Islam’s Alcohol Problem

How the Great British tradition of shitfaced at Xmas isn’t good enough for our Muslim friends. 

So what are we going to do about it?

So just how did you do it then? Comatose in front of Love Actually post-Her Madge’s speech? Or propped up in front of the kids with early-doors champers and bucks fizz in hand? Were you reeling by the fireside screaming at your brother-in-law by dinner time? Or slamming a car-door shut at 3 AM, driving off with no idea where you’re going or how you’re going to get there? Whatever your weapon of choice it is of course your prerogative as a native British-person to enjoy the annual yuletide bounty of drunkenness. It is the inalienable right of us all to partake in this traditional custom in spite of all the kowtowing to the wrong headed, liberal minded sensibility-ists who have consistently attempted to desanctify and de-Christianise a formally pagan mid-winter festival which is steeped in the annals of inebriation. Having resided on these here isles for several millennia it is only proper that the indigenous born amongst us should question the motives and intentions of those who wish to subvert this fabulously British of traditions. Sadly there is indeed a faithless constituency who it is clear wish to do just that: to end, entreat and endure us Britishers to rein in our combustible, liquid desires upon this season of Christ’s birth. Of course, quelle surprise, it is the oh-so-righteous Muslim’s – those ethnic persons who are several centuries behind Christ’s call to his flock, and seemingly several eons behind getting their round in. 

As gallivanting hordes of Xmas shoppers made the tour of department stores in medium sized market towns this past week a plucky Muslim-ess behind the counter at M&S apparently refused to serve a customer attempting to purchase a routine festive booze-haul. The press release from M&S sadly says it all re this particular debacle. The food-chain which is the sheer backbone of Middle England decided to give the Mohammedan a lengthy ticking off and a spell in the back-office – thereby averting a good day’s work that would SODDING WELL DO THE WOMAN GOOD. Anyhoo, the public relations crisis averted by the firm versus the capricious clutches of the PC brigade has been averted and they can get back to what they do best – serving an assortment of surreally flavoured “sandwiches” to the nation’s office workers. One rather disturbing thought lingers from this whole affair however and refuses to go away. What if this isn’t a one off? What if - instead of exhibiting the passive separateness that is the hallmark of the Great British Muslimer - what if each and every man jack of them decides to have nothing to do with alcohol from this point forward? Never mind the once yearly Christmas splurge-up – for Christ’s sake every offie and Costcutters in the land will be full of noncompliant hijab wearers refusing our native custom! The very idea of being robbed of a 1 AM fix of a Thursday night by Abu (the nice smiley one) from Bargain Booze sends my skin into a cold sweat. And so if one is to deduce that there is a potential crisis within this most important of all UK service sectors one must also seek solutions. So this is what I propose to do about it. 

Unlike my fellow travellers within the Conservative Party, UKIP and other denizens of right wing thought such as Melanie Phillips I do not propose at all that we should exclude the Muslimers from Britain. These people - impoverished and simple as they generally are - are the very beating heart of menial labour in this country. From collecting scattered rubbish outside of Stockwell tube to cleaning the insides of Number One Canada Square at all hours, where in all honesty would we be without these stoic godfearers? Islamaticists are now a fact of life - they are welcome to stay and live here as long as they live within a few nicely bound, non-egregious rules and regs that may assuage the fears of their countrymen that they are in fact not all crazed knife-wielders ready to lop off the heads of all and sundry. Why then is it so unreasonable to suggest that our fellow citizens of the Muslim persuasion should be allowed to leave their homes only on condition that they are totally intoxicated? For surely if the Muslimists are drunk (every man woman and child) ALL the time, then we can be not only assured that they are adhering to our time-honoured traditions but also that they are merry enough to (to coin a youthful phrase) “chill out” some, and in doing so they will be able to contribute more enjoyably to British national life. It is common knowledge that just two or three generous measures of wine or so makes an individual more agreeable, and as a matter of course it would be all that more fun for us all if this downtrodden minority spends their mostly miserable lives thoroughly plastered. Think of the “bants” that could be had if your local grocer or corner-shop salesperson was pissed 24/7! Daily we are told that the British consume far too much alcohol per capita than is healthy – surely now we can gather together the booze that is surplus to requirements and use it to paper over the cracks in our multi-racial mosaic of national life. By rationing a per-units policy as per each and every Muslimander who resides here we can hope to keep those extremists who wish to destroy us on a tight leash and also keep a smile on the face of us genuinely British, who would dearly love to interact more with these darkly-hewn religious persons but who cannot for the simple reason that they are not shitfaced all day and all night. We need firm leadership in this country. A leadership which (one hopes) Mr Cameron can provide by making compulsory the drunken inebriation of each and every Muslimist when they leave their houses, places of worship, council flats or local haberdasheries and making sure they remain drunk through the course of their working day via regular spot checks and breathalyser samples. Only when we can be sure that these apostates of Christendom and Britishness are pissed can we be certain that they will remain loyal; for as it has been so plainly and wisely observed – a numbed drunken servant is better for Britain than an alert and sober terrorist. 

PRISON WORKS!

How A Sound Approach To Crime And Punishment Means One Man’s Walk To Freedom Meant He Died Having Never Reoffended

The dignified single-fisted salute said it all. After twenty-seven years incarcerated on Robben Island a proud black man emerged into the bright African sunlight: a world historical event that apparently warranted a newsflash (entirely ruining the episode of Antiques Roadshow my mother had dutifully tuned into that Sunday evening.) Sad news emerged last week that said old black man had breathed his last at his home in Johannesburg. Whilst we are right to mourn the passing of any human being it is also correct that we should give extra kudos to this particular ex-offender. For after twenty-three years of freedom this esteemed old black passed away having never reoffended and having never seen the inside of another South African prison.

Now there have been many liberal-minded obituaries to the old black. Many have spoken of his revolutionary zeal against the proudly nationalist government of the day. Others have pointed out the fun-loving showbiz side of this decidedly perky old black - he did after all greet high calibre celebs such as The Spice Girls during his declining years (I imagine the girls were presumably doing some kind of charity gig on behalf of ex-offender charities at the time.) However the only truly insightful pieces of analysis of course come from the legacy of Right Minded insight from former Conservative MPs during the quarter-century period of punishment and rehabilitation of the old black. Lest we forget during the 1980s one leading Right Winger and head of the Monday Club bravely pronounced that the old (then imprisoned) black should be shot. Another of his colleagues stoically said that that the revolutionary group the black was aligned to were guilty of high treason. We can undoubtedly speculate that the deft machinations of firm but fair figures such as Dick Cheney who voted against the U.S Congress’s Comprehensive Anti-Apartheid Act gave the black’s morale some moral sustenance as per his rehabilitation back into society. Also the efforts of our very own PM David “Dave” Cameron should not be forgotten either. After all it was he as a go-getting young entrepreneur who decided of his own free will to make a pound or two on a South African government-sponsored trade junket back in 1989. Surely this desire to better ones self and to make a bob or two must have made the black pull his socks up “damn straight” as they say in the hip-hop world and made him reconsider his perilous position regarding his stance with regards to human rights, dignity and the fair and free treatment of all.

Now I am not suggesting that we should ignore the old black’s violent legacy. Like many of his race he was easily led astray by the whims of boxing, flighty women and profound moral justice. We should however celebrate the international conservative response regarding the efforts to pull the old black into the brotherhood of humanity. When we all cried “TREASON” surely it could only ever have assisted him in his efforts to stay away from the life of crime and dank decrepitude the old black was travelling. That being said one feels it would be churlish to ignore this old black’s efforts at recompense and remorse for his actions. When the powers that be told him to turn a dignified face towards all mankind and bask in the adulation of other such erstwhile villains as Yasser Arafat and Fidel Castro he did so. Likewise when they told him to put on a colourful shirt, attend a few rugby matches and keep on smiling he did so. The very fact that the old black was compos mentis enough to point his head in the right direction during the last world cup surely meant that the Apartheid South African policy of hard labour and short-sharp-shock really paid off in this instance.

As the world gathers around its collected television sets, laptops and ipads during this “in memoriam” bonanza we should perhaps consider the effect that the so-called “liberal” commentariat had on this former offender. The snide brouhaha of messieurs Hain and Skinner entirely eclipsed the worthwhile efforts of those such as Lord Norman Tebbit who adopted a clearly stand-firmish stance on the subject of law and order when relating to our darker brethren. In terms of the sporting embargo against the lawful South African government of the day the work of Lady Thatcher’s ennobled consort Sir Denis Thatcher ensured that a number of sporting test matches went off without a hitch. Indeed in looking at the state of play in Africa in 2013 we can be confident that none of the wishes of this leftish black have come to pass and the world can breathe a sigh of relief for all that. His apparent love of liberty, justice and vibrant colours have razed the fabric of society in southern african climbs down to the ground to the extent that merely to book a BA Business Class flight to Cape Town invites a severe dose of swine flu, AIDS and dengue fever. We can’t of course know what this ageing black’s wishes would be during the final farewell of his ultimately redeemed life. Thankfully we do know that the thoughts and prayers of international conservatives such as George W Bush, Bono and Iain Duncan Smith are with the family at this difficult time. One can only look forward to watching the international spectacle of the funeral and the voices on the all-singing, all-dancing grief-o-ganza on Sky News. Undoubtedly there will be the pronouncements of sanctimonious establishment voices such as Sir David Dimbleby and Moira Stuart but do remember to press the red button for alternative views from the right such as Sir Teddy Taylor and Luis Suarez, for without them we would surely not have been welcome to the life-affirming story of redemption that the legacy of the old black represents and in whose guilt we can truly understand the steadfast, protective clarion call from the right who after all were not to know that a cut-price black lawyer from Jo’burg would turn out to be the greatest statesman of the twentieth century. Cry it loud from the rafters of any home counties hostelry you doth frequent, because he belongs to us as much as he belongs to the assortment of lefties, long-haireds and weirdos who do his legacy such a disservice. And so say all of us! Madiba Lives!

Dear Mr Cameron – now is the time to seize the crack smoking mantle

An open letter to the Prime Minister regarding the necessity of a strong drugs policy prior to the next election

Dear Dave (you don’t mind if I call you Dave do you?) I am writing to you as regards to your perilous poll position with the Tories. Now don’t get me wrong – I’m dyed in the wool true blue Conservative here, fond of canapés and sherry and one-upmanship, but one cannot remain unconcerned by the scurrilous reporting of our loyal journals of note such as The Telegraph and The Spectator who increasingly point out that you yourself are seen as a third-rate estate agent from the home counties flogging a dead horse (i.e the United Kingdom.) Hope is at hand however Dave. You can’t help but gaze out from the joyous Notting Hill soirees you so frequent and not notice that there is one tonic that we of the Right can unite upon. A cutting-edge, thrills and spills pastime that is apparently all the rage amongst those of your natural constituents as well as amongst plenty of those whom your policies are designed – RIGHTfully I might add – to punish. I speak of course of Base. Beemers. Bings. And a good ole Big 8. I dare say you might be a bit out of the loop re street “slang” Dave so let me spell it out for you – I’m talking of the freebase form of cocaine. Crack.  

Now I know you might be a confirmed resident of planet “fuddy-duddy” sitting up there in your ivory tower in Number 10 (put away those old Smiths LPs Dave!) but no doubt you are conscious of the overwhelming groundswell of Great British love for crack at this point in your tenure. From gatherings in garages in Norwood to the upper-echelons enjoying a joke and a smoke amongst the well-heeled and upper-profiled it is clear that crack has a steadfast place in the nation’s heart (and wallets) just at a time when the reforming coalition government of which you are the head is struggling to find a “vision”, a “brand”; in short is failing to show the world that it is just a wee bit Zeitgeisty. Mr Cameron, looking around the state of a despondent education sector, a housing policy up the spout, an NHS on its last legs and rocketing fuel costs it does indeed raise the question: Dave, are you smoking crack? And if not – why not?

Now I do not propose that by indulging in the use of crack Dave that you should make this a daily occurrence. No one wants to witness you monged out of your eyeballs having bade “Harroe!” to a Chinese trade delegation. Or slipping into a paranoid psychosis during PMs Qs. No what I’m suggesting is setting up an opportune (or several) photo-op or clandestine tabloid stings featuring your new-found love of the pipe. Let’s face it it hasn’t exactly done Rob Ford any harm (in fact the Toronto mayor has personal approval ratings way above your own), neither has the Boutros-Boutros Ghali fuelled antics of Nigella shaken her “street-cred” with a Middle England on whose votes you so depend. With pipe in hand (or melted drink can or wrapped tinfoil - whatever’s your poison) and with three-white-one-brown deep in your lungs you have the opportunity to present a newly swivelled-eyed optimism to the world at large for a nation who doesn’t care about the recession or the cost of living as long as there’s Bobo to be had and a burst of euphoria akin to the Royal Mail selloff.

Now in terms of selecting a venue for the proposed use-up. I myself luckily retain a small maisonette south of the river and might be able to help you out. What I am proposing is a cosy Sunday evening get-together - just you, me, your redoubtable companion “Sam-Cam”, my neighbour Hassan who’ll be bringing the “gear” and no infants please (really not suitable; and on the bright side you won’t have to “remember” your daughter following the insatiable ten minutes of pure rock rush. ) All we need is a few choice snaps of you and the missus chasing the proverbial dragon to sneak their way to the red tops (am sure a latter-day Coulson amongst your press corps can arrange this) and - hey presto! – we have a rejuvenated PM with an edgy young image; unafraid to make difficult decisions be it concerning the “bedroom” tax or burning some sweet sweet Paradise White, thereby attaining the kind of incendiary confidence that one can only associate with a Conservative custodian of Downing Street. Think hard Dave. Your country, your party and your social status depends upon it. Let’s go roast some blow “bro!”

With admiration and concern

Rupert Thorncroft 

Calling All Sun Worshippers!

How a Change of State Religion Could Signal a New Way of Life for Britain

Anyone seen the sun lately? These days it seems to barely climb above the horizon, benighting our skies with some half-arsed dance of dimness before setting again. It’s enough to give an honest journo a serious case of SADS. This time of year the spiritual needs of the native Englishman can feel sapped of all vitality and energy; all attempts to find sustenance found wanting. The absence of the church in our cultural life, the rise of dubstep and the veneration of all things Joanna Lumley have seen to it that our nation’s fragile morale and inner-life is dashed upon the rocks of winter. What are our options? As a young man I have to say my interest was piqued by the call of Christianity, however unlike my fellow travellers Charles Moore and Jonathan Aiken I can’t say I ever really took to it. Aside from my Primary School teachers attempting to interest a young Thorncroft in the joys of Sunday School, and a spell with the Alpha Course brethren (during which I was thrown out for the unsubstantiated claim of “inappropriate touching”) I never took up the baton of the C of E, largely because I found the whole thing somewhat wanting. Let’s face it – Jesus was a scruffy man of distinctly foreign (i.e Semitic) origins. And on reading some of his diatribes contra the status quo one can read a certain pinkish hue as to the man’s hectoring and politics. Take the “Sermon” On The Mount for instance. “Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth?” Sounds like something one might read in a Tony Benn pamphlet of the mid-seventies. And as for spiritual strength . . . I well remember a long dark night of the soul or several following William Hague’s disastrous baseball-capped appearance at the Notting Hill Carnival in 1997, searching the gospels for something, anything to attach my hopes. Whilst I did find Mr Christ’s admirable stand against the tax collectors in the temple to be of exemplary political principal there was little this apparent “messiah” had to say regarding tax-breaks for married couples and middle income earners and as such his whole “message” left me cold. For this young(ish) Conservative as for the nation there is a vacancy in our spiritual life. One which I believe can be filled by a surrogate deity whose shining face has been staring at us all along.

The sun is an immensely popular star whose thermonuclear combustions have been delighting individuals and families for centuries.  Indeed it is hard to imagine life without the dear old thing hanging orb-like in the sky, even – it really must be said – when its efforts are often found sadly wanting during the winter months. Imagine my surprise when in researching the “God” subject I discovered that many ancient civilisations worshipped the sun as a matter of course. Having recently viewed the great international right-wing filmmaker Mel Gibson’s opus “Apocalypto” in 3D at my local Imax I found many laudable features of the sun-worshipping Mayan civilisation’s society to my taste, especially as regards to their robust approach to law and order. With the sun installed at the centre of our religious and spiritual life one feels that the British may well regain some much needed chutzpah (to coin an ancient Jewish phrase) and put some fire in the loins of those of us who pine for the spiritual life and yet who would much rather worship their almighty at a two-week package resort in Torremolinos as opposed to a dusty pew full of wrinkle-seated maiden aunts.

On gazing at the sun (and do please gaze why don’t you. Full in the face. For upwards of two minutes) one can find more and more qualities as which to recommend it as a potential God and spiritual benefactor. Look at it: not for the sun the camp foppery of a Red Giant star, or the equal-opportunities seeking status of a White Dwarf. No. The sun is a common or garden main sequence star in an outer spiral arm of the Milky Way galaxy. It is not pushing ahead; neither is it loitering behind. The planets orbit it; it does not orbit (or pander) to the planets. Neither does it seek our approval – for every good harvest or hot sunny day on the South Downs there is the sadness of an ice age, The El Nino Effect or a mass extinction. If the sun was a human being one can imagine his name would be Rob an account manager from St Albans who has Eric Clapton on his itunes and a Ford Focus in the garage, who likes his two weeks in Florida every year with the wife and kids but who thinks the E.U’s gone too bloody far this time. Indeed on examining the breathtaking images from the Hubble Space Telescope of our parent star, with its heliosphere expelling trillions of neutrinos into the solar system giving possibility to life within its warm embrace one cannot but stop for a second and reflect on just how satisfyingly Middle England our star truly is.

In the run up to “Christmas” perhaps the detractors of the Christian volition might find some such succour as to pull us in and give the church one last go. Maybe they have a point . . . maybe the Christian perfume of incense, frankincense and sensitivity will give some hope to the humble, the poor, the idealistic and the just plain hopeless. For us who are of the hard-minded and poker-faced mindset we know which way our bread’s buttered. We know who rules the roost. We know we’d rather settle for a five billion year old nuclear reactor of hydrogen and helium than the pacifistic rantings of some old Jew in a caftan. And so I say unto you - and so say all of us - ALL HAIL SOL!   

50 Years On: Why Did The Gays Kill Kennedy?

How a cabal of feisty homosexuals slaughtered America’s Camelot

It was six seconds that ruptured the American century. Shots ringing out in Dealey Plaza struck dead the youthful leader of the United States during the nascent dawn of that so-called “optimistic” decade the 1960s. This Friday the world will pause a moment or two and ask fleeting, mourn-filled questions to this blank spectre of history. The years since November 1963 have been consumed with convoluted conspiracy theories spread via the mental machinations of young men in darkened bedrooms and internet message boards whilst investigators have slowly but surely eked out the truth from within the stubborn apparatus of the American state. It is now a historical truth that it was a group of “gay rights” supporting homosexual activists who ended the bright young hope of the United States. The only questions that remain are why? And how?

John Kennedy’s entry into The White House in 1961 spelt a new era of glitz, style and ambition in the executive branch of the United States government. The contrast between the class of JFK and his glamour puss of a socialite wife was in stark contrast to the dark path America was increasingly finding itself treading with hippies, Woodstock, Watergate and the Civil Rights Act just around the corner. As Kennedy’s charisma enthused the US a pack of seedy ne’er-do-wells assembled themselves in New Orleans. Thanks to Jim Garrison the then District Attorney of “The Big Easy” - who as early as 1966 identified the Kennedy assassination as bearing the typical hallmarks of a “homosexual thrill kill” - we now know that erstwhile Communist defector and prototypical “twink” Lee Harvey Oswald hung around the rough trade haunts of Bourbon Street alongside other conspirators such as Jewish bad boy Jack Ruby, limp-wristed industrialist Clay Shaw and butch army helicopter pilot David Ferrie. All of the members of this manage of mincers were of course later unmasked as members of an American Intelligence establishment headed by that infamous transvestite and drug fiend J. Edgar Hoover. One can only imagine the camp conjecture and flouncing thuggery that took place in smoke filled bars and insalubrious “rest rooms” as these gays plotted to end the life of this most mythic of American Presidents:

“Do you DP? I’m a butch john.”

“Let’s kill Kennedy - it would be OMG TOTES historiclicious.” 

“Are you hung? I’m a nasty bottom.”

“ohmygod did you SEE what “she” did at The Bay of Pigs? What a bitch.”

“I went to a Catholic boy’s school - talk dirty to me.”

“Sweetheart, I can’t even find heels that fit me - let alone access to a high velocity rifle and an empty office building.”

The perverted motivation behind such dastardly behaviour is multifaceted and problematic to any student of history of this period seeing as we are forced to peer through the hall of mirrors of Hoover’s intelligence network. One can deduce that gays such as Oswald were deeply distrustful of Kennedy’s womanising ways and soooooooo jealous of Jacqueline’s shoes, hats and fabulousness. They too would have been irked by the President’s refusal to point the thrusting phallic American nuclear artillery eastwards and penetrate the Soviet Bloc hard, deep and with their pants down. Lastly and decisively it was Kennedy’s decision to end the Vietnam war during his second term of office that would have meant the end to all those flamboyant parades full of nice young men in uniform which for these far-right homos could mean only one thing - Kennedy had to go so that stern Texan “mack daddy” Lyndon Johnson could take over and turn The White House into The Brown House once and for all.   

Proof a roll-playing gay killed the President

During the 1970s technology and the passing of time meant that it was more plausible to reconstruct the physical circumstances of the shooting, piecing together photographic and phonographic evidence from a welter of sources. The analysis of Mary Moorman’s photograph taken at the moment Kennedy was killed indicated that the fatal shot was fired not from behind the Presidential motorcade, but in front on a woody hillock known as the “Grassy Knoll.” In contrast to Oswald’s rear entry from the Book Depository the knoll was the perfect shrub-land for clandestine gay “cruising” and the analysis of the Moorman photograph clearly shows a man in police uniform firing at the President - this fetishistic costume of course would later become highly popular amongst that ring of San Francisco perverts The Village People a decade later, forever cementing disco’s association with America’s darkest hour. After all - what could be more thrilling in rounding off a role-playing gay tryst with the brutal murder of the leader of the free world? Oswald was later himself killed by Ruby two days later in a catty “uh-uh not on my watch girlfriend” move, one supposes because Ruby wasn’t invited to the post-assassination brunch (and Oswald probably always thought he was fat anyway.)

A Village Person

As America (and the world) reflects on what happened and what could have been this week, the incredibly bitchy atrocity that we reflect upon is not merely the loss of this young, brave, virile leader who sits astride history like a silent colossus on an erect Washington Monument, but also the fact that the very perverse sub-grouping that murdered this great straight man now effectively “owns” the well oiled seat of government in Washington DC and dominates the political life of the world’s only remaining super power. Under Barack Obama’s leadership the gays have monopolised American power in a way not seen since the similarly kinky Borgias. In a blink of a cultural eye the gays of America have won civil rights, military service, incandescent amounts of lame and pink suede and now “gay marriage”, whilst all the while tap-dancing on the grave of America’s most vehemently heterosexual leader, a man whose legacy and achievements have well and truly been taken up the jacksy of history. For the gays did not simply kill the thirty-fifth President of the United States that Friday afternoon, they killed – and continue to kill – our hope for a better world.      

Bestiality, Intrigue and Claret

How the secrets of this aristocratic family leads one to ask:

Was Harold Macmillan’s Grandmother a Beagle?

Ah . . . Downton! Very much the “Ah . . . Bisto!” of today is it not? That simple, homespun and spruce word that signals the end of seven days of toil amongst the snivelling slum dwellers of the capital, as one places feet up on the chaise longue and contemplates yet another week setting the world to rights and Britain to the Right. In these deeply divisive times the nation congregates pon on a Sunday eve to celebrate the greatest example of our heritage: The Late-Lamented Aristocracy and the centuries in which it was quite right and proper to shoot an errant gamekeeper for snaring one too many rabbits during winter. At least we live in the knowledge that two-thirds of MPs in the present coalition government were educated privately and thus inhabit the sense of self-confidence and acumen that one can only find in those who are of the elite. With this restored pride in the virtues of our past the Downton Phenomenon has led many to investigate the ins and outs and intrigue of that long bygone upstairs-downstairs world; a world of solid backbone, short sharp shock, damn good seeings to and buggery. A glimpse into a particularly private noble family of lairds however asks a great too many questions – some of them unwelcome. This family being the Hoose of Macmillan whose progeny has included not merely Macmillan Publishing but also the sixty-fifth Prime Minister of Great Britain, Sir Harold Macmillan.

These days The First Earl of Stockton, Harold Macmillan is a little recalled and less lamented figure in our national life. His tenure is remembered – if it is remembered for anything – for the carving up of the greatest civilising force for good that man has ever seen (The British Empire) and a stagnant era of economic protectionism that bridged the era of plus-fours and VE Day to “pot” smoking, casual hook-ups and Rock Against Racism. Through it all “Super Mac” was there, waving a seemingly benevolent hand as the barbarians at the gate utilised a great big strap-on of drugs, cocktail parties, humanities degrees and smiling on all our Great British behinds. The reasons for this? Well I like many other conservative historians have drawn my own conclusions. The stifling atmosphere of the “post-war settlement” and the idealisation of something, anything for free is often cited as the driving force behind Macmillan’s stewardship of the Conservative Party at the expense of the great intellectual and patriot Enoch Powell. The real answer however might well be a great deal more carnal . . . and a lot more tawdry . . . you see Macmillan’s submission to the spectre of darkness could well be as a result of a certain, natural inclination. For having undertaken thorough research I believe that this abject surrender of Britain’s interests during this critical period was born not out of young Harold’s nurture amongst the dreaming spires of Eton and Oxford, but out of a deep abiding nature that included interaction (and breeding) with a certain foreign species. 

The beagle is a deeply valued member of the pantheon of Great British pets. Their docile, passive, obedient nature is a comfort to the lonely and a great give away as to the origins of this particular custodian of Number Ten. Their watery eyes of self-depreciation are a mirror as to Macmillan’s lineage - his paternal grandfather originated from a band of hardy Scottish crofters for whom the beagle was a way of life. In spite of Harold’s desire to appear as part of the elite it appears as if the Macmillan’s were relative arrivistes to nobility. On his mother’s side a decidedly foreign sphere of influence is evident. Macmillan’s mother was – sadly – of the American disposition. Her insistence that the young Harold should receive daily French tuition in his youth should have raised alarm bells at the Court of St James, however Macmillan was allowed to penetrate the corridors of power during World War Two rising to the status of trusted aide-de-camp to Churchill, all the time his moistening teary eyeballs seeming to urge on defeat and dance on the grave of an empire that his family had so benefited from. It was well known amongst the liberal minded intelligentsia of the day that the Macmillan's used Beagles to hunt for hare on their Scottish estates. Such as the plotlines of Downton Abbey there remains a sense of the unsaid in the Macmillan family background. The looks, manner and aptitude of the male members of the clan speak a great deal as to their allegiances, and indeed their far-flung Scottish ways. The auld traditions – inherited from ancient celtic days of yore – permeated every event of the season. Whether it have been midsummer by the craggy gorge, or eventide on the heath the Macmillan’s, headed by their doughty Victorian patriarch Daniel Macmillan undoubtedly indulged in the worship of hunting and everything it represented – the beagle being at the utmost of their Caledonian ardour – which would culminate in full-blown sexual congress betwixt man and beast in the wee bairn under the full-moon, or bae the brook as comely Scotch maidens indulged in pagan chanting and rhythmic clapping (think a more obscene version of The Wicker Man and you’re nearly there.) In secret correspondence to his housekeeper Doris, Daniel himself boasted that he’d “seen right way with the wee hoond like” and that “she’s with bairn noo. Fine Maccie-Beagle cross that lad will be.” The grotesque creature that he was referring to? Well if the dates correspond he can only have been referring to none other than Artie Tarleton Belles whose own son would eventually become Prime Minister in 1957.

Whilst happy accidents of eugenics amongst the elite of the tribe of Macmillan are more than evident it is worth recounting the innocent victims amongst the common populace of such bestial copulation. The product of deformed animalistic offspring could regularly be viewed roaming amidst the northern hills of the Isle of Arran well into the twentieth century, as the House of Macmillan consolidated its position in public life by founding the publishing company that still bears the family name. And can it really be a coincidence that Panmacmillan should have chosen to publish the Soldier Dog series for young people? Thereby commemorating Harold’s service in World War One alongside the secret that lies hidden within this ancient Scottish clan.

Whilst we all sit down as a nation and enjoy Downton Abbey this winter for my mind it is worth noting in retrospect that the approval of the beagle and its doe-eyed simplicity has had a widespread effect on our national life. This splicing of another species with the head of government I believe reflected the passing of the generations in tragic-comic form with the downfall of Britain during the 1960s and was reflected in the contrast between the brief soliloquy Margaret Thatcher performed in 1987 for this lapdog of a PM with the seven and a half hour raucous Triumph of Her Will when Lady Thatcher finally passed earlier this year. In the character, ambition and dynamism between the two the contrast could not be higher. Because after all Thatcherite gundogs will always defeat the puppy-like hangdog meanderings of Mr Macmillan as long as there’s a Britain worth fighting for and as long as we don’t possess a Prime Minister who shares 25% of his DNA with a medium size bloodhound.            

    

Love in the Time of Controversy

The Grand Romance taking place amongst the denizens of the Fourth Estate

Why have we turned our backs on love? This time of year there is no more beautiful place than Britain. As aged leaves wither on old English oak, Keats’s season of mist and mellow fruitfulness is upon us and elderly Sunday Telegraph readers yell at their long suffering wives over tepid tea and the cryptic crossword, thoughts invariably fall like leaves from the tree of romance, love and the dark embrace of the winter that is to come. Unexpectedly, quite wonderfully there is a love story being played out in the midst of the most hyped trial of our times. Eight honorable persons of the journalistic profession find themselves cruelly maligned at the Old Bailey, the highest court in the land. Their crime? Merely doing an honest days work with the tools at their disposal. Their rewards? Well, a packet-load of mullah from the well oiled hands of Mr Murdoch which is most certainly a certifiable offence if the communists in charge of the assault on free speech are to be believed. The result? Well, that is a bit unexpected . . . and a tad bit wonderful. You see whilst we the British have consistently turned our backs on the fruits of love and romance since the post-sixties slide into degeneration and deviancy, a very real love story is being played out in Court Twelve of the Old Bailey. The romance of the rich and powerful and the downright good. I speak of none other than the love affair between Mr Andy Coulson and Ms Rebekah Brooks. 

I must admit that times in this trade can often wear me down like a decrepit dachshund missing its masters leg. I feel the fatigue of this great nation as we spiral down yet further into a maxed-out credit account of poor policy, worse planning, benefits for the needy and abject gayness. Why not then celebrate what is beautiful, tantalising and pure when it concerns the great and the good from our intellectual intelligentsia? The “revelation” last week that Ms Brooks and Mr Coulson experienced a transcendent love affair lasting at least six years should have come as a welcome rosy glow of sunshine to all those who hope and believe in a better Britain. That such talented journalists and fecund minds should have met eyeball to eyeball over a photocopier or some such office device, planned out weekend trips to Paris or brunches in Battersea gastropubs via Blackberry Messenger; made love, sweet sweet love as the voicemails of such “luminaries” as Hugh Grant or a missing thirteen year old schoolgirl were mined for all they were worth (albeit totally and utterly legally I might add), should this not fill our hearts and minds with the abiding presence of romantic bliss in all our lives? If Coulson and Brooks are capable of such passion and emotion who can say we are not all capable of such carnal and completed love? It is a mystery to me why those on the side of the right in public life refuse to play this angle as regards to “the story” - Andy and Rebekah are roll models for crying out loud! They met and fell happily and faithfully in love whilst fighting the forces of collectivised socialism that Blair and his ilk imposed upon us. What’s not to love?! Sadly the “conversation” regarding the “phone hacking” trial has largely revolved around who-did-what-and-with-whom and did it invade the privacy of private (and highly vulnerable) citizens. This is a shame, albeit one that could only have been expected coming from the convoluted pit of public discourse that has emerged in this country since The Beatles, Harold Wilson, Twiggy and Ken Dodd told us that love was a thing to be laughed at; that it was a “trick” designed by “squares.” That instead of love we should all of us - man, woman and child - resign ourselves to lives spent strung out on acid and masturbating to Top Of The Pops. I ask you gentle reader - for the sake of all that is right and hopeful and old fashionably romantic to reject this cold cynicism. Believe in love! Believe in Andy and Rebekah! Give hope to the NOTW Two! For if we turn our backs on this pair of star-crossed media executives who may or may not have hacked the phone of a murdered teenager we are truly giving in to our worst fears - especially regarding the nature of the ginger community that Ms Brooks is a part of. 

In my darkest moments - waking as I often do, heart pounding at 4 AM to check my Twitter feed, I fear for the worst. I fear for them . . . the darlings. Whilst hoping beyond hope that the Great British public will give love a chance. As the trial goes on and more skeletons are unmasked can we at least not listen to our heartbeats and sense the love between this pair of cutesters? I know I for one (blissful romantic as I may well be) am looking forward to hearing more excerpts from love letters exchanged; more details of Valentines gifts from Ann Summers given. Words can not truly express the magic, the chemistry, the utter love and connection between these two so I will let music do the talking. A.C, Beks - this one’s for you. 

Private Pouting or Public Interest?

De Piero, Mensch and the stain of the Leveson Enquiry 

Picture if you will the summer of 1987: a nubile young socialist of humble, foreign origins wonders into a Soho “glamour” studio, her heart pounding. The seedy backdrop of the side-street sex lair cannot deter her: she is in sharp need of funds to subsidise her daily intake of CND badges, “ganga” weed and Billy Bragg LPs. Her lips quiver with uncertainty – Should she? Shouldn’t she? Teenage breastlings heave with uncertainty and exposed lust. A strange man with a thin moustache proffers a clasp of crisp tenners; camera and celluloid clicks and whirls, voices chime in the darkness of the underworld . . . a skinny transvestite pole-dances to the sound of the Pet Shop Boys . . . and a young girls wholesomeness is cruelly stolen.

Fast forward to 2013. The media landscape has been sapped of its vivacity and objectivity by the stifling restrictions imposed by the findings of the Leveson Report. I have found my working life as a jobbing investigative journalist concerned with the fight for opportunities, wealth creation and cracking down on those who simply cannot cope has been made almost unbearable by the statutory demands to kowtow to the political elites and the vested interests of those who seek to control us. Imagine my excitement a week last Friday when news arrived that photographs of the Labour MP for Ashfield Gloria De Piero had emerged with her posing in certain vulnerable positions. Considering the right honourable lady’s position in public life – employed after all as she is as a servant of the people - I felt it only proper to make inquiries as to the whereabouts of aforementioned photographs. Calls to News International and the BBC proved fruitless. I must admit that with the sea-change in public policy vis-a-vis investigative journalism I suspected finding the underage, albeit apparently consensual erotic images taken of De Piero in the eighties would prove challenging if not impossible and so it proved. My efforts at exposing the darkened underbelly of leftist mammaries was shaken by a robust defence by a very unexpected source – the former Tory MP, “chick-lit” novelist and media personality Louise Mensch (nee Bagshawe.)

At a time when there should be in my view a great converging on the side of the Right and mighty in British public life I have been very much confused regarding the pronouncements of Ms Mensch from across the Atlantic. Her approving of De Piero and her antics during the Labour MP’s wilder and younger years is protective and strangely compelling. We can’t help but think of a stern secondary school mistress chastising us for our daring in exposing the cheeky peaks of Ms De Piero to a mass audience. Since taking part in the Commons Select Committee questioning of Rupert and James Murdoch Mensch has emerged as an outspoken ideologue in the defence of the individual. Fair enough say I. It would be foolish (albeit somewhat thrilling) to challenge the forceful Ms Mensch on a point of order. Her surprising protection of a fellow she-person – indeed one with very different political leanings – is hugely frustrating for an honest hack such as moi whose only motivation is to inform and entertain the public whilst earning a few quid in the process. That being said I am reticent to criticise the actions of a hero of the British Right whose clipped, pointed tones are a more than welcome contribution to the national debate on press freedoms in spite of them being broadcast from a foreign country that I understand she is seeking citizenship of. And to all those sneering latte-sipping Guardianistas let me just reiterate that Louise Mensch is not at all A VAPID NONENTITY WHO COULDN’T EVEN HACK A FULL TERM AS A BACKBENCH MP AND NOW USES SOCIAL MEDIA AS A PLATFORM FOR HER UNINTELLIGIBLE VIEWS THAT NO ONE SHOULD GIVE THE TIME OF DAY TO. Glad I got that off my chest! No, in spite of me being pipped to the post in terms of the De Piero snaps I am hopeful that this episode marks a new era of non-partisan female bonding. The girlishly naive De Piero, now chastised by her sound seeing to by the national press can at least rely on the whip hand of the more experienced Ms Mensch whose comfort and support, not to mention potential hair-stroking and hand-holding she will always be able to turn to in times of need. This is compassionate conservatism Labour voters must be exposed to – the power of the dominant Mensch over the supple, vulnerable, blissfully feminine Gloria De Piero, as Mensch herself delivers blow after blow to easily led Fleet Street males whose careers are being hurt harder and harder. And harder. And harder still. And more. And yet more . . . by the delectable Miss Louise’s riding crop of public standards and her stiletto heels of sanity. My fellow journalists, Louise Mensch has given us all our marching orders – NOW ASSUME THE POSITION!      

Does Pat Sharpe Want Your kids To Commit Incest?

The Threat of the “Fun House”

In the late 1980s myself and many of my Young Conservative peers rushed home from school emboldened by an era of Thatcher, privatisation and Bros to eagerly switch on our TVs for the latest offerings from the media starlets of that era. A particular fancy caught my delight as it did others. I am speaking of course of ITV’s fun loving game-show “Fun House” which was such a mainstay of all our childhoods. I well remember the first time I encountered The Fun House and its own janitor of lunacy, the ubiquitous Pat Sharpe. A cacophony of upbeat house music assaulted the senses entirely distracting me from the Findus Crispy Pancake my mother had lovingly prepared. Sharpe duly bounded on set, his highly coffered mane bouncing back and forth between each and every deep bass-line in the manner of other such stars of the time such as Public Enemy or Coolio. Once enthralled by the obscene level of sensory input Thatcher’s Children were apparently meant to endure a set composed of dayglow and infamy which was clearly inspired by the Acid House “raves” that were so popular in the outer reaches of the M25 back then. The “fun house” may well be long gone but the long shadow it casts over our culture and my generation’s mindset looms large and serves not only as a footnote to our past but a warning as to our future.

Once seduced by the bombardment on the senses by Sharpe’s carnival of villainy the viewer was supposed to sit down and concentrate on this “family” entertainment. Each “team” consisted of a girl and a boy selected from normal common or garden state schools throughout the land. In retrospect the signals were there for all to see. Each and every impressionably child-on-the-street youngster was ushered into a world of hedonistic cruelty by the much mulletted Sharpe and his pair of able sidekicks – the “twins” Melanie and Martina Grant. The kiddies in question (and believe you me gentle reader I did not envy them of their fifteen minutes) were soon enough sedated by the bombast of quick-witted humour, psychedelic fabrics and anarcho-socialist politics that polluted the senses like rats in the sewer. In this way the “fun house” served as a counterpoint to the solidly heroic, family-values friendly and utterly ace kid’s game-show Knightmare which transmitted during a similar period. All of a sudden British children under the age of twelve who happened to be viewing ITV for twenty-five minutes on a weekday evening were meant to believe that life was a game, that drugs were cool, that twin sisters living in sin were something to aspire to and emulate, and that in the words of THAT anthemic theme song it was “a real crazy show/ Where anything can go.”

Is this the kind of future Sharpe
wants for your children?

The fun house ceased transmission in 1999. In truth the New Labour government’s authoritarian politics signalled the end for Sharpe and his live-wire broadside to the status quo. However during this internet era we are daily reminded of the lasting effects of “the fun house” and everything it continues to represent. Peruse, if you will, the video embedded below:

Are these the actions of a man who loves Britain? One can only shudder at the idea of Sharpe leading the troops storming the Normandy beachheads during D-Day clad in such vivacious attire. Indeed the whole parade as demonstrated above can only mean one message is permitted: That Britain should surrender and that everything we hold dear should be laid down at the behest of our Nazi Overlords. It is a tragedy of Quisling proportions. But what of “the twins” in all this? I know for my part their continued pouts and machinations only ever fuelled the sexual development of a certain South London schoolboy circa 1991. Their close abiding warmth and tactility chimed with the growing “gay” rights movement and “women’s lib” demos that clogged our streets and thoroughfares during the twilight of the Thatcher dawn. The clear signs of physical “involvement” were there for all to see (and I know I for one responded as I was meant to as a healthy growing youngster back then.) By propagating the filth implied by each blonde and demure lady-sibling caressing the other, weren't the TV execs in charge in effect saying all of this is okay? I know for a fact the next item on the agenda of the Polly Toynbee’s of this world - so encouraged by the success of their “gay” marriage crusade - is incestual civil rights. The members of the Guardian Trust can think of nothing better than cheering along a parade of surely damned brother-sister couplings and their deformed offspring along Old Compton Street during a sunny day in July. And that is what is so dangerous for us as a nation and a culture when we choose to ignore a danger such as Sharpe and the “fun house” that he chose to popularise during those crucial years of culture war turmoil. For my mind Britain can’t be “a real crazy show/ Where anything can go” it can’t be a “quiz and a race/ A real wacky place” you can’t “use your body and your brain/ If you wanna play the game.”  And if you do? Well the never-ending parade of teenage abortions and teacher strikes and campaigns against Free Schools tell their own tale. But what of Sharpe himself? So depressed by the success of the conservative fight-back against the evil he chose to purport he now lives a sad ghostly existence on daytime radio, sinking further and further back into a pitiable pit of his own malevolence in a bedsit in North London with nothing but his past glories and late night Noam Chomsky podcasts to keep him company. As he reaches for his next fix of internet pornography or crystal meth does he feel pity? Or does he feel anything at all? Or rather does he face the abyss of liberal minded despair that transpired to transform this country’s streets into no-go areas of gang violence and Greenpeace activity? As we as a nation rally and recover in the time of Cameron and Osbourne can at least take crumb comfort that Pat’s “house” is not so fun anymore; no it is not fun at all!