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.