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.