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! 

Tommy Robinson & The One Show

A Match Made in England?

The British Right has suffered a confusing week with the confirmation last Tuesday that Stephen Yaxley-Lennon (better known by the “footie” hooligan inspired alias of Tommy Robinson) is standing down as leader from the outspoken group of English patriots and body-building enthusiasts The English Defence League (EDL). For the past four years the EDL has been a welcome breath of fresh air, shaking up an intrinsically dour part of the political spectrum where the likes of Simon Heffer are treated as extravagant rock stars and John Redwood receives Conservative Future lady-wear through the post (so I’m told by a VERY reliable source.) Amidst all this dusty, port-quaffing mediocrity Robinson has blazed a trail for himself and his vanguard of shell-suit clad loyalists inviting comparisons to his predecessor, the deeply misunderstood Sir Oswald Mosley. However instead of us on the Right despairing of Robinson’s desertion of the EDL in our hour of need as the rights of the white British male to tuck in to a chicken tikka masala and a Kingfisher beer without fear of being publically beheaded are under threat, perhaps we should see this as his opportunity to enter the “mainstream” of media discourse. No doubt the self-appointed arbiters of the nation’s taste at the BBC, The Guardian and Mumsnet are lining up to co-opt this exciting new voice into their sycophantic metropolitan worldview. Indeed I am of the opinion that a perfect opportunity has opened up for Robinson to take his place in the nation’s hearts and living-rooms and to spread his vision of a green and pleasant and totally and utterly non-violent land to a primetime audience.

In these times of austerity, gloom, Bulgarians and gay marriage nothing has lifted my heart more than the BBC’s frequently interesting magazine program “The One Show.” The winning combination of light-hearted interviews, pretty lady sub-presenters and a stern, firm but fair approach to the art of dog handling has been a welcome beam of Middle England sunshine amidst the fetid dung heap of communistic perversion which passes for public sector broadcasting these days. For my money the joys of laughing at a bored Usain Bolt whilst eagerly looking forward to a segment on unnecessary road-signage (almost) justifies the BBC’s extravagant licence fee and removes the need to pay the Sky subscription for the “pleasure” of watching never-ending American drama serials that I don’t understand. The only thing that has bothered me about the show is the lack of a strong, dominant male presence alongside the girl-next-door cheekiness of the girl Jones. And that I feel is where the inimitable Mr Robinson might just come in handy. The commissioning editors over at W12 can hardly overlook the fact that their Rolls Royce is missing an able MALE in the driver’s seat after all. The lad Baker reeks of Blue Peter and sticky-back plastic, and according to his Wikipedia page originally trained as a physiotherapist (an aspersion if ever there was one.) Chris Evans is of course a Labour supporter. And whilst Adrian Chiles has been the only one with any staying power his dreary West Midlander vowels swooping like bloated pigeons turned off the “yummy mummies” of those hard to reach shire towns for whom letting the kids watch TV during dinner is akin to glue sniffing and bondage. Also have you ever noticed how all his facial features are compressed into a miniscule area at the centre of his face? With Robinson onboard The One Show would have the potential to stay keen to its “Light Ent” roots whilst projecting an abiding Anglo-centric pride in the inherent Greatness of Britain. The sheer uninhibited delight of watching Tommo start the show by pinching an asking-for-it Alex Jones on the bottom before introducing segments on West End musicals, timeshare villas and dry-rot would send a shiver of delight down all our collected Great British backbones whilst reminding us that we are a tolerant and inclusive nation, welcoming of all (including Muslims) AS LONG AS THEY JOLLY WELL BEHAVE.

Will the BBC relent and pass the baton to our nation’s up-and-coming young leader? It is doubtful sadly. The bloated, publically-funded corporation hardly has the finger of the pulse on creativity these days – that mantle passed to Desmond over at Channel Five yonks ago – no, the Left-wing mandarins would run in fear of our nation’s housewives tuning in to Robinson’s love of country, liberty and extreme masculinity for an hour each evening from Monday to Thursday. Instead we are likely to soldier on with a series of increasingly limp-wristed and couscous eating lady men, thereby enshrining the BBC’s commitment to the utter emasculation and eventual annihilation of men and ensuring the victory of the radical feminist mindset which is at the heart of everything they espouse. More fool them say I. We on the Right know exactly what we have on our hands here – a contemporary Richard the Lionheart, Great British hero and former sunbed salesman from Luton who will stop at nothing to defend the country he holds so dear. There is a chair awaiting you at The Great Debate Mr Robinson. I’m sure you will not let us down. In this commentator’s view The EDL’s loss is Britain’s gain.

(P.S - as an addendum to this article, Tommo if you’re reading this I would like to discuss representation and agenting rights concerning your soon to be illustrious media career. I’ve done wonders for John Terry and I can do the same for you. Think about it.)             

Cleopatra and the Urban Youth Crime Menace

Did this hip-hop combo create an environment for evil to thrive?

Inner-city Britain, 2013: A line of pregnant single mothers queue for benefits, the latest barrage of “tunes” flooding out of their state subsidised ipod shuffles. Young ethnic street toughs brawl in disused garage forecourts. Older kids tease younger kids by sticking their fingers in their ears and yelling “nah-nah-NI-nah-nah” before running away. A nightmare? No this is merely Modern Britain 2013, a country as far removed from sanity as Chipping Sodbury is from the surface of the moon. At times like this it is right for the likes of you and I to question what led us here and who is responsible. The international financial crisis? The rising tide of drugs and pornography on our street corners? Hazel Blears? No. The answers to our country’s ills as to so many others can be firmly placed at the start of the Blair era and laid at the door of a gangsta rap girl group who sowed the seeds of our great cities destruction.

Cast your mind back to that “golden” spring of 1997. A fresh-faced “New” Labour leader in Number 10, “Blair’s babes” and a fascist feminist femi-nazi agenda firmly installed in government with free contraception for all and abortion at the touch of a button. In the Mancunian  ghetto of Moss Side three young ladies of the black persuasion disregard their wise mama’s request to turn down the radio and crack on with some homework. Tragically they ignore her. No, these feisty “sistas” care not for classical algebra or Thomas Hardy for they are on a collision course with the gang lifestyle and the drug peril it represents. They are Cleopatra and they are “Comin’ Atcha” (sic.)

Regard if you will the video embedded above. Baggy jeans jiggle over ample black hides. The threatening vivaciousness of dusky-hewn beauty and sexuality masks an anarchic creed they profess to glorify. If any of you have ever had recourse to defend yourself against an urban mugger (say at 2 AM on a wet night on Clapham Common) then you will find their terror tactics all too familiar. These exotic young women are “Comin’ Atcha” for all you possess – your wallet, your Rolex, your M&S loyalty card, and perhaps most damagingly of all your sense of decency and traditional British values. Shorn of all morality the girls adopt their gangsta “namez” of Cleo, Zainam and Yonah whilst disregarding the gentle hand of British hospitality their parents were offered when they arrived here on HMS Windrush. Unlike their American contemporaries Snoop Doggy Dogg, the white “rapper” Eminem and Dr Dre (not actually a qualified medical doctor) these girls offered a potpourri of feminist ideology, casual violence and brazen ethnic sexuality to a youthful nation already drunk on a heady cocktail of Blairite socialism and “anything goes” social engineering. Cleopatra themselves disappeared after a relatively brief stay in the limelight, no doubt drowning in a toxic sea of drugs, benefits handouts and KFC. Their vengeful legacy they bequeathed to the nation however remains and was defined by the shameful violence that erupted on the streets of London in the summer of 2011. A mere decade and a half on from Cleopatra’s coquettish fifteen minutes of infamy their successors amongst the female gangsta fraternity now are known to regularly stab their own mothers’ eyes out with scissors before falling back unconscious into a pool of their own vomit, as those of us who weep for our nation - a Britannia raped and desecrated and lying on the funeral pyre - can only look back and rue the day we were taken in by these girls and their siren song of hate. They were Cleopatra. They were “Comin ‘Atcha.” And they came and took everything we hold dear.