed by HMRC in so nonchalantly admitting to lying is quite refreshing even by the now customary standards of HMG. Dave is proving his credentials as the true Heir to Blair.    

 

 

 

 

 

  

I wonder if The Times columnist Jenni Russell is related to Jack, same surname. Their intellectual kinship almost has to suggest a biological link somewhere down the line.

The difference is that Jack, wisely aware of his limitations, restricts his self-expression to barking monosyllabics, while Jenni writes barking mad articles like Cameron’s EU Poker Hand is Full of Trumps.

If her idea was to distance herself from Jack, in reality she only emphasised the proximity. “Mr Cameron is playing a better hand than we assume,” she insist in that dogged way of hers.

Although the EU “can’t agree to concessions that would undermine Europe’s core principles”, explains Jenni, they do want to keep Britain in the EU because it “would be weaker and poorer without us”.

About £9 billion poorer every year, to be exact, which is the amount of our net contribution, but our Jenni wouldn’t demean herself by quoting such dry numbers. She wants us to respond to the EU not rationally but instinctively, the way her relation Jack responds to life in general.

Hence the EU’s leaders “do want to help the PM cut a deal that would keep us in” because “there’s a fund of goodwill” towards us. Can’t blame them – I myself would have oodles of goodwill for nine billion quid a year. But what kind of deal wouldn’t ‘undermine Europe’s core principles’?

The answer is, only a meaningless one. For example, the French may undertake never again to call us les rosbifs, while the Germans may promise to refrain, unless severely provoked, from shouting Gott Strafe England in public places.

“This referendum mustn’t be reduced to an argument about tax credits,” says Jenni. I agree. But I’d still prefer even such an inconsequential argument to the mendacious drivel peddled by Jenni and her idol Sir John ‘Maastricht’ Major.

“We cannot have free access to the EU’s markets without following all its rules,” howls Jenni, with Sir John nodding approvingly in the background, “…nor be a powerful player as a tiny independent island, nor keep Scotland…”

In fact, should we leave the EU, it would be falling all over itself trying to tie us into a series of trade treaties, for the EU’s annual trade balance with us is over £60 billion in the black. They wouldn’t want to cut off that fiscal nose to spite their economic face, would they?

And follow all its rules? I’d like to see some documentary proof for this claim. Some rules, yes, those reserved for outsiders.

Similarly, when I shop at Sainsbury’s, I follow some supermarket rules: I don’t spit on the floor, I don’t steal anything, I don’t try to jump the checkout queue, I make sure I have enough money to pay for my purchases.

But it doesn’t follow from there that I ought to get a job stacking the store’s shelves, thereby having to obey a whole raft of rules meant for those who work inside, not those outsiders who bring income to the establishment.

As to Britain being a tiny island, this dimensional handicap didn’t prevent the country from being a rather ‘powerful player’ for a millennium or so – and during most of that time size mattered a lot more than it does now.

Mongolia, for example, is five times the size of Britain, which, according to Jenni’s cunning (canine?) calculations, should make Ulaanbaatar replace London as the financial centre of the world. As it is, not many people can spell Ulaanbaatar, or even know what it is.

And Scotland may indeed leave the UK, but the parsimonious Scots would first want the EU to guarantee that it’ll take up the slack formed by the disappearing Westminster welfare payments, £10,374 for every Scot last year. If they get such a deal, they may leave, and if they don’t they won’t – this irrespective of our referendum results.

Jenni then described the interview John Major gave on this subject as ‘electrifying’, an adjective one doubts even his wife Norma or his ex-mistress Edwina has ever applied to Sir John, who’s about as electrifying as a bowl of cold porridge.

His arguments, which so electrified Jenni she was ready to jump through hoops, are baffling even coming from a man of rather modest intelligence.

For example, Sir John firmly believes that leaving the EU would jeopardise our national security, a claim that would have been odd even before the current influx of millions of Muslims of whom hundreds of thousands are probably trained murderers – all courtesy of the EU.

And oh yes, if we left the EU, avers Sir John, our parliament wouldn’t become sovereign because there would still be international laws we’d have to obey. All I can suggest is that Sir John read up on the concept of sovereignty, starting with the dictionary definition.

If Jenni ‘Jack’ Russell really wants to be electrified, she’d do better plugging herself into the mains and throwing the switch… But enough of this wishful thinking.

 

 

 

 

In case you’re wondering, no, I haven’t retrained as a pimp. And even if I had, the supply of virgins this side of kindergarten is so scarce that the price would be considerably higher than €49.50.

Admittedly such a paltry amount wouldn’t buy you a maiden untouched by human hand. But it could buy you the next best thing: a girl who can trick you into believing she is pure as driven snow.

Well, not exactly a girl but an artificial hymen bearing the proud marque of Made in Germany, allaying the market fears about the previous generation of such devices made in China.

As a lifelong supporter of free enterprise, I applaud this instant response of Germany’s celebrated manufacturing industry to the needs of a rapidly expanding market of Muslim migrants.

Oh did I forget to mention that most buyers of this product are Muslim women who have an urgent need to appear more chaste than they are? Sorry, my oversight, but then I thought this went without saying.

You see, Muslim men demand virginity in their brides. Some, one suspects a minority, feel so strongly for religious reasons. Others, one suspects a majority, simply dread comparison and, if rumours are to be believed, with good reason.

Both groups tend to express their displeasure at their women’s sexual past in murderous ways, hence the high demand for the virginity inserts. For girls who sample the erotic delights before marriage the device, featuring two membranes with some freeze-dried blood in between, is thus a life saver.

One grateful Muslim customer provided testimony to that claim: “If the device didn’t exist, neither would I.”

The device can be purchased online, with satisfaction implicitly guaranteed by the manufacturer’s claim “Quality from Germany”. Cars, kitchen appliances or fake hymens – Germans certainly know how to make things, you’ve got to give them that.

Part of the reason for this unblemished record of excellence is the pride German producers take in quality control. The company making VirginiaCare Hymens (an excellent brand name, by the way) is no exception.

“It has been well designed and cannot slip out,” boasts their spokesman. “During sex it provides a natural-seeming result with a trace of blood mixed with body fluids.”

As do all German products, VirginiaCare comes with an extensive usage manual. Quite apart from insertion instructions, the manual reminds customers that “The woman needs to show pain. That is exactly what the man expects from a woman having sex for the first time.”

And, if his expectations are frustrated, he may kill you, though the manual doesn’t put it in quite so many words. Hence thousands of happy customers will be squealing like stuck pigs… Oops, an unfortunate turn of phrase. Make it ‘stuck camels’.

If you still have lingering doubt about the exact value of the cultural contribution being made by the millions of new Muslim arrivals, this bit of news ought to dispel them.

Before you know it the new product will catch on, and Gretchens will join Fatimas in the beeline for VirginiaCare. And what do you know, the growing supply may just collapse the prices pimps charge for virgins, stimulating demand.

Don’t know about culture, but this is definitely good news for the EU economy – at a time when good news is desperately lacking.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

HMG, as personified by our Heir to Blair, hardly wastes a day to reiterate its commitment to having Turkey admitted into the sanctum of the EU.

Since the country boasts 75 million inhabitants, it’s a fair bet that Dave and his jolly friends are ready to welcome as many Turks as will care to come. I can’t even venture a guess at the possible number – I can’t count as high as that.

Because it’s an article of Dave’s faith that immigrants make invaluable cultural contributions to the panoply of British life, it follows logically that the more Turks come here, the better off we’ll be culturally.

While it’s impossible, or at least ill-advised, to refute this assertion, or to doubt its evidential base, one may still wish to cast the briefest of glances at the behavioural patterns of the 500,000 Turks who are already here.

Most of them keep a low profile, but those who don’t make life interesting in the areas they grace with their presence. They certainly exemplify the benefits of multi-culti diversity, that central prong in the trident of Dave’s faith, staying in the EU and homomarriage being the other two.

The case in point is the feud between two rival import organisations, known in the more refined circles as the Tottenham Boys and the Hackney Bombers. Leaving aside for a second the enriching contributions the two groups make to British culture, let’s just say that the commodity these gentlemen import isn’t listed in the Financial Times.

To be specific, it’s heroin, which makes the two groups not so much import organisations as gangs. To be fair, Turkish or other migrants don’t hold exclusive rights to organised crime in London. The East End had its Krays, South London had its Richardsons, and I’m sure there are some worthy successors operating today.

Those chaps couldn’t be confused with choirboys either, and things like torture and murder were their stock in trade. They didn’t need any lessons in violence from Turks or anyone else but, since it’s cultural inputs we’re talking about, they went about their business in a, well, British way. It was a pragmatic fight for territory, both figuratively and literally speaking.

If their business interests clashed, bloodletting ensued. If a member of the Krays’ gang showed his face in the Richardsons’ patch, it was all his life was worth. Nor could a Richardson venturing into the Krays’ domain count on serious life expectancy. The lines were clearly drawn, and it was all quite rational, within certain limits.

The Turks, on the other hand, go about their affairs the Turkish way or rather the Muslim way, where blood feuds neither die nor fade away. They are a gift that keeps on giving, and rational considerations need not apply.

Hence a little punch-up outside a Finsbury Park snooker club back in 2009 has escalated over the next six years into a string of 30 violent incidents, including several murders.

One of the parties to the snooker fisticuffs was a member of the Tottenham Boys, otherwise known as Tottenham Turks, while the other proudly belonged to the Hackney Bombers. Whichever gentleman came off the poor second in the exchange of slaps vowed revenge, which solemn oath automatically involved his heroin-importing colleagues.

Their friend’s honour was offended and blood alone could rinse the affront away. Sure enough, blood was spilled, which put the boot on the other foot. The avengers became the target of vengeance, and so forth, with the pendulum swinging ad infinitum.

The last or, more precisely, latest incident occurred the other day, when two of the Tottenham Boys were being taken to Wood Green Crown Court to be sentenced for attempted hits on various Hackney Bombers (one wonders how they got their name).

The police van was attacked, and in the ensuing shootout the Turkish population of London was reduced by one gun slinger. His death diminishes us all, to paraphrase John Donne, for the cultural contribution of the Turkish community becomes less.

Anticipating the de rigueur objection that only a small proportion of the London Turks indulge in murder and heroin pushing, that’s doubtless true. Yet what interests me now isn’t so much percentages as absolute numbers.

Without leaving the realm of mathematical probability, one could venture a guess that, when the Turkish population of Britain grows, say, four-fold, so will the number of people flouting British laws and indeed the British ways of going through life.

Actually, the growth in crime rate will probably outpace the numerical increase, for at present most Turkish people in Britain come not from Turkey but from Cyprus, which is considerably more civilised than, for example, Anatolia.

Hence, if Dave and his EU friends get their wish and Turkey joins this wicked contrivance, we have a veritable carnage to look forward to. That, however, will be offset by the massive enrichment of our cultural life.

Specifically, one could mention… well, all sorts of things. None springs to mind offhand, but I’ll catch you later.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Not many, is the answer to this one. Actually Dave can do the job all by himself.

Britain used to be loved by her friends, hated by her enemies and respected by both. Now the extreme emotions have given way to indifference at best, and contempt at worst and more commonly.

Our Heir to Blair isn’t solely responsible for this shift, but he can take credit for rapidly making it irreversible. His present campaign to stay in the EU at any cost while pretending to be ready to leave is a case in point.

Dave’s opening shot in what he risibly calls negotiations with the EU was to make it known in no uncertain terms that he’d campaign for staying no matter what the result. Hardly a strong negotiating position, one would think, and it went downhill from there.

For Dave didn’t demand a meal; he asked for a few bones off the EU table. Specifically, he begged for permission to withhold benefits from immigrants for the first four years of their presence at these shores.

If he, and by association what once was Great Britain, were held in anything other than contempt, the federasts would have tossed him his bone and sent him off to the corner to gnaw on it.

Dave would have stopped pretending to be a negotiator and reverted to what he does best: being a spiv. He would have portrayed that largely meaningless concession as a huge triumph of his diplomacy, removing the last doubts about membership in this evil contrivance.

As it was, the federasts didn’t even feel they had to let Dave gorge himself on the fatty gristle. They simply said no, leaving our governing spiv at a loose end and his poor, once great country in her historically unprecedented role of a laughing stock.

Dave’s bluff was called and he was found out not even to be holding a low pair. And how the bastards gloat!

They are talking about Dave’s ‘half-hearted attempts’ to beg for concessions, his ‘empty threats’ to leave the EU, his showing ‘no respect’, his having ‘no clear strategy’, ‘playing to the galleries’ and so forth, ad nauseam.

To add injury to insult, the IMF head Christine Lagarde said that uncertainty over the referendum “is not terribly helpful” and could destroy Britain’s economy – presumably as comprehensively as Miss Lagarde herself devastated France’s economy in her previous capacity of finance minister.

It takes utter contempt for the two millennia of our history even to contemplate in a delirious sleep the possibility of surrendering Britain’s sovereignty to this extension of the Third Reich by other means.

And it takes craven, self-serving idiocy to do so now, when this wicked setup has shown its impotence in handling any serious problem worthy of the name – when its moribund economy is only held together by a briskly operating printing press, when it lies defenceless against any fanatic with a gun, when it’s inundated with millions of Muslims openly proclaiming their aim of turning Europe into an Islamic caliphate by the sheer strength of numbers backed up with the odd massacre.

Against the background of Britain rapidly becoming the butt of derisive jokes, the Mail made some of the points above but then undid the good work by expressing the hope that the Heir to Blair will now lead a campaign for Brexit:  

“That would need leadership and courage – qualities that, in the past, Mr Cameron has shown he possesses in abundance.”

The leadership and courage Dave possesses can fit into the ink cartridge of the fountain pen with which he’ll sign a multi-million contract for speaking engagements at the end of his tenure.

Our press, even its worthier, conservative end, seems to live not just in virtual reality but on a faraway planet, where the news of Dave’s pathetic spivery will only reach in  a few light years.

The rest of cringe in disgust and recoil in horror.

 

 

Half a century ago ago the American writer William F. Buckley published a book titled The Committee and Its Critics, in which he showed that the critics of Sen. Joe McCarthy committed much worse excesses than their target.

Most of the critics came from the left, but there were conservative people on either side of the Atlantic who didn’t have time for McCarthy either. Evelyn Waugh, for example, wrote to Buckley, saying that though he was sympathetic to McCarthy’s cause he deplored “his championship of it”.

While the left hated McCarthy’s crusade against communist infiltration, the right mostly objected to his personality, which they correctly identified as vulgar, crude, ignorant and loudmouth.

No doubt McCarthy was all those things, but he was also something else worth mentioning. He was right.

He was right to point out that key government posts shouldn’t be occupied by people like Harry Dexter White and Alger Hiss, who had pledged allegiance to a foreign power hostile to the United States.

He was right to block entertainment figures from turning books and films into mouthpieces for cannibalistic communist propaganda, as all those Lillian Hellmans, Dalton Trumbos and Dashiell Hammetts were doing.

McCarthy was right all around, which of course was a good reason to hate him then and to continue to hate him now. However, then the outcry was that McCarthy accused good people of being communists. Now the outcry is that he found anything wrong with communists being in positions of power.

That history tends to repeat itself is a cliché, but it has survived as a cliché because it’s true to life. So for Joseph McCarthy read Donald Trump.

The republican frontrunner is also finding himself on the receiving end of ad hominems, most of them richly deserved. He too is vulgar, pushy, socially unpleasant and unburdened with excessive cultural and intellectual baggage.

Yet, just as McCarthy was right about communists, Trump is right about Muslims. Just ignore all the brouhaha about racism, Islamophobia and other deadly sins and look at what he actually said.

What part of it is wrong? That European governments in general and the British government specifically do nothing to stem the flow of Muslim immigration? But it’s true, absolutely true, and he doesn’t even know the half of it.

That the British government is pandering to political correctness? Undeniable. That’s why Cameron’s first reaction to every new Muslim massacre is to lie that Islam is a religion of peace.

That some parts of London are no-go areas even for police? But of course they are, and some ranking police officers have confirmed it. Granted, the outskirts of London are better off than some banlieues of Paris, where police only ever go in armoured vehicles and where 30,000 cars are burned every year. But take it from the cops who know better: London is bad enough.

That new Muslim arrivals pose a terrorist threat, and that it’s a government’s sacred duty to protect its citizens? I don’t know who can argue with that.

Certainly not Western intelligence services that estimate that at least two per cent of the current influx are trained jihadist murderers (some Muslim sources put the figure at as high as 40 per cent). Hence since a million of them have already settled in Germany, Angela Merkel has extended a warm willkommen to 20,000 atrocities waiting to happen.

How many will happen in Britain? How many will it take for the penny to drop? I doubt anyone could come up with a number, because the number is unlimited. Our spivs’ commitment to PC cant is indestructible, which is more than one could say about human lives.

Oh yes, Mr Trump also suggested that Muslim immigration to America stop until the situation quiets down. That has elicited correct but irrelevant comments that not all, and in fact not all that many, of the new arrivals are suicide bombers.

However, if Europe accepts three million of them, which is beginning to look like an underestimate, we’ll be graced with the arrival of at least 30,000 wild-eyed fanatics thirsting for our blood.

One would think that barring them from entry, with profuse apologies to those Muslims who are reasonably peaceful, is elementary self-defence. Or has anyone repealed the law of self-preservation?

Now half  a million Brits have signed a petition to bar Donald Trump from entering Britain, which measure, if acted upon, might put paid to the ‘special relationship’ should he ever become president.

The number doesn’t surprise me, there’s one born every second. But the steady chorus of opprobrium even in the conservative press is staggering. No one punches a hole in the fog of virtual PC reality and gets away with it. And if what he says is true, that’s even worse.

I’m not sure I’d welcome Mr Trump at my dinner table (the hair alone is a huge turnoff) but, given the choice of barring either him or Muslims, I know which way I’d go. Anyone would, who still remembers what actual reality looked like.

 

The other day an impeccably conservative friend (I really have no other) said he didn’t see any problems with Putin. Yes, he’s a bit rough round the edges, but no threat to us.

Mercifully this friend isn’t in the opinion-forming business. Alas, even many who are share the same gross, dangerous, potentially suicidal misapprehension.

Characteristically, none of my Russian friends shares it. This isn’t because they are cleverer than my English or French friends. It’s just that they have one indisputable advantage: they can read the Russian press.

That’s why they couldn’t understand the incredulity implied in the title of a Mail article yesterday: Did Putin Just Threaten to Go Nuclear on ISIS?

Because they aren’t handicapped by the eponymous linguistic deficiency, my Russian friends know that hardly a day goes by that either Putin or one of his henchmen in the government or in the media doesn’t threaten nuclear annihilation – mainly of the US, but also of her allies.

The term that currently seems to be in vogue is ‘turning [insert the potential target, the US for preference] into radioactive dust’, but there are numerous variations, such as Putin’s favourite: “I’d like to remind [anyone who doesn’t like what Russia is doing in the Crimea, the Ukraine, Syria etc.] that Russia is a nuclear power.”

Indeed she is. And nuclear blackmail has been part and parcel of Russia’s foreign policy ever since 1954, when Putin’s role models tried an atomic bomb on unsuspecting live targets at the Totsk testing grounds. It worked as advertised, killing about 50,000 on the spot and God knows how many by delayed action. Since then the Russians have held a nuclear cosh over the West’s head like the sword of Damocles. 

So, to answer The Mail’s incredulous question, of course he did. Why stop now doing what he has been doing every day for at least 18 months, either personally or by proxy?

To Vlad’s credit this time he didn’t mention radioactive dust into which he could turn half the world. Instead he spoke in equivoques, an art he learned in the service of the KGB.

Having fired some submarine missiles 1,500 miles from the Caspian to Syria, Vlad couldn’t contain his glee:

“We now see that these are… high-precision weapons that can be equipped with conventional or special nuclear warheads. Naturally, we do not need that to fight terrorists, and I hope [my emphasis] we will never need it. But overall, this speaks to our significant progress in terms of improving weaponry… being supplied to the Russian army and navy.”

Allow me to translate from the KGB, a language I learned courtesy of my interrogators 45 years ago.

Vlad hopes a nuclear devastation of the Middle East will be unnecessary, but he isn’t quite sure. And make no mistake: going nuclear in a region where different groups fighting different enemies are densely intermingled would indeed be tantamount to indiscriminate annihilation.

You know it, I know it, everyone knows it. Vlad knows it too, which is why he isn’t going to nuke ISIS. His statement was merely the next instalment in the saga of nuclear blackmail written over the last 60 years, with new pages being added every day.

Weapons are after all designed to kill people. Since it’s clear Putin isn’t going to arm his Kalibre cruise missiles with nuclear warheads to fight terrorism, then why emphasise that capability to the world at large? Whom is he threatening to kill?

The answer is, Westerners. Us. Like the street thug he self-admittedly was in his youth, he’s hissing at us: “You may be taller than me, stronger than me, smarter than me. But I can slash your eyes with a razor.”

So he conceivably could. More likely, in the good KGB tradition he wants us to believe he could, to blackmail us into docility. This is all par for the course charted by his sponsoring organisation directly it was formed in 1918. No surprises there.

The only surprising thing is that our papers seem to be surprised. I’m not. But then I’m blessed (or cursed, depending on how one looks at it) with the ability to read Russian.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Following a good showing in the French regional elections, Marine Le Pen has assorted liberal pundits, which is to say most Western media, running scared.

The spectre of a far-right takeover is wafting through the air, leaving fear everywhere in its wake. What if the Le Pens, niece, aunt and possibly even her banished father, form the next government of France?

They won’t, but the fear isn’t wholly unfounded. Our wishy-washy governments can’t, or more precisely won’t, do anything to combat the accelerating Muslim threat. Moreover, as Donald Trump has found, even mooting such a relatively moderate measure as blocking entry to more Muslims causes a violent reaction all over Europe – even though he was only talking about the US.

Trump wasn’t suggesting such radical steps as internment or deportation. All he said was that, until a fool-proof way of vetting Muslim arrivals is found, perhaps it’s unwise to let any more in. This view, incidentally, is shared by the governments of most Muslim countries, such as Saudi Arabia and the Emirates, where they don’t admit any Syrians because they correctly see them as a terrorist threat.

So do we, really, except that the God of Political Correctness won’t let us utter such words. We’d rather take a few casualties and turn our cities into souqs than risk offending that vengeful deity.

The only European groups that dare speak the unspeakable are various nationalist parties, such as the French Front National. And the more craven the policies of European governments are, the louder will the voice of such groups be heard.

For most people are happy to accept the virtual reality stuffed down their throats, but only for as long as they don’t feel personally threatened as a result. However, when they hesitate to go out for fear of being shot, stabbed or blown up, they become less docile. Actual reality barges in, pushing the virtual kind out.

This creates troubled waters in which assorted fascist, quasi-fascist, neo-fascist and crypto-fascist groups can then fish profitably. The Front National falls into that last category and, if the party ever advances beyond local success, the ‘crypto’ part may well fall off, leaving the ‘fascist’ part all on its own.

It’s conceivable, though far from certain, that an FN government could alleviate the Islamic problem, which is more acute in France than in most European countries. But the remedy may well prove to be deadlier than the disease.

Historical analogies are screaming to be drawn. For the economic problems in Germany circa 1933 were easily as catastrophic as the immigration problem is in France now. It was on his promise to solve such problems that Hitler came to power, and he was as good as his word, in the short term. But there were attendant costs, and I don’t need to remind you what they were.

Fascism, neat or whatever prefix one chooses to attach to it, must not be allowed to vanquish in Europe again no matter what the temptation. If it does, Europe will emerge at the other end as unrecognisable as it would even with a greater Muslim presence.

Whatever little is left of Western civilisation must be saved by means indigenous to Western civilisation. As the history of Rome shows, letting barbarians sort the metropolis out isn’t a good idea.

What I find baffling is the tag ‘right-wing’ attached to Marine Le Pen and her jolly friends. Hating aliens, foreigners and Jews (this last hatred Marine doesn’t emphasise as much as her father did, but make no mistake – it’s there) seems to be a sufficient qualification.

This is woolly thinking married to ignorance, which is a union routinely made in our press. For fascism, as represented by the FN or for that matter Hitler or Mussolini, is a socialist heresy. Hence it sits on the left of the political spectrum, not on the right inhabited by God, king and country conservatives in Britain or their republican counterparts elsewhere.

The FN’s economic programme puts the party to the left of Hollande’s socialists whom no one accuses of being right-wing. Apart from being a protectionist and therefore no fan of free markets, Marine believes that the government should nationalise health, transportation, education, energy and banking, which is as far from right-wing desiderata as one can get this side of Joseph Stalin.

So why are the Le Pens, along with Mussolini and Hitler a couple of generations ago, described as right-wing? The reasons for that aren’t rational but emotional and ideological.

Most mainstream media are left-wing, however they choose to describe themselves. Hence in their minds left-wing means good, and therefore, dialectically speaking, right-wing means bad. They don’t like Marine Le Pen (or her typological ancestors), so she has to be right-wing.

Serious thought is as far away from this taxonomy as Marine Le Pen is from conservatism. As to her eventually occupying the Elysée Palace, I can allay the fears of our left-wing darlings.

Barring a global catastrophe, extremist parties don’t ascend to power in the high-rent part of Europe. And if such a catastrophe befalls, it won’t really matter who lives in that palace just off Champs–Elysées.

 

 

Blair’s statement stands to reason: at this rate it won’t take long before Britain is no longer British in any other than the purely legal sense. And even that will be in doubt, when our status as a gau in the EU Reich is finalised.

At that point the word ‘immigration’ will become meaningless. After all, we don’t refer to someone who moves from Sheffield to London as an immigrant. This isn’t quite what Blair had in mind, but it’s a future made possible, nay likely, by him and those like him.

If Hannah Arendt had had the pleasure of knowing Tony Blair, she would have looked at his picture when writing about the banality of evil. For our former PM and, he hopes, future gauleiter, epitomises both banality and evil.

The demons Arendt had in mind, all those Stalins and Hitlers, were unquestionably evil, but they were far from banal. It has taken Tony to show how the two qualities can happily co-exist in one breast.

On Blair’s watch the foreign population of Britain went up by a staggering 3.6 million, while the restrictions on immigration he removed paved the way for millions more to arrive way past his tenure and in perpetuity.

That wasn’t a natural process at all. It was a calculated ploy to drown traditional British conservatism in a deluge of alien admixtures to a point where the original composition is dissolved.

The short-term political aim was clear even before Blair’s lieutenant Peter Mandelson explained what it was: creating a permanent bloc of Labour voters. The logic behind that cynical stratagem was sound.

For immigrants in general, and culturally alien immigrants in particular, tend to vote for parties of the Left that are perceived as being anti-establishment, and the British establishment is associated in their minds with clubbable Toryism.

Of course the traditional taxonomy no longer applies, and mainstream parties everywhere differ mostly in their rhetoric, not substance. However, most immigrants don’t know enough about politics in their adopted lands to realise this.

Because the Tories sing God Save the Queen and Jerusalem at their conferences, rather than the Internationale and Bandiera Rossa favoured by Labour, new arrivals fail to see that both sides of the aisle have more to unite them than to set them apart.

Both are equally committed to sowing with coarse salt the field in which true conservatism, which is to say visceral Britishness, has ever grown or could possibly grow again. In that sense anti-establishment has become establishment, but few new arrivals grasp this straight away.

That’s why all the short-term goals Blair set for himself will be realised when most of his wave of arrivals have qualified to vote, possibly by the time of the next general election. But the elite represented by Blair has long-term goals as well.

He and his ilk come from a long history of resentment against the country as it is, not as they wish it to be. At the back of their mind is the desire not so much to nationalise the economy as to denationalise the nation.

For, if Britain as she is has failed to live up to the warped ideal for which Blair yearns, she must be punished by dissolution. Hence his madcap commitment not only to staying in the EU but also, incredibly, to joining the euro. Only this leap into the economic abyss will satisfy his urge to reduce Britishness to a quaint anachronism devoid of any political outlet.

Hence, while reassuring us that concerns about immigration are a passing fad unworthy of serious attention, Blair then reiterated his other theme: we, he said, would “diminish ourselves” by leaving the EU.

That’s why we should focus all our efforts on becoming a gau in the EU without being side-tracked by ‘short-term’ issues: “There’s a risk we end up having a debate in Britain over the EU that is essentially about immigration and short-term issues to do with the big refugee crisis or the short-term problems of the single currency.”

One is beginning to think that the long-term issue we must focus on is Blair’s self-aggrandisement and self-enrichment, ambitions that can live only if Britain dies. Well, this is a vision of some sort. How widely it’s shared is a different matter altogether.

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

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“House master” is the name by which heads of Harvard’s halls of residence have been known since God was young. Well, no longer.

The name has now been abolished following a number of – justified! – complaints from students blessed with high racial sensitivity. The word ‘master’, they explained, evokes the time of slavery, when black people had to address their owners in this subservient manner.

This link, however indirect it may sound, is so traumatic that the more sensitive students can’t properly concentrate on immersing themselves in such time-honoured academic subjects as Condom Studies, the Jedi Way of Training, Philosophy and Star Trek, Harry Potter Studies and the History of Lace Knitting (such courses are indeed on offer at American universities; I didn’t make it up).

As someone who has devoted his whole life to the tireless fight for every good cause anybody puts up as such, I can only welcome this development. The nature of progress is such that people get more sensitive about more things, and surely heightened sensitivity is a sign of a well-developed personality.

My only regret is that this measure hasn’t gone far enough. However, one does have to start somewhere, and it’s the duty of older people like me to guide our brittle, delicate youngsters farther down the road leading to emotionally safe havens.

In that spirit I suggest that ‘house master’ be changed for ‘my main man’. Also, art courses must stop, effective immediately, talking about Old Masters. What’s wrong with Painters Who Have Been Dead for a Rather Long Time? Nothing at all, I dare say.

While we’re on the subject, what’s that with master’s degrees? What are these degrees in, slave driving? And don’t give me that bunk about the word deriving from the Latin word magister, meaning ‘teacher’. A trauma is anything the traumatised person says it is, and not every traumatised person should be expected to be up on Latin etymology.

Henceforth a Harvard MBA must, repeat must, become  an Advanced Maven of Every Basic Attainment, AMOEBA for short.

Moving right along, a masterly performance by a musician must be referred to as a ‘cool gig, dude’. And if the musician then gives a master class it must be called a ‘mass class’, thus ridding the term of any racial connotations and also emphasising the mandatory egalitarian nature of any relationship between teacher and pupil.

A field of endeavour, or indeed a playing field, brings back the wounding memories of cotton fields south of the Mason-Dixon line, where Afro-Americans (who in those days were shamefully called something else) toiled under the blazing sun to the accompaniment of the whistling sounds produced by their overseers’ bullwhips.

May I suggest ‘my thing’ instead of ‘field of endeavour’ and ‘shake ‘n bake place’ for ‘playing field’? You’re free to come up with your own suggestions if you don’t like mine.

And while you’re at it, think also of an inoffensive term for ‘magnetic field’. ‘That magnetic thing’ works for me, but don’t let me prejudice your thinking.

It’s almost embarrassing to state the obvious, in this case that the word ‘cotton’ has no place in the proverbial groves, even if it only appears on the label inside a shirt collar. Students must be forbidden, on pain of expulsion, to wear cotton garments that run the risk of sending the more sensitive among them into an irreversible tailspin.

Lycra provides a perfect, tasteful substitute to the ‘c’ word, or else I’d recommend those shell suits that are so favoured in the urban hotbeds of sensitivity.

Well, I’m not proposing to mention every potentially offensive word that has no place in the academic vocabulary. My purpose is more modest: to congratulate the faculty of Harvard University on this progressive initiative and outline other possible avenues for advancing therapeutic lexicography.

It’s about time we whipped the English language into shape…. Oops, ever so sorry. Forget I said ‘whipped’. I’ll never forgive myself if I caused a Harvard student to roll on the floor frothing at the mouth.