A bad month for the Iron Lady and the suffragette
There is never a good time to be a statue in England. You are out in all weathers, for a start, and on the rare days the Sun does shine pigeons seize the opportunity to take a dump on your head. But you do usually get to hang around on your pedestal or plinth for a few decades, or even centuries, before you are abused by humans. That, like much in the old country, is changing, and 2020 shall henceforth be known as the year of the great toppling. But the last month has seen attacks on statues of two famous English women, proving equality is alive and well.
A statue of Margaret Thatcher, in her home town of Grantham, was attacked within half an hour of its being put into place. Admittedly, she wasn’t toppled or thrown into Bristol Bay like the statue of evil slaver Edward Colston, a crime which led to no prosecutions because it took place during a Black Lives Matter protest, but the “Iron Lady” was pelted with those little hand grenades of protein we know as eggs by a fat, white, Left-wing man.
Eggs are not exactly the sledgehammers used on famously deposed statues such as those of Lenin and Saddam Hussein, but I suppose you can’t make an omelet — or a tired political statement — without breaking them. A man called Jeremy Webster, described as “a local arts administrator” (which is not a real job in the sense you and I would agree on), was the pitcher responsible for covering the monument to the first-ever female British Prime Minister in yoke and albumen, and is undoubtedly enjoying his Warholian 15 minutes of fame. Police have taken no action, as you would expect. If you were to pop over to London tomorrow and throw eggs at the statue of Nelson Mandela near Westminster, I wonder if you might become what the British police call “a person of interest” in their enquiries. I suspect you would.
Margaret Thatcher is, of course, the heroine of traditional British conservatism. She broke the power of the trade unions, enabled people to buy their council houses, and enraged the British Left, who — believe me — are every bit as irritating as the American Left, if you can imagine such a thing. As the daughter of a grocer and having had an academic career as a chemist, she was perhaps the last British Prime Minister not to be the spawn of the pure political class. But let us return to statues.
The month got worse for statuary gals (which is a great band name, and if you are forming a band you are welcome to use it). Emmeline Pankhurst is famous in Britain for fighting for suffrage a century or so ago, suffrage also being known as the right of women to vote. Emmeline has her own monument in her home town of Manchester, and there was to be a series of speeches there, given by feminists. They were coming not to egg Pankhurst, but to praise her.
However, the statue was surrounded by antifa-style goons described as being dressed as ninjas (which I don’t think actual ninjas would be too happy about), and the feminists were not allowed near the statue as the space was claimed by young men LARPing away in their comic book world. The publicity, the belief that they are “on the right side of history” (possibly the most irritating phrase in the English language), and the warm glow of opposing reality — these people had it all. They even made time from their busy defense of “trans rights” to assault a woman. Fortunately, they were asked to leave area by local police. Oh. My mistake. The victim of the assault was asked to leave.
As is so often the case, J. K. Rowling has been at the forefront of the attacks against these bored children. I have never read a Harry Potter book because I was 36 when the first one came out and not 12, but she really is creating magic now with her robust opposition to the generation currently looking for the next thing to shout about and feel good doing it. But there is another heroine in this novella.
The excellent Kellie-Jay Keen, an old-style feminist also known as Posie Parker, is outspoken when it comes to gender and has revolutionary ideas, such as men being men and women being women, and various other outrageous, real-world claims. She organized the series of speeches that were shut down by these bored and unemployable punks.
Isn’t it vaguely amusing that until a few years ago, feminists were the most irritating people on the planet? Now they — and their statues — are feeling how men felt when they were banging on about oppression. I almost feel sorry for them, after their years of domination over ordinary males. Actually, no I don’t, but I am prepared to defend statues of Rowling and Posie Parker, should such ever be, um, erected.
Scenes from provincial life
Linton-on-Ouse may sound like an obscure Turkish film director, but is in fact a small village in England. Well, it was. What I mean is that it is still a village in England, but it is no longer small, its population of six or seven hundred about to be boosted by 1,500 mostly male Muslim immigrants, who will be housed in a Royal Air Force camp in this idyllic spot.
The government, proceeding with no consultation with the local population, is about to treble the population of a village the photographs of which make it look so English that you could imagine Shakespeare hanging out there, back in ye day. Small villages in England used to be known as “hamlets,” as a matter of fact, so that would work.
A large part of the policy of the importation of thousands of young, angry, low-IQ, mostly unemployable Muslim men to Britain has been to goad the public. The government wants people to fight back so that the arrests can begin for “aggravated racism,” or whatever they will term it. The response of the English at present will probably be to put the kettle on and make cucumber sandwiches for everyone.
Being English, the residents have not gone out with felling axes, baseball bats, or a 30-ought-six, but have formed an action group. Priti Patel, the Asian woman who is Britain’s Home Secretary and clearly hates England, gave no consultative warning to the residents of this bucolic English village, and the residents have traduced her at a public meeting, which is about as violent as the white English get provided they are not attending a soccer match or in a pub. We will move on to soccer presently.
There are many things I am not, and one of them is a lawyer. But when the first inevitable incidence of sexual assault befalls some poor little child in this surely doomed town, can the parents sue the government? Perhaps a British lawyer might be reading this and let me know whether Britain’s ubiquitous “Duty of Care” legislation extends to the consequences of immigration.
Sitting on the dock of the Bray
There is something immensely satisfying about a man whose surname sums him up, and such is the case with Steve Bray. Braying is, of course, the noise that donkeys make. Although these affectionate and incredibly useful creatures are a boon, the noise they make is fantastically irritating, and Mr. Bray’s family moniker is entirely appropriate.
He is known in Britain as “Mr. Stop Brexit,” wears a preposterous hat in European Union colors, and can often be found outside Downing Street, well, braying. (Number 10 Downing Street, for those unfamiliar with British government, is the home of the British Prime Minister, and has been since 1732. It is the British version of The White House, but smaller and with nicer curtains).
Mr. Bray, who is quite clearly mentally ill, visited Wales last week (his country of birth, in fact, which is probably why he hates England) and “infiltrated” a Conservative Party dinner, where he made a fool of himself to such an extent that other fools looked on in wide-eyed admiration. He was ejected from the premises, and presumably made his way back to Downing Street to live up to his name.
If Steve Bray was not mentally unbalanced, he would realize that Brexit never happened. Britain has more illegal immigration than it did when it was a part of the European Union, which is punishment for its leaving the whole boondoggle. It has become the trashcan of Europe. Bray got what he wanted, but is too stupid to realize it. There is nothing sadder than winning and not knowing it.
Get your Scouse in order
Those of us from England, and particularly from my home city of London, have no doubt or hesitation when asked who the most irritating people in the country are: Scousers.
The word refers to people from Liverpool, and was originally an insult, which I have absolutely no problem with. Liverpool is a dreary northern city which produced The Beatles and not much else. They do, however, have a successful soccer team, although I don’t imagine that many of their current squad actually hail from Liverpool itself. British football teams used to have players that came from the area in which they played. Some of them, like my team, Arsenal, were works teams, the players coming from factories or, in the case of Arsenal, the Woolwich Arsenal, which was a munitions factory and storage facility for weapons of war. Their team badge is still a cannon, although I imagine that will soon have to go.
Today teams now represent the dream of the globalists, diversity being the key. The only echo of the old days of local football is that British teams still often have beautiful, almost poetic names: Blackburn Rovers. Bolton Wanderers. I always feel delight when the two teams with the most attractive names play one another: Crystal Palace versus Aston Villa. Scotland’s football teams excel in the beauty of their team names: Heart of Midlothian. Queen of the South. This is poetry quite literally in motion.
But I digress. Liverpool won the world-famous FA Cup this month, beating London team Chelsea in a penalty shootout after 120 minutes of football which produced no goals, proving that the scriptwriters of The Simpsons were right.
Before the FA Cup Final, the national anthem is traditionally played, as well as a song called “Abide with Me.” Many Liverpool fans at the game booed all the way through the songs, and also vocally objected to the presence at the game of the man who would (or rather should, come the time) be King: Prince William.
In my experience, Scousers — or Liverpudlians, as they are also known — are loud, vulgar, and invariably creatures of the far Left, so it was entirely appropriate that they acted in character at one of England’s great ceremonial events. I would return to England under one circumstance only: that Liverpool secedes from the union. It is a tribe England could well do without.
Don’t be a Jeremy Hunt
I believe I have written before in these pages about Cockney rhyming slang, a co-axial language which originated in east London and was originally used by criminals in order to confuse and bamboozle any policemen who might be listening to their conversation. So, your wife was the “trouble and strife,” your suit was your “whistle and flute,” and so on and so forth. An instructive lesson can be found here, in a famous song from The Italian Job. The original, not the 2003 remake. The penalty for watching the latter — starring Mark Wahlberg, among others — should honestly be life. Or even death.
Jeremy Hunt is a British politician whose surname is as perfect an example of Cockney rhyming slang as you could find. A typical politician: oily, smarmy, and, well, a bit of a Jeremy Hunt, if you catch my drift. I believed a couple of years ago that Boris Johnson would eventually get bored with the job of Prime Minister in the Mother of all Parliaments, and I still believe he will — and some Conservative politicians can scent an abdication. Hunt is one of them. The story is neatly detailed by the excellent Mahyar Tousi, a brown-tinted British political journalist who is an argument in favor of immigration.
Hunt, apart from being rhyming slang as far as I am concerned, certainly has all the credentials a British politician needs, one of them being, to paraphrase Charles Dickens, a rooted antipathy to telling the truth.
So here’s to you, Mr. Robinson
I think I would be correct in assuming that some of you reading this are Christians. Even those of us on the political Right who are not of that persuasion still respect that much of the social framework that works in this, well, God-forsaken world is a legacy of this belief system.
In a week in which the Catholic Church in the United States have stood up to the new Left, with Nancy Pelosi being barred from taking Holy Communion for her views of abortion, The Church of England has predictably folded under questioning and become The Church of Woke.
Calvin Robertson is a contributor to GB News, essentially the British equivalent of FOX News, and going great guns after a poor start. He wishes to be ordained into the Church of England (C of E) as a vicar, but has been refused on the grounds that his political views do not tally with the new order. His mortal sin was to say publicly that Britain is not institutionally racist.
It would be incorrect to say that this pleaseth not the Lord, and more accurate to say that it has ruffled the feathers of a couple of harpies — including the female Bishop of London, if you will — who should not be in the Church to begin with. Like a gentlemen’s club, women should not be admitted to some institutions. They just spoil things and attempt to rearrange the moral furniture — as well as the actual furniture — and have turned the C of E from the church militant into the church malcontent.
The most amusing aspect of this whole and less-than-divine fiasco is that Robinson is half-caste, sporting an Afro that could mean his failure to be ordained (he doesn’t think women should be) may open the door to a leading role in a Four Tops tribute band.
I feel rather sorry for the Lord, looking at his church supposedly built on a rock but actually currently resident on moral marshland. It must gall Him to watch a glitch become a feature.
* * *
Well, that is the state of the nation.
Here’s to the monarchy, and I remain your obedient servant,
The Union Jackal
* * *
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