Category: Blog

Driving home from France yesterday, I stopped for a long and boozy lunch at a lovely medieval town called Laon. Along with a glorious cathedral, it boasts a tattooing and piercing parlour at every corner and a hairstyling salon called ‘Blond Shag’.

It’s good to see that the English ethos and language are making inroads into the very heart of the EU. Makes one feel at home, that, Brexit or no Brexit.

And speaking of Brexit, Jean-Claude Juncker, ‘Junk’ to his friends, is getting a lot of bad press these days – mostly because of his demanding a modest exit fee from Britain.

People call him intransigent, fanatical, greedy, alcoholic and many other things that can’t be mentioned in a public medium accessible to children. This is most unfair, especially since Junk always runs his list of demands by me before making it public.

This morning, for example, he sent me the most recent list he compiled last night, or rather at five in the morning, when Junk had just got home after a most profitable time out with friends. Apparently, Junk had bet them €100 that he could drink a yard of whisky – and won.

(For the benefit of those of you who haven’t lived, a yard is measured out on the bar and full shot glasses are set all along the line. The bettor then empties them in turn, going from left to right without stopping.)

Appropriately refreshed, Junk felt positively magnanimous, which is why his demands are so reasonable, and I for one could find nothing wrong with them. See what you think (I’m quoting Junk’s prose verbatim, including his customary mishmash of languages):

“Dear Alex, it’s stark raving verrückt to think of Brexit as leaving a club. Ces Schweinhunden rosbifs ought to think of it as a divorce. Britain is a rich old homme who marries a beautiful much younger Mädchen and 15 years later files for divorce. It’s only fair that he maintain her for Leben in the style to which she has become habituée, nicht war? Let’s stop dickering about a billion here, billion there and call it an even trillion Deutschmarks, aka euros. Jawohl?

“La même chose applies to the Mädchen’s Kinder, who reside in Britain or will do so in the future. Britain must pay lifetime child support for them, otherwise known as welfare. Much has been made lately of the unemployment rate among EU immigrants, which currently stands at 14 per cent, three times the national average. That misses le point. It’s outrageous that 86 per cent (sick!!!) of the Mädchen’s Kinder are forced to work for a living. Nostalgic for those Victorian workhouses, are you, britische Schweinhunden?

“And just because Sie leben in Britain, it doesn’t mean these pauvres Kinder should obey British laws. They’ll live and die by the laws of their Mutter, the EU. Ordnung surtout!

“Ireland wasn’t so much married as violée. If Britain the rapist doesn’t wish to spend the next 50 years in prison, a compensation is called for. Ulster springs to mind, and I mean not the overcoat but the seven northern counties Ireland lost along with her virginité. They must be incorporated into the Republic and therefore the EU: Ein volk, Fourth Reich, ein Juncker.

“Committed as I am to liberté, fraternité, Aligoté, I think that not only Scotland, Northern Ireland and Wales must stay in the EU if they so choose (or even if they don’t), but also such formerly independent parts of England as Mersey and Wessex. Les rosbif are obsessed with sovereignty, nicht war? Bien, what’s sauce pour l’oie is sauce pour le gander. Heil sovereignty!

“These are the only major demands I can think of this late at night or rather early in the morning. There are also some minor ones:

“Les rosbifs must stop describing me in pejorative terms, such as ‘alkie’, ‘whisky breath’, ‘piss artist’, ‘juicer’, ‘boozer’ and ‘wino’. Just because an homme can drink a yard of whisky he’s none of those choses. Call me a bon vivant if you must. But do call me to a piss-up.

“They must also stop comparing mon amie Angie Merkel to Hitler. Her moustache is smaller, her poitrine is bigger, and she doesn’t gas Juden. There are other differences as well, but I can’t think of them this early in der Morgen.

“Write to me if I’ve left anything out. Must pop out to les toilettes now. You know how they say ‘in vino vomit us?’ A bientôt. Your Freund Junk”

I haven’t replied to Junk’s letter yet, but at first glance I find his demands perfectly reasonable. And if you don’t, you’re a bigot, Little Englander, reactionary and – in all likelihood – also a homophobe, global warming denier and a male chauvinist Schwein.

Oh well, back to my deep thoughts about the EU and sordid fantasies about the Blond Shag, which, according to the sign, is only available at that hairstylist’s. A la prochaine, Laon!

Jean-Claude ‘Just call me Junk’ Juncker told Theresa May that Brexit “cannot be a success”.

Now Junk ought to be breathalysed before anything he says can be taken seriously. But even some relatively sober people say the same thing with monotonous regularity.

They’re right. Depending on how success is defined, nothing can ever succeed. If military victory is expected to be achieved with no casualties whatsoever, then every war in history has ended in defeat. If only zero mortality makes a hospital successful, then no hospital is.

The success or failure of Brexit can be judged on an endless list of criteria, which list can be modified to produce whatever result we want. For example, I’m certain that Brexit won’t succeed in enabling England to win the next World Cup, eliminating crime or increasing the average life expectancy to a hundred.

I therefore propose we crystallise the proposition down to its essential element, always keeping in mind the dictionary definition of success: achieving the desired effect.

Here Britain and Junk are indeed “galaxies apart”, as has been suggested. For Britain, the desired effect of Brexit is to leave the EU, thereby regaining sovereignty. For Junk, the desired effect is exactly the opposite: to sabotage Brexit altogether or, barring that, make it so costly that no other member will dare follow suit.

Hence leaving the EU, whatever it entails, is ipso facto Britain’s success and Junk’s failure. The line of demarcation couldn’t be clearer than that, yet our government continues to aid Junk in his efforts to smudge it into invisibility.

Mrs May must understand – or, if she already does, acknowledge – that no Brexit negotiations with Junk and his friends are possible because they’ll never negotiate in good faith.

Actually, there’s really nothing to negotiate. HMG should forget all that Article 50 nonsense and withdraw the country from the EU effective immediately. We could then discuss the attendant technical details from a position of sovereign strength, not as victims of blackmail. Simple, isn’t it?

No deal isn’t just better than a bad deal, in Mrs May’s phrase. No deal is better than any deal, because Britain’s sovereignty shouldn’t be subject to any horse trading.

Simplicity breeds simplicity. For example, once we’re out, Mrs May could make a simple counteroffer to Junk’s demand for a £50 billion exit fee: not a penny. Show me a contract, she ought to be saying, that stipulates a cancellation fee. You can’t? Sorted. Next item. Sue us? Go ahead. But which court do you suggest, considering we’re out of the European Court’s jurisdiction?

Ireland? None of your business. That issue was settled in 1921-1922, long before the EU was a twinkle in those Vichy eyes. If any border issues exist, we’ll sort them out with the Republic. No outside help necessary, thank you very much.

Gibraltar? It has been British since the 1713 Treaty of Urtrecht. That’s long enough for Junk not to burden his head with such trivia – especially since Gibraltarians have almost unanimously rejected Spanish sovereignty in two separate referendums.

The right of EU citizens? The same as they had been before Maastricht. Europeans are welcome to visit Britain, without visas.

However, if they wish to stay, each case will be considered individually, depending on a variety of factors, such as employment, criminal record, family ties etc. The same applies to EU citizens already resident in Britain. Those we consider useful and acceptable can stay. Others will be asked to go – and that includes the 14 per cent of EU immigrants currently unemployed (three times the national rate).

Since the desired end of Brexit is sovereignty, leaving the EU will be Britain’s success whatever the economic consequences. Though hard to predict, one suspects they’ll be neither as catastrophic as the Remainers suggest nor as benign as their opponents believe.

If the EU indeed wanted fair negotiations, all trade issues could be decided instantly. Considering that Britain had been the world’s greatest trading power for centuries before the EU blessed the world with its presence, the matter can’t be unduly complicated.

But the EU isn’t a negotiator looking for a fair deal. It’s a blackmailer threatening to send various portions of the hostage’s anatomy in the post. Or not just the hostage’s: the EU is ready to cut off its own nose to spite its face.

The essence of business negotiations is trying to arrive at a mutual benefit. When one side is willing to accept vast losses for the sake of punishing the other, the only possible response was suggested by Clint Eastwood: “Go ahead. Make my day.”

Specifically, we should do in any case what our Chancellor only dangled as a threat: attract foreign trade by drastically reducing corporate taxes and regulations. Since the City is already the world’s financial centre, this would go a long way towards nullifying EU threats.

They may start a trade war but, unless they’re ready to defy WTO rules, they won’t be able to impose tariffs greater than four per cent. Even provided we reciprocate, we’ll be paying only a bit more for German cars or French wine.

Or we might bite the bullet and start driving Japanese cars and drinking Australian wines. This would be a serious hardship, but not in the context of restoring our ancient constitution.

Personally, I’d make this sacrifice for the sheer pleasure of watching Frau Merkel squirm under the wrath of German car manufacturers – or observing French vintners building barricades in the middle of Paris.

Junk got it wrong: Brexit can’t fail to be a success even if the bean counters have a point. Whatever price there’s to pay for freedom, it’ll be trivial compared to the price Britain paid in 1939-1945. You know, during Germany’s previous attempt to unite Europe.

Campaigners for all sorts of perversions, sexual or otherwise, are no longer content with tolerance. They demand – and are able to enforce – enthusiastic support.

Like those Red Guards in China, they force their elders and betters to debase themselves by recanting publicly. And what turns them particularly violent is a statement of any position informed by Christianity.

In that spirit, Tim Farron, the LibDem leader known for his sincere Christian faith, was hounded for days with shrill calls to surrender. Time after time his tormentors demanded he acknowledge that homosexuality isn’t a sin.

Now Mr Farron’s religion is unequivocal on this subject. A true Christian like him can’t accept that homosexuality is a valid, morally neutral option. He simply can’t reconcile his faith with this view of life (how he can reconcile it with socialist politics is puzzling, but we’ll leave that aside for now).

To Mr Farron’s credit, he held out for days under a constant bombardment, refusing to answer the question, while his tormentors refused to talk about anything else. That was the modern equivalent of tossing Christians to the lions or, to draw a more up-to-date analogy, of torturing them into renouncing their faith, communist-style. The threat to “smash their dog heads” is always in the background, figuratively for now.

Sooner or later something had to give. Faced with a looming possibility of throwing his political career away, Mr Farron finally admitted grudgingly that homosexuality isn’t a sin. Actually, I agree with him, from a purely Christian perspective.

Homosexuality is usually an innate condition and, as such, doesn’t involve a free choice between sin and virtue. Choosing a wrong moral option is a sin; choosing a right one is virtue. If no choice is possible, then such categories don’t apply – it’s as simple as that.

A useful parallel would be with hunchbacks and redheads. At different times and in different places, both were believed to have been stigmatised by the devil. Yet that belief wasn’t faith but superstition – it had nothing to do with Christian orthodoxy.

Mr Farron’s inquisitors missed a trick. They should have asked him whether he thought homosexual acts were a sin, as opposed to homosexuality in se. For, unlike an innate propensity for homosexuality, actually practising it involves a wrong moral choice. From a Judaeo-Christian standpoint, this unequivocally constitutes a sin, and a statement to the contrary would go against the tenets of both Testaments.

Such lexical laxity on the part of our young fascists enabled Mr Farron to get off with a mere slap on his wrist – and, technically speaking, he didn’t even have to compromise his Christian conscience.

Andrew Turner, Tory MP for the Isle of Wight and another Christian, wasn’t so lucky. A group of students led by a girl describing herself as an LGBT activist invited him to attend a homosexual rally, or whatever that Walpurgisnacht is called.

Mr Turner could have weaselled out of a confrontation easily enough, for example by claiming an unbreakable prior commitment. Instead he took the challenge head on by stating that homosexuality was “wrong” and a “danger to society”. He was thus caught in the trap laid by the fascist agent provocateurs.

Mr Turner was immediately tarred, feathered and drawn through the mud. His chief tormentor proved that her ‘activism’ left her no time to learn how to speak proper English by saying: “It’s terrifying that in this age and point in our development as a society, there are still people that can’t care enough about a person’s wellbeing to just accept who they are.”

“I do not want that person representing the Island,” she added, “because that opinion is not what we think here.” Irrelevant if true, dear. Mr Turner is his constituents’ representative, not their delegate (Burkean distinction).

He’s obligated not to share his constituent’s opinions but to represent their interests, as he sees them. It’s not immediately obvious how Mr Turner’s views on homosexuality jeopardise his ability to uphold the Island’s interests at Westminster.

Agree or disagree with his position, it’s defensible on any grounds, not just Christian but also generally moral, demographic, medical, aesthetic and so forth. But fascism of any kind isn’t about reason, nor about tolerance in whose name it’s mostly practised these days.

That homofascist whippersnapper doesn’t demand tolerance. She demands public surrender and self-debasement – just like her Soviet, Chinese and Khmer Rouge role models.

Amazingly, her illiterate drivel was seconded by the Tory Chief Whip’s office: “We want to make clear there is no place in the party for those views.”

Mr Turner was forced to resign, his political dog’s head smashed by today’s vintage of Red Guards. Never mind freedom of speech and conscience: the braying mob never does. They’re after blood, and their bloodlust won’t be quenched merely by meek acquiescence.

Those of us who have lived under fascism shudder when seeing its incipient signs. Destroying people’s careers for any expression of Christian beliefs is one such.

It’s typologically close to pumping bullets into recalcitrant crania, and the watershed separating the two is instantly bridgeable. Fascism, thy name is now tolerance – Orwell would have a field day.

It’s hard to describe the symptoms of modernity’s malaise in two words. But if you held a gun to my head and insisted, the two words I’d choose would be ‘Kim Kardashian’.

I’ve nothing against Kim herself. The sun is shining and she’s making hay, bales of it. But I do have something against a time when a girl devoid of any discernible abilities can parlay a genetic deformity into fame and fortune.

Ever since an unretouched photograph of Kim’s misshapen, cellulite-loaded buttocks made the papers, more column inches have been devoted to that anatomical feature than to the likelihood of nuclear war with that other Kim.

In addition, Kim has almost 100 million Instagram followers – I suppose there’s one born every minute. And in 2015 Time magazine named Kim on its list of 100 most influential people, thereby adding a whole new meaning to doing things arse backwards.

I use the words ‘genetic deformity’ advisedly. For, retouching or no retouching, even a rank medical amateur can see that Kim suffers from steatopygia, an abnormal build-up of adipose tissue in the buttocks. This condition is mostly found among women in sub-Saharan Africa, but isolated cases also occur elsewhere.

Interestingly, this isn’t the first case of steatopygia-shaped buttocks becoming a money spinner. The precedent happened in the nineteenth century, involving the sub-Saharan girl Saartjie Baartman, otherwise known as the ‘Hottentot Venus’. It’s instructive to see how the stories of Saartjie and Kim are similar but also different.

Saartjie was espied in her native village by two enterprising Frenchmen, who immediately saw money hiding in her cantilevered behind. Saartjie was tricked into signing a contract in a language she didn’t understand and effectively became a slave.

The two Frenchmen took her to London and used Saartjie as a freak sideshow at theatres and fairs. Gentlemen were paying large sums to ogle the ‘Hottentot Venus’ who stood naked on stage, displaying her massive bottom at various angles.

Saartjie’s owners made a lot of money fast, which encouraged them to take the show on the road, first to other English cities, then to Paris, where she became an even greater success.

But protests were mounting in parallel with the Frenchmen’s wealth and Saartjie’s fame. Slavery was a sensitive issue at the time, and abolitionist sentiments were strong, in this case enhanced by inchoate feminism. Eventually the ‘Hottentot Venus’ was sold on, to a dealer who withdrew her from the fairground circuit and hence the public eye.

Instead he organised viewings at private clubs where Saartjie was not only displayed but also pimped out. Anyone with the price of a ticket could have sex with the ‘Hottentot Venus’, not just marvel at her jutting Gargantuan attraction.

After several years that life took its toll on Saartjie, whose health deteriorated rapidly, and she died young, possibly of syphilis. But death didn’t put an end to her performing career.

Saartje’s body was dissected, and her brain, genitals and skeleton were exhibited at the Musée de l’Homme in Paris. In 1984, following a petition from Nelson Mandela, her remains were returned to Africa where they were properly buried.

So there you have it, two sufferers from the same genetic disorder, a nineteenth-century slave, whose degrading treatment caused mass protests, and an enterprising modern woman, who became one of the world’s ‘100 most influential people’ with nary a protest to be heard.

Unlike Saartjie, Kim pays her handlers, rather than the other way around. Unlike the African, the genetically challenged American is a free person who doesn’t think she’s being degraded, and neither does anyone else.

That’s why this story isn’t about Kim but about our time. For Kim is exactly the same kind of enslaved sideshow that Saartjie was. The difference is that in the nineteenth century, before progress began to accelerate at Mach 3, everybody knew the naughty spectacle for what it was.

Some gawked at it, some protested against it. Nobody lauded it, nobody saw Saartjie as a social guru or international trendsetter. Saartjie was an aberration of her time. Kim is the distillation of ours, a slave to a morally, spiritually and aesthetically crippled public.

This walking, talking gluteus maximus is a celebrity because she’s celebrated. Her 100,000 million panting followers hang on to every vulgarity she utters, for vulgarity is all she can utter. Cynically catering to their market, formerly serious newspapers see fit to discuss Kim’s buttocks and run photographs of them, while a growing army of masturbators are gagging for more.

Kim obliges by regaling them with PC platitudes interspersed with more pictures of her naked attractions. She’s being degraded all the way to the bank, accompanied by howls of admiration and envious gasps.

Saartjie, meet Kim. Kim, meet Saartjie. You girls have so much in common, even though you’re centuries and civilisations apart.

You know how it is. All sorts of petty concerns get in one’s way, and somebody’s birthday slips one’s mind. So here’s a belated happy birthday to Russia’s beloved statesman.

Vlad Lenin, the founder of the very same Soviet Union Vlad Putin wants to recreate, thereby reversing “the greatest geopolitical catastrophe of the twentieth century”, was born on 22 April.

There’s no date of death, for Lenin never died, at least not in the hearts of his grateful countrymen.

That godlike immortality was promised by posters providing the backdrop for my childhood: “Lenin lived, Lenin lives, Lenin will live!” Sure enough, Lenin’s canonised mummy still adorns Red Square, much to the delight of an adoring nation.

A birthday poll conducted by Levada Centre, Russia’s sole credible pollster, proved Lenin’s enduring popularity: 56 per cent of Russians rate him favourably, only 22 per cent negatively and as many neutrally.

As a lifelong champion of arithmetical democracy, I know the majority is always right. Therefore I shan’t say anything against the great man, instead allowing him to speak for himself through his letters:

“It is precisely now and only now, when in the starving regions people are eating human flesh and hundreds if not thousands of corpses are littering the roads that we can (and therefore must) carry out the confiscation of church valuables with the most savage and merciless energy.”

“Superb plan!… Pretending to be ‘greens’ (we’ll pin it on them later), we’ll penetrate 10-20 miles deep and hang kulaks, priests and landlords. Bonus: 100,000 roubles for each one hanged…”

“War to the death of the rich and their hangers-on, the bourgeois intelligentsia… they must be punished for the slightest transgression… In one place we’ll put them in gaol, in another make them clean shithouses, in a third blacklist them after prison… in a fourth, shoot them on the spot… The more diverse, the better, the richer our common experience…”

“…In case of invasion, be prepared to burn all of Baku to the ground and announce this publicly…”

“Conduct merciless mass terror against the kulaks, priests and White Guard; if in doubt, lock them up in concentration camps outside city limits.”

“Comrades… this is our last and decisive battle against the kulaks. We must set an example: hang (definitely hang, for everyone to see) at least 100 known kulaks, fat cats and bloodsuckers; publish their names; take all their grain away; nominate hostages…; make sure that even 100 miles away everyone will see, tremble, know that bloodsucking kulaks are being strangled.”

“Suggest you appoint your own leaders and shoot both the hostages and doubters, without asking anyone’s permission and avoiding idiotic dithering.”

“I don’t think we should spare the city and put this off any longer, for merciless annihilation is vital…”

“As far as foreigners are concerned, no need to rush their expulsion. A concentration camp is better…”

“Every foreign citizen resident in Russia, aged 17 to 55, belonging to the bourgeoisie of the countries hostile to us, must be put into concentration camps…”

“Far from all peasants realise that free trade in grain is a crime against the state. ‘I grew the grain, it’s mine, I have a right to sell it,’ that’s how the peasant thinks, in the old way. But we’re saying this is a crime against the state.”

“I suggest all theatres be put into a coffin.”

“I’m reaching an indisputable conclusion that it’s precisely now that we must give a decisive and merciless battle to the Black Hundreds clergy, suppressing their resistance with such cruelty that they won’t forget it for several decades… The more reactionary clergy and reactionary bourgeoisie we shoot while at it, the better.”

“…Punish Latvia and Estonia militarily (for example follow the Whites in a mile deep and hang 100-1,000 officials and fat cats).”

“Rather than stopping terror (promising this would be deception or self-deception), the courts must justify and legalise it unequivocally, clearly…”

In setting up history’s unique state, the recent birthday boy made full use of his legal training. He knew how to make laws sufficiently open-ended not to limit the state’s self-expression.

For example, Lenin once amended the proposed text of the USSR Criminal Code, one of whose articles stipulated the death penalty for “aiding and abetting the bourgeoisie or counterrevolution.” The great legal mind knew instantly that something was missing, but at first he didn’t know exactly what.

Then it dawned on him: the article wasn’t broad enough. Lenin took his trusted blue pencil out and inserted, after the words ‘aiding and abetting’, an invaluable amendment: “…or capable of aiding and abetting.” And behold, it was very good: anyone could now be deemed so capable and shot.

The same broad sweep shines through the excerpts above, something that was beyond the reach of such small-scale copycats as Hitler. Comrade Hitler identified the main enemy with narrow demographic precision: the Jew.

Hence there was a natural genetic and demographic limit on Nazi murders. They knew who was and who wasn’t Jewish, and how many people had drawn that short straw. Comrade Lenin regarded such restraints as amateurish, nay suicidal.

His bogeymen were identified as ‘the bourgeoisie’, but identified doesn’t mean defined. Who were they? Factory owners? Definitely. Landlords? Of course. But what about teachers, engineers, doctors, artisans? Those too, unless they proved otherwise.

Add to them the clergy and the kulaks (peasants, successful or otherwise, who resisted new serfdom), and you realise that the enemy slated for extermination was anyone Lenin didn’t like very much, the kind of people he called “particularly noxious insects”.

That cherished legacy was supposed to have been lost with the demise of the Soviet Union. But Lenin’s namesake is well on his way to restoring it at least partly. As another poster used to say: “Lenin’s cause lives on!”

The world, as we know, is governed by beastly cabals operating in the shadows. They must all be parts of a single network.

So far we’ve been unable to prove any such links, which only goes to show how good those ghouls are at covering their tracks. Yet we can expose those cabals one by one.

I’ve done just that with the dastardly Leather-Trousers Cabal (LTC). The evidence for it is irrefutable, but no one but me has been able to see it – they saw but they didn’t observe, in Sherlock Holmes’s phrase.

Just look at the facts. Who’ll become France’s president in a fortnight? Manny Macron. Who is and will remain Britain’s PM? Theresa May.

Do you get it now? No? Slow on the uptake, aren’t you?

Manny is, as you know, married to Brigitte Trogneux, a woman 25 years his senior, who used to be his teacher at the Lycée Saint-Louis de Gonzague. The school is commonly known as ‘Franklin’, but for the moment we’ll overlook the obvious allusion to freemasonry.

According to Manny’s classmate, all the 15-year-old boys at the school were instantly smitten by the 40 year-old-mother of three because she – brace yourself – wore leather trousers. That’s the LT in the LTC!

It’s unclear why post-pubescent boys would be so impressed by that garment in a country where pornography was readily available at every corner. Yes, leather emphasises the part of a woman’s body the French call cul, as in cul-de-sac. But that by itself can’t explain the hypnotic effect.

Note that Brigitte, now looking every one of her 64 years, still sports leather trousers even though her cul is best left deemphasised. Obviously, that garment has another, secret significance, that of symbolising LTC membership.

Obviously Brigitte wangled her way into Franklin to talent-spot and cultivate a future political leader, one she could control like a puppet on a string. It’s to that end that she seduced the 15-year-old Manny, dumped her husband and three children for him and gradually elevated him all the way to the Palais de l’Élysée.

Still unsure? Then get your head around this: another sixtyish woman, Theresa May, was during the leadership campaign taken to task by her fellow Tories for wearing – you get it – leather trousers.

Nicky Morgan and her other colleagues knew perfectly well what that garment signified, but they couldn’t come out and say it outright for fear of LTC reprisals. So they singled out for criticism the £955 price of the trousers, pointing out that the Turkish workers who had made them earned £1.49 an hour.

But you and I won’t be blinded by this smokescreen. We know that the fiendish LTC is gaining control of two major European countries on the way to world domination. However, according to some key members of the Liberal Democratic party, it’s facing competition from another cabal.

In 2010, Mr Ashuk Ahmed received a British Community Honours Award at the House of Lords for being an “inspirational role model for British Muslims as part of mainstream society”.

Mr Ahmed proved he was just that by improving “social cohesion”, but that wasn’t his only contribution to Britain’s political health. That’s why the LibDems selected Mr Ahmed as their parliamentary candidate.

That honour has now been withdrawn, obviously because his party got cold feet about Mr Ahmed’s earth-shattering revelations. For, like me, he has uncovered another nefarious plot – and, like me, vouchsafed his findings to public media.

Both the Labour and Conservative parties, he found, are controlled by “Zionist paymasters”. And not only they: Mr Ahmed shared a video produced by a respectable group called AshkeNazi in which it exposed “the current takeover of the United States by the Jewish Ashkenazi tribe”.

ISIS, explained Mr Ahmed irrefutably, was created by “Jewish media and their gentile pawns” in order to “justify more slaughter”. Not many people know this, he continued, but ISIS actually stands for Israeli Secret Intelligence Service, which calls itself Mossad only as a subterfuge.

Remembering that a picture is worth a thousand words, Mr Ahmed published an authentic photograph of Israeli PM Netanyahu eating children, with blood running down his chin. The caption stated the obvious: “blood sucking leech”.

Mr Ahmed isn’t the only politician who has added a whole new dimension to the party devoted to liberal democracy. Former MP David Ward has also been purged for stating the obvious:

“At long last the Zionists are losing the battle – how long can the apartheid state of Israel last?” “The Jews,” he explained, are “inflicting atrocities on Palestinians”. Mr Ward wasn’t going to take this lying down: he said he’d “probably” personally fire a rocket at Israel given half the chance.

Messrs Ahmed and Ward have joined a long list of martyrs suffering for their convictions at the hands of the Jewish conspiracy that, by the looks of it, controls not only the two main parties but also the LibDems.

And if you think the Jewish plot has nothing to do with the LTC, consider this fact. Before entering politics, Manny Macron, expertly guided by his LT controller, had made millions working for – are you ready for this? – a Rothschild bank! Say no more.

Actually, I shall say more. Watch this place for upcoming articles “Donald Trump, a secret Hassid”, “Jews go hell for leather” and “Isn’t modern politics fun?”

Banning the burka is a plank in UKIP’s electoral platform, and that structure is tottering under the impact.

The party is suffering the slings and arrows of outraged liberals and libertarians alike, yet another situation in which the two join forces.

In fact, such situations arise so often that one is tempted to ponder if there’s really much distance between the two. Semantic proximity notwithstanding, I suppose there is. Yet they are almost equidistant from conservatism.

Liberals, and I’m using the term in its modern rather than classical sense, are outraged for multi-culti reasons. To them, all religions are equally off limits for any restrictions, except perhaps Christianity.

Such egalitarianism means that all religions, especially Christianity, are equally irrelevant. No reasonable person can seriously believe that man was created by anyone other than Charles Darwin.

Yet all religions, except Christianity, have their uses. Prime among them is acting as a vehicle for expressing PC, multi-culti rectitude. Hence a woman wearing her black Halloween costume strikes a blow both for and against something.

For: she’s reasserting the ultimate equality of all before Notting Hill and Islington liberals. Against, here the list is much longer: she’s a walking attack on racism, Islamophobia, Christianity as the formative creed of our civilisation, the ‘establishment’, little-Englandism, the evil of conservatism, monarchy, social and cultural tradition – even implicitly homophobia, although the burka religion explicitly favours tossing homosexuals off tall buildings.

In other words, support for the burka isn’t worth taking seriously when it comes from such quarters. These quarters are only inhabited by fools or knaves, or typically those who combine these two aspects to the exclusion of all others.

The libertarian opposition to a ban on the burka merits a discussion, if only because libertarians, as distinct from liberals, somewhat overlap with conservatives. Unlike modern liberals and like modern conservatives, they are committed to individual liberty, which is good.

One can argue that ensuring and guarding liberty is the prime – some will say only – legitimate function of the state. That’s how it was seen by the great Whig Edmund Burke, who somewhat paradoxically is the spiritual founder of modern conservatism.

Yet there’s absolutely no doubt whatsoever that, if he were alive today, this unwavering champion of liberty would enthusiastically support the ban. For Burke, like every significant political thinker in history, from Aristotle onwards, understood the value of balance and moderation.

He knew that any political desideratum would turn to its opposite if pursued to the bitter end. That’s why he advocated limiting, rather than abolishing, state power, whether exerted through crown or parliament.

For Burke, sage government rested on three foundations: prejudice, which is intuitive knowledge; prescription, which is truth passed on by previous generations; and presumption, which is inference from the common experience of mankind.

Unlike Margaret Thatcher, our nominally conservative heroine, Burke would never have said that there’s no such thing as society – whatever the provocation (Mrs Thatcher was indeed provoked). He didn’t equate liberty with social atomisation and behavioural free-for-all.

Libertarians preach individual rights über alles, and society be damned, along with its traditions, tastes and its own right to self-defence. To them any restriction on any other than manifestly criminal behaviour is intolerable.

An individual is well within his rights to do anything that doesn’t hurt other individuals. Society, on the other hand, if it exists at all, has no right to censure anything it finds abhorrent – such is a libertarian tenet.

The belief that extreme views tend to converge is platitudinous but not invariably wrong.

Like the liberals, the libertarians have no time for custom and tradition – these to them have only antiquarian significance, if any. Like the liberals, they oppose only acts that are physically, rather than socially, harmful. Like the liberals, they are materialists who generally have no time for religion: religion, after all, is bound to impose restrictions on individual liberty (as opposed to individual freedom, a critical distinction that doesn’t exist in less precise languages, such as French).

However, they support unlimited liberty of religious expression not because they have much respect for faith of any kind, but because this liberty falls within the rubric of individual liberties in general. Hence their opposition to a ban on the burka.

An individual, they say, has every right to espouse whatever religion he fancies and therefore display in public any paraphernalia of his faith. What the religion is, what standards of behaviour it imposes, who espouses it, what crimes are routinely committed in its name, what offence it causes to ancient public customs – such considerations are immaterial to them.

Libertarians will oppose some Muslim customs, those they see as impinging on the rights of other individuals. I doubt many libertarians would welcome such Islamic practices as female genital mutilation, honour killing, the stoning of adulterers or tossing homosexuals off tall buildings. At the same time they’ll refuse to acknowledge the social and aesthetic offence caused by persons walking around with their faces covered up.

Yes, Muslims have an inalienable right to believe whatever they want. Society should have no say in the matter of private convictions. However, when such convictions are manifested publicly, society is no longer disfranchised.

In this case, it’s within its right to say that any British resident isn’t only a sovereign individual but also a social and legal entity. To act in that capacity, such a resident must be identifiable as distinct from other residents. Since a resident’s face is the most obvious and reliable means of identification, it should be open to inspection at all times.

Such elementary logic is beyond the libertarians. As is the simple truth that individual liberties, important though they are, shouldn’t be allowed to become a suicide pact.

Having said that, Marine and Manny still have ways to go before they catch up with our own Tony Blair.

This most revolting personage, himself a Labour politician, ever to reside at 10 Downing Street has called on traditional Labour supporters to vote for Tory candidates as long as they’re anti-Brexit.

That means membership in the EU – and eventually in the euro, which Blair has always wanted to join – is the only thing that matters to this Euro-spiv. Never mind all other principles espoused by the Labour party, objectionable though I may find them.

Why, some Labour voters are even patriots who don’t like the idea so close to what passes for Tone’s heart, that of the UK becoming a semi-autonomous province of Germany. And even those who feel differently still may take exception to the implicit statement that Britain’s domestic affairs don’t matter – only the EU does.

Marine and Manny still have something to learn about cynicism from Tone, but they’re able pupils, and the gap is closing fast.

Yesterday Marine issued an announcement that must have brought an approving smile on Tone’s shifty face. “National Front? Who, moi?” she exclaimed with indignation.

Rien can be further from the truth. Marine is no longer the leader or indeed a member of that diabolical organisation. She’s now just Marine, an independent candidate for the French presidency, one who – I’m paraphrasing only slightly – wants to raise her own powerlust above “partisan concerns”.

She stopped just short of claiming she’s not Jean-Marie’s real daughter – in fact, she was jointly sired by de Gaulle and Mitterrand on the wrong side of the blanket.

Jean-Marie must be aghast. Unlike his wayward daughter, he’s committed to his principles. The chief among them is that there was no Holocaust but, if those sales juifs don’t shut up about it, there will be.

But his prodigal offspring clearly sees her party, which after all raised her to her present position, as a ballast to jettison. If I were an FN member, I’d be upset.

This isn’t just cynical politics; it’s bad politics. Candidates may want to broaden their appeal, but while at it smart politicians avoid alienating their core support. To use the language of polling, breadth mustn’t come at a cost to depth.

Yet, rather than just alienating her core support, Marine has relieved herself on it through every available orifice. Naturally, she’ll try to wink at her fellow fascists and whisper that it’s only an ad hoc ploy designed to get her in power. But such a stage whisper will resonate throughout the country, and she’ll lose her depth without gaining any breadth.

Manny performed similar, if marginally less blatant, turnarounds twice. The first time was in 2009, when he ostensibly left the Socialist Party to continue serving it as a quasi-independent. The second time was in 2016, when he quit his post as Economy Minister in Hollande’s government, realising that any further association with François would put paid to his own political ambitions.

Unlike Marine, Manny has a record of having a top government job, which experience he holds up as a qualification for presidency. Nowadays people have an exaggerated faith in experience, but I’d suggest that no track record is better than Manny’s.

Under his tutelage, the French economy became a veritable basket case, featuring a soul-destroying unemployment rate of 11 per cent tout court and 25 per cent for young people. Manny also presided over an anaemic growth, exports stifled by the euro, unsupportable social costs made catastrophic by uncontrollable migration, constant strikes and riots – you name it.

It was under Manny’s expert guidance that Hollande introduced a marginal tax rate of 75 per cent, driving many enterprising young Frenchmen away and turning London into the world’s fifth largest French city.

As a fanatic of Germany-dominated European federalism, Manny supported – and still does – every harebrained economic policy practised by the EU, emphatically including its protectionism.

Hence he professed welcoming Britain’s departure from the EU because it spelled “the end of an ultraliberal Europe that the British themselves have pushed for, the end of a Europe without a political plan, centred on its domestic market.”

That an economy minister can be so catastrophically ignorant of basic economic concepts, not to mention political history, is most refreshing. So until our referendum the EU had had no ‘political plan’, Manny?

The EU has always had nothing but a ‘political plan’, which was communicated loud and clear by its founders. Jean Monnet, for example, explained that the economic jargon would only be used to camouflage the political goal:

“Europe’s nations should be guided towards the superstate without their people understanding what is happening. This can be accomplished by successive steps, each disguised as having an economic purpose but which will irreversibly lead to federation.”

As to Britain having imposed her ‘ultraliberalism’ on Europe, Manny clearly confuses this concept with protectionism. That’s like confusing communism with civil liberties, a debt-riddled economy with fiscal responsibility and Manny Macron with statesmanship.

Such experience is worse than none, I dare say. However, Marine strikes a less than convincing argument in favour of economic virginity. Her own policies, if they rate the name, would knock the bottom out of the basket into which Manny’s ‘experience’ shoved the French economy.

The only area in which the candidates’ credentials are incontestable is the stratospheric heights of their self-serving cynicism. Tony Blair may not remain unrivalled for long.

Having topped the first round of French presidential elections, Manny Macron delivered a rousing oration stressing his patriotic, as opposed to nationalist, credentials.

No one pointed out that Manny’s pathos sounded, well, pathetic because he spoke against the backdrop of the EU flag. If you can stand a piece of avuncular advice, Manny, try le tricolore next time. That’ll offset the message better, believe me.

Actually playing lickspittle to Angie is the only discernible conviction Macron possesses. Angie acknowledged this by being effusive in her congratulations:

“It’s good that Emmanuel Macron was successful with his course for a strong EU and social market economy. All the best for the next two weeks.”

I must ask Angie to explain to me over a stein of Bier what a ‘social market economy’ is. If it’s what I think it is, a socialist economy stopping just short of wholesale nationalisation, then I can understand her enthusiasm for Manny.

He describes his policies as liberal and pro-EU, oblivious of the glaring oxymoron. Perhaps, not being excessively bright, Manny doesn’t realise that the EU is a protectionist bloc, which is as far from economic liberalism as it’s possible to get without turning the EU into the EUSSR.

Or else he’s bright enough to realise that people have been so thoroughly lobotomised by decades of meaningless twaddle, that they no longer understand what political terms mean.

The other day, for example, I was talking to my French tennis partner, who explained in simple terms that even a rosbif can understand that Fillon is right-wing and Le Pen is extreme right-wing.

‘Does this mean she’s like Fillon, only more so?” I asked. “Exactement,” was the reply. “Well, in that case, could you name a single policy of hers that’s an extreme version of Fillon’s?”

He didn’t even try, but his expression reflected the universal French conviction that les anglo-saxons can never grasp the intricacies of the subtle Gallic mind.

In fact, Marine and Manny represent two branches of socialism, national and international. This emphasises their chromatic unity, for brown is only a hue of red. For Marine’s economic ideas are indistinguishable from Mélenchon’s, meaning they’re to the left of Mao’s.

Macron is also a clear-cut socialist, who, by way of subterfuge, makes some vaguely libertarian noises about cutting the corporate tax and giving companies more leeway in loosening the stranglehold of the 35-hour work week.

At the same time he promises a €50 billion additional ‘investment’ (meaning government spending) into welfare and renewable energy, without bothering to specify where the money is going to come from – especially if British billions dry out – and how wind farms are going to replace nuclear power stations, which at present supply 85 per cent of France’s energy needs.

At a guess there will have to be further raids on wealth producers, driving most of them out of the country. If this time around there are 72,000 registered French voters in London, next time there will be twice as many.

This development is hinted at by Manny’s slogan “France should give everyone an equal chance”. I must again put on my translator’s hat: that means the government’s cut in the country’s wealth will exceed today’s 60-odd per cent.

Higher taxation will be augmented by Angie’s generosity, who knows how to turn impoverished countries into German protectorates.

The lesson was taught by Prussia in the nineteenth century by the expedient of the EU’s trial run, the Zollverein. Ostensibly only a customs union, the Zollverein was designed to use bribery, threats and (as in the case of Schleswig-Holstein) violence to bring all sovereign German principalities under Prussia’s sway.

To celebrate the success of that project, newly muscular Prussia gave France a chronic Stockholm syndrome by humiliating her in the 1870-1871 war. This time around no rape is necessary, what with Manny gagging for it.

The relationship between Germany and France is purely consensual. And under Manny’s presidency it’ll become passionate, with France in the female role.

There’s little doubt he’ll win the second round, what with all other major parties throwing their support in his corner – or so says conventional wisdom. Of course conventional wisdom may be wrong, as witnessed by US President Hillary Clinton.

Frankly, I don’t care one way or the other: choosing between the rock and the hard place has never been my favourite pastime. In the short run, I suppose Britain would be better off if Le Pen won the second round.

Unlike Macron, she isn’t on record as a Britain hater, and she’s likely to bloody the EU’s nose even if she doesn’t pull France out. That would strengthen Mrs May’s hand in what she calls negotiations, which seems to mean negotiating the best terms of surrender to the EU without officially being its member.

On the other hand, Marine’s campaign is financed by Putin, and the KGB doesn’t loosen its purse strings without other strings being attached. What they are I have no idea, but I know exactly what kind they are: lethally dangerous to the West.

How a formerly respectable country can face the choice between two such unsavoury characters escapes me. But then again, this is an inevitable consequence of modern democracy run riot, which unfailingly vindicates de Maistre’s remark that every nation gets the government it deserves.

When people ascend to government by arithmetic, rather than, say, birth, wisdom or even common sense, they’ll reflect mob sentiments at their basest. Vox populi may be vox dei, but in politics it’s definitely not the voice of prudence, morality and sagacity.

A tossup between a fool and a knave has become the most widespread choice in Western politics, the important nonentity the dominant type of politician. Manny, promising an equal chance for all, and Marine, undertaking to “put France back in order” are stark examples of this unfortunate situation.

It’s St George’s Day today, and we must all hope that the saint hasn’t yet withdrawn his patronage from England.

This is sorely needed, for the country is under attack from all sorts of dragons. This format doesn’t allow compiling a complete taxonomy, so I’ll just focus on the political monster.

Mrs May has called a snap election, which she, along with just about ever pollster, confidently expects to win by a landslide. She probably will at that, but not on the strength of what she is.

Mrs May’s principal attraction is what, or rather who, she isn’t. She isn’t Jeremy Corbyn, which is a gigantic feather in her cap.

One can safely assume that the average intelligence of the electorate is abysmally low, but, even if it were even lower, it’s hard to imagine anyone but a misanthropic, subversive retard wishing to install Corbyn at 10 Downing Street.

I’ve watched two of his recent interviews, and the man stakes a claim to the same political territory that is in France occupied by Mélenchon, a plot overlapping with Kim Jong-un’s holdings.

Jeremy wants to tax the rich (anyone earning the middle-class income of £70,000 year) into poverty, increase public spending and foreign aid, nationalise the economy and keep Britain’s borders hospitably open to all and sundry.

This take on domestic policy is exacerbated by his plans for foreign relations. Jeremy is in favour of unilateral disarmament, abandoning our nuclear deterrent and leaving NATO. Should the USSR be restored, I’m sure he’ll want to join it.

Scoring a landslide over this Marxist loony is almost unsporting. Yet Mrs May is desperately trying to meet him halfway in her policies.

This strengthens my belief that real conservatism is no longer possible in the West, certainly not in Britain. All Western states are socialist now, and the difference is only that of degree.

Mrs May has set out to vindicate this melancholy assessment by announcing her intentions should she continue as PM.

First, she has ‘refused to rule out tax rises’. Allow me to translate from political to human: this means she’ll definitely raise taxes. She also keeps her mind open on raiding our pension funds yet again, meaning she’s guaranteed to do so.

She has also gone back on her promise to abandon Cameron’s commitment to spending 0.7 of our GNI on foreign aid. This includes hundreds of millions going to such global nuclear powers as China and India, along with a more modest but no less reprehensible £20 million contribution to the Palestinians. You know, the multi-culti gentlemen who the other day murdered a British subject.

She’s committed to Brexit in a way that resembles a young girl who’s in love with a dashing swain but is forced by her family to marry an ugly old man. Mrs May campaigned for Remain before the referendum, yet laudably stated her intention to abide by the result.

This intention is good, but one hopes it won’t be yet another flagstone on the road to hell. Mrs May clearly wants to remain of the EU even when Britain is no longer in it.

She obviously lacks the clarity of thought so epigrammatically communicated by (the actor!) Sir Michael Caine: “I’d rather be a poor master than a rich servant.”

In other words, leaving the EU shouldn’t boil down to petty haggling about the exit fee or anything else. Nor should we ponder the economics of it too much. The issue is freedom and, like pregnancy, it isn’t quantifiable. We either are free or we aren’t.

I’d submit that continuing to pay money into EU coffers, obeying most of its laws, following most of its policies and failing to regain sovereign control over our borders – not to mention dragging on ‘the negotiations’ indefinitely – compromises Britain’s freedom almost as much as full membership in that vile contrivance does.

Such seem to be Mrs May’s plans. I don’t know by what part of her anatomy the EU has grabbed her, but her heart is clearly following. She’s decent and astute enough not to abandon Brexit altogether, but she may well dilute it to a point where the mass is no longer worth the candle.

Her commitment to the referendum result was partly forced by the political pressure exerted by Ukip that threatened to bite into the Tories’ slim majority. Alas, Ukip seems to be in meltdown, which isn’t really surprising.

Whatever some of my Ukip friends are saying, it’s a single-issue party. Now that the Tories seem to have appropriated the single issue, Ukip has lost its raison d’être. In every sense other than leaving the EU the party is too broad a church, bringing together roughly equal swathes of true blue Tories and true red Labour.

One would hope Ukip will still have a role to play in enforcing compliance with Brexit. But it takes power to enforce anything, and Ukip’s appears to be dwindling away. In has been overtaken in all polls even by the useless, previously moribund LibDems, which is saying a lot.

All in all, we’re badly in need of St George’s prayers – and his help in slaying the political dragons that are otherwise invincible.

Happy St George’s Day!