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I despise and abhor Barack Obama. This is no secret. I despise and abhor the man because of his policies; his politics; his attitudes; and what may be called, if one stretches the word to cover the puerile and jejune, his philosophy. I also consider his character reprehensible; and whilst it is unparliamentary to say so in a legislative chamber, he is, in fact, a liar on par with Richard Nixon or Gordon Brown. (The United States Congress wants to be more like Commons: it must give over this reverence with which it sits and slavishly applauds presidential gassings as if they were the Speech from the Throne. American presidents are grubby politicians, not monarchs. That being said, a Jack Weatherill or a Betty Boothroyd had had no choice save to rule Mr Wilson out of order.) Now, according to the United States’s Jew-Hater-in-Chief, Jimmy Carter, whose second term Mr Obama’s administration is, my disgust for, contempt of, and opposition to Mr Obama can proceed only from racism on my part. Balls. (And Yvette Copper to boot.) There is one sense and one sense only in which my utter loathing of Mr Obama proceeds from his ‘colour’, and that is that I distrust and despise him because he is – red. A bright, socialist-Marxist-Old-Labour red. I don’t give tuppence about his melanin levels; I abhor him because of his views and character. The man is a liar, habitually, as his first and unconscious resort. He is fundamentally an instinctive enemy of the United Kingdom and the British Crown. He is either so weak, so stupid, or so reflexively Leftist that he, like Mr Carter – who was weak, stupid, and reflexively Leftist, and yet remains so even now – spurns the United States’s allies and embraces their declared enemies. He is so enamoured of himself, so thoroughly invested in his own false messianism, that I suspect he calls out his own name when he wanks. He is not an economic illiterate; he is worse: he believes in a series of demonstrably false economic propositions. And his naked hatred of liberty is no longer even dissembled. The only thing that can be said in favour of Mr Obama is that, Nixonian as he is, he is not – quite – Gordon Brown. The psychotic son of the manse with his vaunted moral compass is now exposed as having lied to the people, to the House, and I suspect to HMQ, weekly. The PM specifically lied to the House on 2 July 2009 about the budget and spending. Like his idolised Mr Obama, of whom the Prime Minister’s fawning attitude is an adolescent embarrassment, it is Mr Brown’s settled policy to lie, even when the truth would serve him better. He is not a political liar; he is a pathological liar. And it is no accident that these are men of the Left. To the contrary, as the Frenchman said when asked, Had he dined on the Channel ferry. The Left is, as it has always been, a fundamentally dishonest enterprise, and intrinsically evil, twisting even the best and best-motivated of those who fall under its thrall. This is true of all Statist enterprises – and explains similar irruptions of moral decay amongst so-called ‘conservatives’ similarly devoted to ‘big government’ and Statist solutions. And that is why – even were Mr Carter and Ms Pelosi and Mr Obama and their British acolytes not already exposed as despicable excuse for decent persons – I will not accept and will not suffer the attempted moral tutelage of the Left. To quote, with the appropriate irony, Gordon Brown’s statement to Tony Blair, There is nothing they can say to me that I can believe. Tags: current events, essays, politics
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I am not terribly interested in what Gorrrrdon Brrrrrrrrrroun said today to his pay- and puppet-masters, although I note that the cuts tomorrow (and no jam today) are indeed in the future: a time when this psychotic, evil bastard will be out of Downing Street. I am not terribly exercised, either, by the latest pack of lies from Mandy, or Hattie’s airbrushing Mrs T out of the official history of women’s firsts in UK politics. These are the daily indignities of a government of Leftists led by a man who should be sectioned under the Mental Health Acts, although they do have the useful purpose of reminding one just how contemptible these creatures are. What do raise my hackles are the continuing proofs that the Left remains what it is, NuLab or Old: always and everywhere inimical to liberty, justice, and right – and, apparently, high heels on women. (Stalinist, control-freak buggers.) They have finally been revealed as having sold, for bung and oil, justice in the murder of PC Yvonne Fletcher (of Semley, Wilts), to the tin-pot despot of Libya. And they have decided that we are all suspect, incipient paedos: you, me, the budding-ordinand who runs the Scouts (ahem), all of us. (Except, I suppose, Lord Mandelson, who is certain to have an exemption from the laws that apply to others: he seems always to have one, after all.) Forget the guilty: it is the innocent who must register with the Police State. And so, whilst I am altogether in favour of fiscal responsibility, I must concede that there are public works that must be finished and naval stores to be hoarded. For when I survey Labour, particularly its Front Bench, I tremble to think that we as a nation might run short of lampposts, or rope. Tags: current events, england my england, essays, politics
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I don’t, as a rule, watch Woss. (Every time I see the contemptible little shit, in fact, I wonder, ‘Haven’t you an elderly Jewish actor to insult?’) I make exceptions of course when, as on 4 September, there’s an unmissable guest – in that instance, Broad S. I don’t know if you all saw that, or, more pertinently, the clip where Young Stuart bowls against Wossy and the other guests in the nets. The musical guest for the show was Mika (M Penniman), the Sylvester, far more than the Freddie Mercury, des nos jours. After being – as they all were – clean-bowled by Master Broad, he said, in excuse and wide-eyed wonderment, ‘It’s hard’. Facing Stuart Broad in his kit? I imagine it was, darling. I imagine you were. Very. As who would not be? (And don’t they make a lovely image, those two?) Tags: boring self-indulgence, current events
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Eight years ago, a small group – small, yet sadly representative of quite a substantial grouping – a small group of fanatics, possessed of a diseased notion of God and morality, savagely murdered 2974 men, women, and children. This series of barbaric attacks, amounting to mass murder, occurred in the United States, and by far the majority of victims were United States citizens. It must however never be forgotten that of those who perished, - 67 were British subjects of Her Majesty.
- 11 were Australian subjects of Her Majesty.
- 24 were Canadian subjects of Her Majesty.
- 2 were New Zealand subjects of Her Majesty.
- 1 was a Bermudian subject of Her Majesty.
- 16 were Jamaican subjects of Her Majesty.
Other Commonwealth casualties were - 6 from Bangladesh.
- 2 from Ghana.
- 3 from Guyana.
- 41 from India.
- 3 from Malaysia.
- 1 from Nigeria.
Remember.
Tags: current events, remembrance
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The Beeb – as I have but newly discovered from one of the Speccie blogs – has proposed a shortlist out of which we are graciously permitted to choose the Nation’s Favourite Poet. No, really: http://www.bbc.co.uk/apps/ifl/poetryseason/captcha. I notice it doesn’t specify which nation, which is perhaps as well. The Poetry Society and the Arts Council, naturally, are responsible for this Approved List. On it we find Robert Browning, but not his old, or last, dutch. Perhaps it’s a case of – to borrow from another poet – he for God only, she for God in him. Mind you, one cannot say that the list doesn’t give Approved Women and Other Dispossessed Groups a fair look-in, along with Our New Moderns (‘whaur’s yer Wullie Shakespeare noo?’). There’s no Dunbar – which certainly conturbats me to buggery – no Chaucer, no Herbert, no Langland, no Blunden and no Rupert Brooke, no Spenser. But there is Simon Armitage, o joy of joys, and, better far, lift up your hearts, there is Benjamin Zephaniah. Take that, Dan Geoffrey. The list Does Not Approve Marvell or Herbert, MacNeice – or Pope. Yet all is not lost: we are permitted to ponder the agonising choice between Roger McGough or Wendy Cope (is she waukin’ yit?), or indeed Stevie Smith or Carol Anne Duffed-it. Well, if you can make room for Sylvia bloody Plath, why not give places to the Deserving that might otherwise have gone to, oh, I don’t know, Housman or that hopelessly vieux jeu glover’s boy, William Shagsper of Stratford. And of course, despite his being joint first with Kipling for most-quoted poet of the last century, GKC is right out (and I don’t think, based on Auntie’s past form and that of the Arts Council, that that’s down to his appalling anti-Semitism). There are people on this Approved List to whom I should prefer Chesterton; there are people on this list to whom I should prefer, frankly, AA Milne or poor old Newbolt – or William Topaz MacGonagall, for that matter. Perhaps EJ Thripp. It is certainly inexcusable that their inclusion should have been at the cost of, say, Hugh MacDiarmid, or indeed Sir Walter, whose Lay of the Last Minstrel will be remembered when their works are, even as shall they be, dust. For golden lads and lasses – even Approved Modern Poets beloved of the muesli-munching classes – must, as we know, come to dust, at one with that dust that hath closed Helen’s eye, a handful of sand, so much dust and a peck of rubbidge. And while it may be that God knows in what part of the world every grain of every man’s dust lies, and shall at the Last Day whisper and hiss and beckon for the bodies of his saints, the work of the poet, as distinct from her mortal clay, should be more than a handful of dust. A list of Top Poets from which we are allowed to choose by our governesses, and that does not include Housman or Shakespeare, Chaucer (for whom perhaps it is no longer bon conseyle, but rather a warning, to know thy contree – and shudder at it), or Herbert, is a vain thing and a mockery. Thomas Mann once said that, had the poets and artists of Germany offered Germans a better vision of the future than did Hitler, it had been Hitler and not they who had been forced to flee the country. The only thing one can do, therefore, is to go and vote for the poets most likely to enrage our masters: Kipling, Betjeman, and Eliot. And to strive in every way, culturally as much as politically, to break these smug, half-educated swine who believe themselves an elite and presume to run this country – right into the ground. Tags: critical analysis, current events, england my england, essays
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I have, for my sins, returned from the moors after a reasonably glorious Twelfth (warmish and a bit windy, but not bad at all), to find one of my prejudices confirmed, to-wit, that even a poor day afield is infinitely superior to most days withindoors (unless of course one is in a good library). What confirms me in this view is coming back to find what passes for debate w/r/t the NHS, on Twitter and on LJ. It is not debate. It is the collision, as GKC once said, of two hasty forms of ignorance. Now, the reason I have not holed up in a grouse butt in N Derbs for the foreseeable is that I’ve a writing deadline. For the same reason, I cannot at this moment supply the manifold and manifest deficiencies of the so-called debate. But I can and do say this: I am not only not interested in, I am sick unto death – already – of, emotive balls, appeals ad misericordiam, and anecdotes. It is well past time that the matter were discussed with rigour and intellectual honesty, and absolutely necessary that it were handled with at least some competent and intelligent reference to economics, with a strong concentration upon public choice theory, efficiencies, monopoly cost, nondiversifiable risk, marginal benefits, and rent seeking. In the interim, my strong advice to almost every one both sides the Atlantic and all sides the ‘debate’ is to belt up, put a sock in it, and, in not a few instances, get knotted and sod off. Tags: current events, economics, england my england, essays
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So here's an open letter to Putin / Putain and his grubby acolytes and bum-chums. Vladimir Vladimirovich, you are a nekultutniy Chekist smurf of dubious sexuality. You are an international as well as common criminal and thug, who should be tried at the Hague, convicted, and hanged. The last time you managed to get hard was when your mignons raped Georgia, probably because you thought it was a rape of a rentboy named George. You are the scum of the earth, and illiterate muck-spreaders are your natural superiors. And if you have the bollocks to resent this, bring it, you pathetic excuse for a hard man. You're a waste of carbon and oxygen, and I look forward to pissing on your grave from a great height.
Oh, and put a shirt on, your flabby, sagging dugs are pathetic, you shit-arsed peasant.Tags: current events
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You may recall that on the 22d last, I wrote, I awoke every two hours overnight worried about and for Nadine Dorries MP: rightly, as it transpires. As one of the few orthodox members of the C of E, I don’t believe in oneiromancy – and yet ... oneiromancy or not, on the night before MP expense scandal broke, I dreamt of escaped wild boars savaging the home farm, so.... Very odd. Well, it’s happened again. Last night, I dreamt that I was somehow inveigled into doing something with Conference Pride http://www.torybear.com/2009/06/exclusive-message-from-eric-pickles.html and thus meeting with Iain Dale (whom I do not in fact, I remind you, actually know) in a Proppah Gay Pub to discuss arrangements, when Mrs T – and she was in the dream emphatically still Mrs T, at the peak of her powers and premiership, not the frail Lady Thatcher of today – came tripping in, waving and nodding to shocked regulars, to join us as a surprise and a treat. And of course now we learn that Lady Thatcher has had a fall and broken her arm, poor dear. I fervently wish her the best and speediest of recoveries. These dreams must cease. I don’t care to dream of women in any case, but if, every time I dream of Tory women, it prefigures a disaster to them…. Let us turn to happier dreams. Ogbourne’s daughter (the half of Chloe-and-Olivia who works for the quango) has acquired, for the long vac., a SpAd-cum-intern-cum-experiencer-of-work in the form of an exquisite undergraduate. Keith, as I shall call him for reasons that may be rather obvious, is the son of a friend of ours, a Tory Radical long a lynchpin of the joinery between the police, the courts, the prosecution service, and the rights of victims. He is quite like Sir Keith Joseph, whom I am using for Our Keith’s eponym, and, like Sir Keith, Jewish. Whereby hangs a tale. Our Keith is a brilliant lad. Fair enough. He is also dead fit, shy, sweet, and intolerably attractive. And he is attractive and fit in a very familiar fashion: I said to Chloe, shortly after the slight shock of (re-)introductions and after Keith had been sent off to do whatever it is that he does for her, ‘My dear, you’ve developed a type.’ She laughed and winked: ‘Not at all, darling: you have. I hired him for you.’ This is of course untrue, but she was not at all likely not to make a meal of that jest for several months, and so she has done. The fact, however, remains. Our Keith – that is to say, our delectable lamb of a British Jewish undergraduate – is a dead ringer for our little legal lamb of a British Pakistani solicitor, Amin Khan. Peas, as it were, in, if you will, a pod. Bar a few short years between them, they might well be twins; they certainly can pass for brothers. It is, actually, staggering (you must realise, of course, that although Our Keith is not an incomer, and I do know his pater somewhat, he has, after all, been away at school and then up at university for some years since last I saw him, and his matured self is all but wholly new to me, such that I am legitimately surprised by his astonishing resemblance to Amin Khan). As I say: peas in a pod. Or, if one were incautious in speaking to Chloe Ogbourne, one might have varied that and said they were alike as two slices of bread. Chloe’s subsequent suggestions regarding sandwiches and a breaded-Wemyss filling do not bear repetition. O tempura, o hovis! Tags: current events, essays, village life
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