Category: Blog

Do you have any imagination? Then imagine you’re an Israeli. Please concentrate hard.

Every day rockets are fired in your general direction by fanatics seeking to murder you, your family and everyone else in your country.

The rockets used not to have the range to kill you, but now they do. Any day your house may collapse on you and your children, and you go to bed at night not knowing if you’ll see the sun rise in the morning.

Your house feels like a death trap, yet venturing outside makes you no safer: a rocket can get you in a supermarket or a café just as easily.

It isn’t just rockets either. When your children climb on the school bus in the morning, every morning, you pray they won’t be blown apart by a bomb.

When you yourself get on any public transport, you watch every fellow passenger carrying a package. Is it groceries or dynamite? By the time you get to your destination, your forehead feels damp.

You try not to venture out after dark for fear of being kidnapped and tortured to death. You’re wary of the family next door: their religion is different from yours, which to them means they’ll go to heaven if they kill you.

And so on every day, 365 of them in every year, 366 in a leap one.

Have you imagined it? I can’t.

However, I know I’d do everything in my power to defend myself. Above all, I’d put pressure on my government to protect me.

Occasionally, Israel’s government can only protect its citizens by striking out – to make sure the enemy’s rocket launchers, command structures, communications and logistic support are destroyed.

The government has the wherewithal to do it. Moreover, its army is strong enough to wipe the threat out once and for all.

But, unlike her enemies, Israel is a civilised country. And civilised countries can’t act the way, say, Russia is acting towards the Ukraine. Civilised countries need to check their actions against the opinions of other civilised countries.

Israel badly needs the West’s help, and not just because the West supplies much of her armaments. The country needs not just physical but also moral support, and it has every right to expect it.

The Israelis know that theirs is the preface to our Judaeo-Christian civilisation. Therefore we have the common cause of protecting this civilisation against its enemies, of whom Islam, in particular the Hamas rocket wielders, is at present the deadliest.

The Israelis know that Western countries are democracies, like Israel herself. That means they can’t go all out to support Israel without rallying public opinion first.

Just like in Israel, public support can only be secured by persuasive appeals in the press. So Israelis peruse Western papers, hoping to find signs of friendship.

Instead they find barely concealed sympathy for those who hate Israel and the West in equal measure.

They see in horror that, out of 196 states in the world, theirs is the only one whose legitimacy is ever questioned. And when they strike out in desperation, trying to protect themselves against wild-eyed murderers, the sympathy for their enemies isn’t even barely concealed.

The world’s papers hardly mention why the Israelis have hit Hamas. Instead they regale their readers with lurid stories about Palestinian casualties, especially women and children, who are always good copy.

Somewhere towards the end of the horror stories the papers make the feeble gesture of mentioning the rocket attacks. But they immediately cancel it out by lamenting that, while Hamas rockets don’t inflict numerous casualties, Israeli counterstrikes do.

Any half-decent or half-honest analyst knows why. Israel abhors the tragedy of her citizens being killed. Hamas casualties, especially civilian ones, are grist to the mill of propaganda war.

That’s why Israel has some of the most advanced civil defences in the world, while Hamas has none. Moreover, they deliberately place their rocket sites, ammunition dumps and command centres near, or even within, schools, residential quarters, hospitals and other sexy targets.

Unlike Hamas, Israel eschews indiscriminate attacks. She delivers pinpoint hits on military, or rather militant, targets and it’s not Israel’s fault that Hamas do everything they can to increase the collateral damage for propaganda purposes.

Unlike Hamas, Israel issues advance warnings to the residents of target areas, imploring them to evacuate. Under pressure from Hamas such warnings are typically ignored – with inevitable results.

What I find particularly emetic is that our media still claim that their coverage of the conflict is balanced.

Any copywriter or journalist will tell you that most people don’t read most texts from beginning to end. That’s why both ads and articles are always frontloaded, with the gist of the message contained within the headline and lead paragraph.

That information is most of what the people will read and all of what they’ll retain. With that in mind, consider the lead article in today’s Daily Mail, our least anti-Israel paper.

The headline screams: “Gaza buries its dead after bloodiest day yet of Israel’s ongoing offensive as thousands flee homes in fear of ground invasion”.

Then a subsequent paragraph whispers: “The militant wing of Hamas, the Islamist political party which controls Gaza, has fired hundreds of rockets into Israel, striking the deepest inside the country ever.”

In between the two statements there are 904 (!) words, roughly the number in this article so far, each describing the plight of Palestinians. What do you suppose the average reader will take out?

The homepage of The Guardian, the trendy leftie paper imbued with the Pall Mall type of anti-Semitism, runs three items on the conflict: “Israeli troops in Gaza clash as residents told to evacuate,” “Disabled Gazans unable to escape” and “Israel vows to continue bombarding Gaza.”

From right to left and everywhere in between, Western media promote the perniciously false image of innocent Palestinians being savaged by nasty Israelis. Why?

The question is simple, but the answer isn’t. A whole ganglion of reasons come together to perpetrate this outrage of blatant anti-Israel propaganda.

One of them has to do with the sympathy for any Third World ‘liberation movement’, assiduously hammered into the minds of Westerners over the last several decades. This regardless of the nature of the presumed victims and their putative oppressors.

Hence millions of blacks murdered in, say, Rwanda and Burundi, attracted much less attention than the mildly undemocratic practices of the South African apartheid government, easily the most liberal in Africa.

The underlying assumption was purely racist: the Boers were white and therefore had to know better. The butchers of Rwanda and Burundi were themselves black, so they acted in character – they can’t help themselves, old boy, what?

The same racist criteria are being applied in this case: yes, the Israelis are indeed like us, as much as Jews can be, but that’s what we hold against them. Guardian readers don’t attack anybody, not with bombs at any rate, so how come Israelis do? It’s not cricket.

And Hamas? Well, wogs will be wogs, what do you expect? And since these particular wogs claim being oppressed by exactly the kind of people who are routinely blackballed at Pall Mall clubs, their cause is… well, not exactly just, but understandable.

One type of racism demands a sympathetic treatment of even the beastliest Third World groups. The other dictates a shameless anti-Semitic bias, however subtly conveyed.

If you were an Israeli, how would you feel now, between the Scylla of one racism and the Charybdis of another? Don’t answer that.

 

 

The former Archbishop of Canterbury has suddenly come out in favour of legalising assisted suicide.

Since Lord Carey once was an Anglican prelate, he no doubt holds every law, especially if involving life and death, to the test of Christian doctrine.

This must mean that, if a proposed legislation tallies with Christianity, he’ll support it. If it doesn’t, he won’t.

The last time Lord Carey went on record as a strong opponent of assisted suicide was in 2006, eight years ago. Now a week may be a long time in politics, but on the timescale of the doctrine that was divinely inspired (as Lord Carey is institutionally obliged to believe) and then took centuries to be properly understood, eight years is no time at all.

So what kind of epiphany has made Lord Carey reconsider? What exactly has changed since 2006?

His answer had better be good, for opposition to suicide, assisted or otherwise, is fundamental to Christian doctrine. It’s for no trivial reasons that suicides traditionally have been denied Christian burial, available even to murderers.

Like murder, suicide is an arbitrary taking of a human life, the sanctity of which is affirmed by both Testaments. Unlike murder, suicide can’t be repented. It’s an act of ultimate defiance, a denial of God’s sovereignty over one’s life – and by inference over all life.

I’m not aware of any post-2006 alterations to Christian doctrine that would demand a change of heart on this issue. The only other possible explanation for Lord Carey’s impersonation of a weathervane is that life itself has undergone changes with which the Church has failed to keep pace.

Lord Carey must therefore be privy to some exclusive information about a tectonic shift in human condition. To be fair, he isn’t reticent about sharing this knowledge: “The old philosophical certainties have collapsed in the face of the reality of needless suffering.”

The underlying assumption (other than the unthinkable one, that Lord Carey has gone gaga) has to be that since 2006 physical suffering en route to the pearly gates has become either more real or more needless.

If Lord Carey has new data to that effect, he should by all means speak out. In the absence of such data, however, the statement sounds suspiciously like meaningless bleeding-heart twaddle.

In fact, palliative relief becomes more effective every year. As I can testify from personal experience, even most cancer patients don’t suffer as much as they used to. In any case, it would be simply false to claim that suffering has increased over the last eight years.

If suffering remains a constant condition of human life, especially as it draws to a close, then perhaps the Church has changed its attitude to it? This would have to be drastic, considering that suffering is the formative experience of Christianity.

Presumably, Lord Carey has to believe that the pain Jesus Christ suffered on the cross was the birth pain of our civilisation. He must also be aware of the role martyrdom has played in Christianity since the time of the 12 apostles.

Perhaps not, as his comment suggests: by opposing Lord Falconer’s bill, the Church according to Lord Carey runs the risk of “promoting anguish and pain, the very opposite of a Christian message of hope.”

But the Christian message of hope has nothing to do with the absence of physical pain. It’s the hope of salvation, resurrection and eternal life in Christ – surely even a former Anglican prelate must be familiar with the concept?

These days, who knows. The C of E is wavering on all sorts of ‘philosophical certainties’ including, as this article shows, its opposition to homosexual marriage: http://anglicanmainstream.org/gay-pride-sex-discrimination-and-anglo-catholic-incoherence/

If Lord Carey’s footing is so wobbly on his familiar ground, he predictably slips and slides all over the place when stepping outside it.

Assisted death, he says, is already happening “in the shadows”, with doctors carrying out mercy killings of hopeless patients. Irrelevant if true, I’d say.

Doctors may sometimes exercise their judgement in such matters. However, it’s still against both accepted medical practice and indeed the law for a doctor to kill a patient with, say, a cyanide injection or pill.

Doctors have always been known to withdraw treatment when they feel that the patient won’t benefit, and may indeed suffer, from it. Personally, I’m slightly uneasy about this, but then, unlike Lord Carey, I’m often given to doubt.

I’m even less unequivocal on another medical practice, also widespread ‘in the shadows’. When a patient is in unbearable pain and, in the doctor’s judgement, has only days left to live, the doctor may administer a higher than safe analgesic dose of opiates.

This dose, he feels, may cause death and then again it may not. A responsible doctor won’t take this risk if he feels he may be robbing the patient of weeks of his life. But when the life expectancy is counted in hours or at most days, he’ll sometimes make this decision, usually with the family’s consent.

As I say, I have my doubts about the medical ethics of such a de facto mercy killing. I also question another practice: doctors terminating pregnancy in extreme cases, which they always did even when abortion was illegal.

What I have no doubts about whatsoever is that there exists a wide and, one hopes, unbridgeable gap between such practices and legalised assisted suicide or, for that matter, abortion.

Since 1967, when the latter was legalised in Britain, it has come to be seen as a normal medical procedure, on a par with appendectomy. As a result 200,000 unborn babies are being killed every year, a number that would probably have turned off all but the most fanatical advocates of legalisation back in the ‘60s. 

The example of every country that has legalised euthanasia shows that, when made legal, assisted suicide also becomes much more widespread – four times so in Holland’s case. It doesn’t take a huge suspension of disbelief to predict that sooner or later it’ll become compulsory.

The likely possibility of such a nightmarish scenario should  repel not just every Christian but indeed every decent person. Can it be that Lord Carey is neither? Surely not.

 

 

 

 

 

 

When George Osborne announced that Parliament Square was to be adorned with a statue to the ‘father of democratic India’, I thought for a second he had Lord Louis Mountbatten in mind.

It was after all the British Empire that created the legal, governmental and most other institutions that allow India to boast of being the world’s largest democracy.

Hence, as the country’s last Viceroy, Lord Mountbatten had a valid claim to begetting India’s democracy. Moreover, if rumours are to be believed, his wife even came close to begetting a few Indian democrats.

But of course our governing spivs aren’t in the business of honouring empire builders. They feel a closer affinity to those who hated Britain, along with all her inhabitants. Thus it’s not Lord Mountbatten but Gandhi who rates a statue in front of the mother of all parliaments.

There he’ll stand shoulder to shoulder with others who felt rather understated warmth for Britain, or specifically England. Mandela is already there, as is Jan Smuts who, unlike Mandela, at least saw the error of his ways later in life.

The statue to Lloyd George commemorates another chap whose claim to one of the plinths isn’t exactly indisputable. Whatever affection he felt for Britain was in competition with the admiration he had for both Soviet Russia and, later, Nazi Germany.

In fact, he could be justly regarded as one of the midwives who delivered Soviet Russia to a horrified world. For it was Lloyd George, along with Woodrow Wilson, who did all he could to ensure the Red victory in the Russian Civil War.

Here he is in his memoirs, laying a claim to a Parliament Square statue: “A Bolshevik Russia is by no means such a danger as the old Russian Empire.” “There must be no attempt to conquer Bolshevik Russia by force of arms.”

Gandhi too had a Russian connection: he was a devoted disciple of Leo Tolstoy, who first showed pacifism’s potential to set the stage for massive carnage. But the two men had much more in common besides the subversive idea of non-resistance to violence and hypocritical insistence on wearing folk garb.

Both had a gargantuan, in many ways perverse, sexual appetite, which they indulged on an epic scale. This happily co-existed with a sermon of celibacy and  rejection of sex even in marriage.

The two sages weren’t unduly bothered by the obvious fact that, should their ideas have been acted on, mankind would not have survived beyond one generation. Ideologues in general are seldom bothered by such inconsequential details.

Meanwhile, Tolstoy was busily populating his estate with dozens of illegitimate children born to his serfs, girls who weren’t in any institutional position to reject his advances.

Gandhi’s sexual tastes were more subtle: from his late 30s until his death at almost 80 he slept and bathed with naked teenage girls. He claimed no hanky-panky was taking place, but in some quarters tactile voyeurism would be regarded as suspect by itself.    

Mahatma Gandhi belongs, with Nelson Mandela and Martin Luther King, to the unholy trinity that proves that ‘false idol’ is a tautology.

Idols are always false by definition, and secular idols are invariably pernicious as well. One should always be on guard against secular hagiography, such as that exemplified by the film Gandhi.

‘Mahatma’ means ‘saint’ (or as near as damn), and the film set out to prove that its eponymous protagonist was just that. He wasn’t.

He was, however, a fanatical hater of the Raj who dedicated his whole life to the destruction of the British Empire. Like most other revolutionaries in history, he was mainly driven by hatred. Like them, he had to mask his animus by a sanctimonious claim to saintly love.

Thus he busily agitated for the departure of the Raj during the Second World War, when Britain bled white fighting Japan. The Raj’s withdrawal then would have left India at the mercy of Japan and led to an immediate massacre of thousands, possibly millions, of Indians, but such numbers mean nothing to fanatics.

This Gandhi went on to prove by continuing his agitation after the war, when India was already self-governed de facto if not yet de jure. All that was needed was some prudence and patience, but revolutionaries are never endowed with such qualities, especially when they’re old.

Gandhi wouldn’t wait: he wanted to live to see the fruits of his labour of hate. His dream came true in 1947-1948, when the violent partition of India drove 14 million people out of their homes and killed the best part of a million.

Rather than being at odds with Gandhi’s pacifism, this tragedy was its direct result. That the result was unintended is neither here nor there. It was entirely predictable, and people who can’t predict such results should refrain from revolutionary activities.

If they don’t, they’re as culpable in the ensuing massacres as those who actually do the massacring. In other words, they are criminals.

It’s fitting that Osborne announced the intention to erect a statue to the great pacifist to sweeten a £250-million arms deal with India. Quite apart from the obvious cynicism of it, there’s no contradiction: pacifism unfailingly creates a situation where missiles, preferably those able to carry a nuclear payload, are sorely needed.

The British are brainwashed to worship those who hated them. Mercifully, the nation has enough sense of humour left to see through at least some such ploys. Thus ‘Mahatma’ stands for ‘brandy’ in Cockney rhyming slang. Considering that Gandhi was teetotal, the irony is devastating.

Churchill summed him up neatly: “It is alarming and also nauseating to see Mr Gandhi, a seditious Middle Temple lawyer, now posing as a fakir of a type well known in the east, striding half-naked up the steps of the viceregal palace, while he is still organising and conducting a defiant campaign of civil disobedience, to parley on equal terms with the representative of the king-emperor.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reader has pointed out a factual error in my yesterday’s piece on bestiality: “Zoophilia was made illegal again in Germany last year. (Sorry to spoil your ‘Modernity descends into the moral abyss’ fun.) Consent is the key. Minors and animals can’t give it.”

True, the data I cited on Germany turned out to be a few months out of date. The country has indeed reimposed a ban on bestiality, making frustrated German animal lovers pop over to Denmark to get their jollies (my information on Scandinavian bestiality bordellos is current).

Contextually though, the reader seems to suggest that she has proved me wrong: modernity’s moral health is perfectly robust. She’s wrong – more so than I was in not having checked my sources properly.

The very fact that sexual perverts feel encouraged to seek equal status, even if they don’t get it in every country on earth, testifies to the depth of the abyss. Can you imagine things like legalised bestiality or, come to that, same-sex marriage having even been discussed a mere 50 years ago?

A Dane confidently predicting in 1964 that 50 years thenceforth his country would boast a chain of animal bordellos would have been committed to the nearest loony bin faster than you could say ‘maniacal delusion’.

Nor does the issue of consent matter as much as my critic thinks. First, if you believe such celebrated advocates of zoophilia as the Princeton professor Peter Singer and the Dutch scientist Dr Midas Dekker, animals can both enjoy sex with humans and communicate their consent to it, if only in non-verbal ways (from my modest experience in such matters, women may also sometimes communicate consent semiotically rather than semantically).

Second, and more important, it’s not just an individual who is entitled to give or withhold consent but also society. Traditionally, and I know this word offends today’s brittle sensibilities, acts contravening our formative Judaeo-Christian morality were banned not mainly because they harmed the direct participants, but because they ruined the moral health of society at large.

That we can no longer think along such lines testifies more than anything else to the depth of the aforementioned abyss. Actually, it was in Germany that the issue of consent was brought into focus not long ago.

In 2001 Armin Meiwes of Essen ran an advertisement saying that he was “looking for a well-built 18- to 30-year-old to be slaughtered and then consumed”. A consenting adult answered the ad and, before being slaughtered and eaten, enjoyed with Herr Meiwes a repast consisting of his freshly severed penis.

The case provided a source of inspiration for various pop bands, mostly in Northern Europe. The ‘musicians’ saw it as the ultimate demonstration of free will, and they treated the subsequently imprisoned Meiwes as an innocent victim. After all, both parties had consented to participating in the culinary experience.

This is perfectly consistent with the rampant, all-conquering solipsism that these days passes for morality. In the absence of God, each individual has full sovereignty of his person and destiny. Presumably, he was brought to life by parthenogenesis. His life belongs to him only and, if he chooses to act as the main course, it’s his privilege.

Plunging into the abyss is the greatest civilisation the world has ever known, or will ever know. There are no longer any absolute moral restraints to check its fall.

All the same reasoning applies a hundred-fold to the issue of assisted suicide, specifically the bill currently having its second reading in the House of Lords.

The proposed law would allow doctors to prescribe poison to terminally ill but mentally alert people who wish to kill themselves. Predictably, this obscenity is promoted by Tony Blair’s best friend Lord Falconer. This lot never waver in their commitment to destroying what’s left of Western civilisation in Britain.

They appeal to the solipsism that reigns supreme in the post-Christian West. Whether a person wishes to die and be eaten or simply to die is a detail that doesn’t change the principle. As long as he’s able to give consent, any doctor should be happy to kill him. No moral, cultural or, God forbid, religious objections need apply.

Empirical evidence from every country where euthanasia has been made legal is equally irrelevant. All such activists believe that their own take on subversion will make it perfectly benign.

Yet the slope leading down to the precipice is always slippery. In Holland, the first Western country to make euthanasia legal, the number of people killed by doctors has quadrupled since 2002, when the law first went into effect.

My Dutch friends are telling me that old people routinely refuse to go to hospital because they’re afraid the doctors will kill them. They understand intuitively that, when iatrogenic killing becomes allowable, sooner or later it’ll become normal and then compulsory.

Extreme euthanasia activists, the typological equivalents of those German bestiality campaigners, want to simplify matters even further. Lethal pills, according to them, ought to be given not just to terminally ill patients but to anyone over 70 who wishes to die.

Three-score and ten, right? The project has strong biblical overtones, so that’s continuity for you.

However, the demand is uncharacteristically modest. Why not shove the pill down the wrinklie’s throat, whether he wants it or not?

For one thing, this would relieve pressure on our dear NHS that’s creaking at every seam, what with the aging population and all… Sorry, I forgot that our post-Christian moral code rests on the pillar of individual consent.

This seems to be the sole criterion. If British women voluntarily kill 200,000 unborn babies every year, they’re free to do so, and we’re happy to pay for the killings through our dear NHS. Our solipsistic morality is thereby served, even though the unborn babies aren’t yet in a position to give consent.

If there still were such a thing as society, it would recoil in disgust. But we’re all atomised individuals now, and there is no centrifugal force any longer to keep the atoms within the molecule.

Welcome to the horror show called modernity. Enjoy it while it lasts, which in your case may be when you reach 70.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

    

 

 

 

 

I’m always fascinated with modernity’s knack at turning yesterday’s certitudes into today’s laughingstocks.

Conversely, practices regarded as mortal sins when our fathers were young are now described as perfectly valid ‘lifestyle choices’.

Moreover, one can hear all sorts of seemingly logical arguments supporting this shift and also defending each particular ‘choice’.

Homosexuality is one obvious example, though in that area advocates of modernity tend to be somewhat less logical than in some others.

On the one hand, they insist that homosexuality is a ‘lifestyle choice’, meaning that a bugger can be a chooser by opting to go one way or the other.

On the other hand, they maintain that there’s really no choice on offer: the ‘lifestyle’ is physiologically predetermined. Some people are born straight, some aren’t, and that’s all there is to it.

However, with the thin end of the wedge driven in to the hilt, logic returns to reclaim its place among rhetorical tools. Once we reject any absolute moral authority and accept that there’s no moral difference among various sex acts, an argument even for same-sex marriage becomes possible.

I’ve even heard self-proclaimed conservatives argue that married homosexuals are conservative people expressing their commitment to this core institution of our society.

My stock response is that they may be conservative, but a society that allows this abomination certainly isn’t. Then I tend to ask provocative, and typically conversation-ending, questions about where they are willing to stop.

First homosexual acts are decriminalised, then same-sex marriage is made legal. Now what about sex between siblings? Parents and children? Animals? These are all fairly popular ‘lifestyle choices’ too, and surely all the same arguments can be used to defend them.

What’s wrong with incest, lovingly called le cinéma des pauvres in rural France? Genetic risks to producing children? But then the spouses can choose to remain childless. The legalisation of homomarriage has already divorced nuptials from procreation, so what’s the problem?

Moreover, a marriage between a brother and sister may be less likely to end in divorce than a union of genetic strangers. After all, the siblings (or parents and children for that matter) have always loved each other anyway. 

One can sense that many other ‘lifestyle choices’ are bound to follow the same path from legalised acts to legalised matrimony. And one can congratulate our partners in the northern reaches of the EU on having made the first step.

Sex with animals is already legal in Denmark, Norway and Germany “as long as no one gets hurt”.

Never having ventured outside the female half of our own species, I don’t know whether some animals may find the act itself ipso facto painful.

One suspects that, for as long as their feeling aren’t hurt, and no S&M is involved, horses, sheep or large dogs may accommodate a man painlessly. I’m not so sure about chickens or cats, and I’m not inquisitive enough to want to find out.

But those who are can satisfy their curiosity by travelling to, say, Denmark or Germany. In those countries not only is bestiality legal but so are a rapidly expanding chain of animal brothels and ‘erotic zoos’, with such animals as goats and llamas catering to the intimate needs of human customers.

Presumably, health and safety being of paramount importance, customers are warned against using, say, jackals or pumas for oral sex, but let’s not go into detail.

However, defying logic yet again, the same countries ban animal pornography. Doing it is all right, looking at the pictures of others doing it isn’t. Those chaps do draw the line in some funny places, but who are we to argue against modernity?

There is evidence that sexually abused sheep and other livestock tend to shy away from human contact, but such reports come from farms where bestiality is secretive, chaotic and unsupervised.

Though surreptitious bestiality may do wonders for the local economy, mainly by boosting the sales of Wellington boots, it’s crude and must therefore be discouraged.

It’s conceivable though that a bestiality bordello or an ‘erotic zoo’ may create an environment where zoophilia is elevated or, in the case of chickens, lowered to a fine art. Again, I’m not sure I wish to explore this area at greater depth.

One way or the other, the professional bestiality industry is facing stiff amateur and semi-amateur competition. Certain publications in Scandinavia and Germany are full of private ads run by owners pimping their pets and livestock.

A parallel with human prostitution is crying out to be drawn. There too one observes various levels of organisation, from university girls discreetly turning a few tricks to pay their tuition to independent pimps running a girl or two to industrialised bordellos. And they all lose out to women who undermine corporate solidarity by doing all the same things free of charge.

Predictably, as opposition to this new industry is waning, its advocacy is strengthening. The term ‘lifestyle choice’, translated into German and various Scandinavian languages, is being used as widely as ever.   

The German Bundestag has meekly mooted some changes to the national Animal Protection Code, to which the robust response was anything but meek.

German ‘zoophile’ group ZETA has announced that any attempt to outlaw bestiality would run into a stiff legal challenge. “Mere concepts of morality have no business being law,” explained ZETA chairman Michael Kiok.

Myself unable to think in such cosmic categories, I’ll leave you to ponder the extent to which that one sentence overturns the last 2,000 years of legal history.

Meanwhile, people from all over Europe are flocking (no pun intended) to the German and Scandinavian bestiality bordellos. One wonders if this is the kind of free economic interaction that the founders of the EU had in mind.

Power, said Henry Kissinger, is the ultimate aphrodisiac.

The phrasing was original; the thought behind it wasn’t. Any reader of Greek tragedies circa 400 BC knows that the link between power and sex wasn’t first established in the USA during the Nixon administration.

Men and women of power attract the opposite sex like a magnet held above scattered needles.

It could even perhaps be argued, or certainly observed, that a strong libido typically accompanies a strong lust for power.

One way or the other, most people will agree that power increases one’s sexual opportunities. However, fewer people may notice that the reverse is also true: sex can be used as a way of gaining power.

I don’t mean this in the most obvious way, for even a cursory familiarity with history will make one aware of the numerous favourites of assorted rulers who rose to power through sex. Some of them, such as Manuel Godoy of Spain or Grigory Potemkin of Russia, ended up as de facto rulers themselves.

Yet the West is no longer ruled by kings and queens who could reward the amorous ardour of their lovers by transferring some of their royal power into the favourites’ hands.

Mechanisms of power in our so-called democracies are less straightforward, and at first glance one may get the impression that sex can now only destroy power, not create it.

A jilted lover of a married politician may create a scandal putting paid to the career of a president or prime minister. But the power lost thereby won’t pass on to the lover – it’ll be inherited by another president or prime minister.

In modern democracies the war for power is fought on a much wider battlefield, that of the whole civilisation, not just the proverbial corridors. For today’s power seekers are all vultures feasting on the remains of a great civilisation where the likes of them would never have risen so high.

Thus uprooting whatever is left of that civilisation is a necessary precondition for their power, but it’s not a sufficient one. They must also spray the once fertile soil with coarse-grain salt to kill fertility for ever.

 

A civilisation can only be defeated by splitting it up: a house divided against itself shall not stand. Divide et impera is the secular expression of the same principle, and it lies at the heart of our post-Christian modernity.

I believe it was brought to life primarily by a rebellion against Christianity or, more broadly, God. The target wasn’t just the religion itself but also the civilisation it had produced. Ortega y Gasset described this tectonic shift brilliantly, if only in a limited, secular way, in his Revolt of the Masses.

The wave of the revolt carried on its crest a new elite made up mostly of mediocrities endowed with an inordinate strength of animal instincts. They sensed that for the elite to live, tradition had to die – vultures need a corpse to get their sustenance.

Thus today we can see how everything that even remotely smacks of tradition has to be mocked, compromised and, ideally, destroyed.

This wicked animus can be seen at work in every aspect of our lives, be it culture, law, politics and of course social cohesion. Its traditional cornerstone is the relationship between men and women, sanctified by the marriage ritual and amply covered in both Testaments. Hence it has to be debauched.

For the new elite to conquer, the sexes have to be divided – their relationship must be portrayed as fundamentally hostile. Hence the ever-growing profusion of stories supposedly proving the existence of this putative hostility.

Suddenly rape stories begin to claim front-page space, new notions like ‘date rape’ and ‘marriage rape’ become common fare, sex abuse in the workplace becomes a major topic, some behaviour that in the past was considered tasteless gets to be treated as criminal, even marital sex is equated with rape, marriage is no longer seen as the exclusive union between a man and a woman.

History, appropriately falsified, is co-opted for this purpose as well. The 2,000 years of the greatest civilisation the world has ever known are routinely depicted as a catalogue of abuses against women (or, as a more piquant version, children).

Rather than venerated as the driving force of our civilisation they have always been, women are seen as its victims. Their role in mitigating the testosteronal savagery of their men is both misunderstood and ignored, as is their vital contribution to running schools, hospitals, hospices – and indeed their households while their husbands were off fighting wars.

It’s thanks largely to women that our civilisation lasted as long as it did. For it was mainly women who imbued their offspring with both the spirit animating Christendom and the culture springing from it.

Women were able to play such a sublime role by complementing their men, not fighting against them. Rather than striving to be like men, they were superior to them in many of the qualities and achievements without which our civilisation would not have been possible.

All this is being ignored: common sense and basic knowledge have fallen victim in the wars of modernity. Instead we’re fed actuarial calculations of how few women had full-time employment at various points in history – as if the drudgery of most eight-to-five jobs automatically elevates their holders to a high perch of self-esteem or social value.

We live in the midst of a great revolution, and all such upheavals have an accelerator built in. They are like a snowball that rolls down the slope, gathering size and momentum as it goes on.

So be prepared for more and more rape stories lovingly presented in every lurid detail. Our powers that be will spare no effort to escalate the sex war they themselves first imagined and then tried to make real.

The impression that we’re in the grip of a worldwide pandemic of rape and child abuse will be reinforced with every screaming front-page headline. The din will become deafening, but we may not become deaf to it before it’s too late.

 

 

The neighbourhood girl, whose name I don’t recall, fought hard, but I was stronger.

After a minute or so of desperate struggle I overcame her resistance and planted a kiss on her lips. I might have even felt her up, but I can’t remember that far back.

You see, the incident happened over half a century ago, when both the criminal (I) and the victim (she) were 12 years old. Afterwards, she called me a moron and refused to play with me ever again. I forget how long her resolution lasted.

Do you suppose I can be jailed for that solitary sex offence of my life? There are reasons to answer this question both in the positive and the negative.

First, it seems to be the season for so-called ‘historical sex offences’. The message is loud and clear: bygones will never be bygones.

Time may heal all wounds, except those of someone made love to, or even snogged, without permission. That particular wound remains open for life and so does the mental file on the crime.

The case may be revived when the time is right, which is usually when a) the offender becomes rich and famous, b) the climate of public opinion seems to be conducive to prosecution or c) ideally the confluence of the two.

Such subjective factors overlap with objectives ones for, unlike some other countries in Europe and North America, Britain has no statute of limitations for sex crimes.

This puts even nonagenarians at risk for their naughtiness during a Battle of Britain blackout, and a mere sexagenarian like me could definitely be in trouble (the ‘sex’ bit in this word refers to 60, not to the nature of the crime in question).

On the other hand, since my crime was committed in a Moscow courtyard, I’m not sure it could be prosecuted in a British court. Then of course the incident didn’t go beyond a clumsy peck, and there’s a distinct possibility that the victim has forgotten about it or, even if she hasn’t, isn’t feeling vindictive. She certainly seemed relaxed about it the next day.

It’s also unlikely that she now lives in Britain. Most important, since I’m neither rich nor famous, she wouldn’t have much to gain even if all those prohibitive odds were bucked.

Since it was just a kiss, she probably would be denied the satisfaction of seeing me behind bars. And a civil suit, even if successful, wouldn’t be worth the trouble.

All things considered, I can sleep well at night, which is more than can be said for Lord Brittan, who was yesterday questioned by the police for a rape he allegedly committed in 1967.

The reports aren’t saying why the woman, who was 19 at the time, had to wait until now to file charges.

That leaves room for guesses, such as that she had been trying for decades to recover from the trauma until finally realising, at age 66, that she couldn’t. After all, women are brainwashed to insist (and the rest of us to accept) that rape is the worst thing that can happen to them, that they’d rather be killed or crippled than raped.

At the same time a Labour peer, who hasn’t so far been named, is being investigated for having allegedly raped 12 boys over several decades. Eschewing facetious remarks, along the lines of ‘at least the Tory likes girls’ or ‘it takes two to tango’, one still wonders why the crimes have gone unreported until now.

In all such instances any half-competent barrister would have advised the victims to act immediately. In the absence of hard physical evidence, rape cases are notoriously hard to prosecute anyway, even if tried immediately after the event.

How it’s possible even to consider bringing up charges decades after the fact escapes me altogether. A woman on the cusp of old age says Mr Brittan (as he then was) raped her 47 years ago. Presumably, unless Lord Brittan (as he now is) really is guilty and can’t live with himself unless he confesses, he says he didn’t.

It’s her word against his, and the only reason criminal charges, or indeed an investigation, could even be considered is if, by some odd twist of today’s jurisprudence, her word counts for more than his.

Surely that can’t be the case? Please tell me that we’re still all equal before the law; that by being born a man and even becoming a toff a person doesn’t thereby relinquish his right to fair trial, be it by a jury or media. Please, for old times’ sake?

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t mean to trivialise sex offences in general and rape in particular, even though I wasn’t entirely serious when describing my own experience.

However, these days one can’t open a newspaper without reading yet another account of yet another famous old man being charged with sex crimes committed when God was young.

One is tempted to think that the ancient principle of proof beyond reasonable doubt isn’t applied in such cases as rigorously as in some others. And is there a chain reaction of accusations?

A woman claims she was mistreated, which gets the bandwagon rolling. Suddenly a platoon of victims appear out of nowhere, all anxious to jump on. The bandwagon becomes unstoppable.

This isn’t to deny that the posthumous reviling of, say, Jimmy Saville isn’t richly deserved. The man was obvious scum and, unless I sat on the jury, I’d find one look at his face to be sufficient forensic evidence to that effect.

But out of the dozens of cases receiving huge publicity in the last few months, could there have been some that were blown out of proportion? Where guilt was established, claimed or reported on flimsy evidence? There had to be, which raises some uncomfortable questions.

Question 1: Do some people in a position of influence have a vested interest in alienating the sexes? Question 2: Are our courts becoming an arena for class war? Question 3: Have we become vultures getting sustenance out of the corpses of ruined reputations? Question 4: Have our newspapers lost whatever notion of responsibility they’ve ever had?

Actually, the questions aren’t overly uncomfortable. But, one suspects, the answers would be.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

     

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

St Nicholas is a black-hating racist and so are 92 per cent of the Dutch, rules Amsterdam’s court.

Since only 80 per cent of the Dutch are white, it follows that many of the country’s black people must hate themselves. One can just see them doing a John Terry impersonation in front of the mirror: “What you looking at, you [expletive deleted] black [expletive deleted]?”

The variously coloured Dutch have found themselves in the dock on account of a tradition going back to the mid-nineteenth century.

In late autumn and early winter the Dutch celebrate the St Nicholas (Sinterklaas) festival culminating on 5 December. St Nicholas arrives by steamboat accompanied by his trusted sidekick Black Pete (Zwarte Piet), or rather hundreds of them crowding the flotilla following the saint’s vessel.

St Nicholas then rewards good children with sweets and makes naughty children promise they’ll be good from now on. He thus does in Amsterdam what his doppelgangers do all over the world at roughly the same time.

Father Christmas in Britain, Ded Moroz in Russia, Père Noël in France, Santa Claus in the States all administer the same incentive programme, immortalised in the 1934 American song:

He’s making a list,

Checking it twice;

Gonna find out who’s naughty or nice.

Santa Claus is coming to town…

Like their counterparts in other countries, Dutch children look forward to the event, and so do the grown-ups. This colourful, exuberant festival is rightly seen as the highlight of the year.

People big and small laugh, shout and applaud when St Nicholas disembarks, mounts a white horse and rides through the streets accompanied by a gaggle of Black Petes handing out sweets and biscuits.

There is a snag though, or at least that’s how an Amsterdam court, prodded by the United Nations Human Rights Council, ruled last Thursday.

You see, Black Pete is traditionally portrayed by a white man sporting blackface makeup, thick red lips and a frizzy Afro hairstyle. Moreover, he plays second fiddle to the offensively white saint, thereby evoking memories of slavery, the colonial past and global oppression of black people.

St Nicholas is therefore a racist swine, as are all those millions anticipating the joyous celebrations. Collectively they, according to the court ruling, promote “a negative stereotype of black people”.

This is tantamount to racism, the greatest cardinal sin of our time, and one that can be neither expiated nor redeemed. 

The good denizens of Amsterdam must therefore either ban the festival or at least rethink its props. One suggestion is to paint Black Pete some other colour, the rainbow spectrum being the court’s preference.

Now, just as Black Pete’s makeup symbolises something, so do the rainbow colours. Stylistic integrity would therefore dictate that the character should change his name accordingly. For example, Pete the P… sorry, I was about to make a facetiously alliterative suggestion that would have exposed me to the charge of homophobia, the second-greatest cardinal sin of our time.

The Dutch are used to their country being used as a pan-European test lab of neo-fascism going by the name of political correctness. Usually they shrug their shoulders and move on, but this time the people are up in arms.

Over 90 per cent of them insist that Black Pete is an innocent figure of fun meaning no insult. On the contrary, he’s kind, generous and much loved.

Even the country’s liberal prime minister Mark Rutte sided with tradition: “Black Pete is black. There’s not much I can do to change that.” This just goes to show he doesn’t understand the true meaning of liberalism.

Nothing you can do, Mr Rutte? Well, for a start, unplug your ears and listen to what the court ruled: “many black Amsterdammers felt discriminated against”.

True, they hadn’t felt offended until the UN told them they must, but that doesn’t change the fact now enshrined in judicial ruling. And true, the numbers point in a different direction: 92 per cent don’t perceive Zwarte Piet as racist or associate him with slavery; 91 per cent are opposed to changing his appearance.

But numbers, Mr Rutte, don’t change the principle. They don’t alter the deep philosophical meaning of today’s democracy.

The word does mean ‘the rule of the people’, but it’s up to international bodies and their local Quislings to decide which people should rule. That’s what real democracy is all about.

Once the ruling demos has been appointed, its task is to make sure everyone marches in step. There are many tricks to be used for this purpose, and one of them is ordering people to be offended at something that in reality offends no one but the ruling demos.

Whatever causes the mandated offence must then be eliminated in the name of progress. After all, what is progress if not learning new things and improving ourselves accordingly?

We’ve learned something vital since the nineteenth century: morality is what we say it is, not what it has been for millennia. So, Mr Rutte, you’d better bloody well do something about it if you want to remain within the ruling demos.

I hope the Dutch won’t lose their beloved festival, but I fear they will. The march of progress is unstoppable.

I have a weak spot for anthems, a sentiment only partly springing from aesthetic appreciation.

Mainly I value them for the insights they provide to the nation’s heart – an anthem is truly a nation’s ECG.

That’s why it was with a mixture of enthusiasm and regret that I viewed this video: http://www.breitbart.com/Breitbart-London/2014/07/01/Soldiers-of-the-Eurocorps-give-miliary-salute-to-EU-flag.

The clip shows soldiers of the skeleton European army, known in some quarters as the Eurokorps, goose-stepping and then saluting the EU flag as it’s being raised in front of the European parliament in Strasbourg.

The stamping sound of boots on tarmac is harmonised with the EU anthem, otherwise known as the choral finale of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony.

Though in my harsher moods I’ve been known to describe this particular movement as musical demagoguery, at least it was written by a composer eminently capable of better things.

Beethoven was also German, which provides one of those insights I cherish. Therefore his Ode to Joy, as the movement is popularly called, was a good choice at the time.

Though it may not be my favourite piece of music, it’s still miles (or rather kilometres, to stay in the European idiom) better than, say, the Horst-Wessel-Lied that otherwise could also have laid a claim to being the appropriate EU anthem.

Alas, that song had the kind of lyrics that some may still find offensive, such as ‘millions are looking upon the swastika full of hope’ (Es schau’n aufs Hakenkreuz voll Hoffnung schon Millionen in the original).

In deference to those who won’t let bygones be bygones, Horst Wessel would have to be sung with no words at all, or else have them slightly modified to reflect the post-war face of Europe.

Then again, The Ode to Joy has no lyrics either, at least none custom-composed to fit the march of European progress. By itself this isn’t an insurmountable problem: some national anthems have happily survived without words for a while.

For example, the Soviet anthem adopted in 1944 contained words like ‘We were raised by Stalin’ (nas vyrastil Stalin in the original) that a dozen years later became unfashionable. Until new lyrics were composed, the rousing tune went unsullied by verbal impurities, and Muscovites indeed referred to it as a ‘song without words’.

Upon the advent of perestroika, the tune too was discarded until mercifully reinstated by Putin, this time with words referring to Russia’s imperial rather than communist aspect. In a way, the Stalin-specific stanzas used to merge the two, so, for the sake of truth in advertising if nothing else, one hopes they’ll come back soon.

Deutschland, Deutschland über alles, which did such good service in Germany until 1945, also had to stay wordless thereafter, for as long as it took to give the lyrics a more multicultural, less ethnocentric sheen.

Such illustrious examples notwithstanding, I still regret the absence of real lyrics in the EU national anthem. You may object that Europe isn’t yet a single nation, which is why it doesn’t quite rate its own song.

Fair enough, but let’s not get stuck on technicalities. The EU already has its own flag and, as you can see, its own army. Thus denying it its own anthem is downright churlish, and this is the last thing we want to be.

In anticipation of the time when such annoying technical glitches have been ironed out, I’ve taken it upon myself to compose the official anthem of the single European state. My task, as I see it, is to reflect the true nature of the embryonic nation, but without sacrificing continuity with its glorious history.

Regrettably, while I have some modest ability to string rhymed words together, my talent at musical composition is nonexistent. Therefore I too have to borrow an existing tune, which is after all what the authors of the current German and Russian anthems have done.

False modesty aside, I have demonstrable work experience. For I’ve used a similar fusion of new lyrics and an old melody in the anthem I’ve proposed for the emerging Palestinian state: “Yasser that’s my baby, Nasser don’t mean maybe, Yasser that’s my baby now!”

Though the anthem hasn’t yet been adopted, I still regard my first foray into the genre as a solid base on which to build.

In that spirit, and given the tasks I’ve set myself, I’ve started work on the real EU song, provisionally entitled Schön Europa über alles, über alles in der Welt.

Appropriately both the words and the music have to be German. In this instance the latter was composed by Joseph Haydn who was actually Austrian, but that’s near enough.

I think that the middle movement of his ‘Kaiser’ Quartet, Op. 76 No. 3, is better music than the finale of Beethoven’s Ninth, or at least better for the occasion.

It has a certain contemplative quality that, as the music’s previous service as a national anthem proves, can easily segue into a crescendo leading to a paroxysm of patriotic spirit.

Another tune I’ve considered comes from the French anthem La Marseillaise written in 1792. The tune has three obvious advantages: 1) it was written when a new French state was also in its embryonic stage, 2) it’s suitably revolutionary and blood-thirsty, 3) by one of those serendipities that are easy to interpret as divine benevolence, it was composed in Strasbourg.

However, these are cancelled out by the two obvious disadvantages: the tune was written when France was fighting Germany rather than acting as her sidekick and, most important, it’s not German.

So Haydn it is, and I’m pressing on with my work on the lyrics. Unfortunately, since my German isn’t quite up to the task, I’ll have to write in English. Can anyone recommend a German translator, one who can do justice to the main thrust of my effort?

 

 

 

 

 

According to the Anglican clergy, the rejection of Satan, first described in the fictional work known as the Bible, is now complete.

Proving that the papists aren’t the only ones who can use progressive marketing techniques, the C of E has researched its new brand positioning in a wide poll of Anglican clergy.

Queried with the use of an up-to-date testing methodology, the statistically significant sample provided valuable insights into the baptismal ceremony, which for the last 2,000 years has been seen as the USP (Unique Selling Proposition, for the Martians among you) of the Christian brand.

The results of the survey having now been tabulated, a new marketing strategy has been devised in accordance with the findings. The House of Bishops (henceforth to be known as the Board of Directors) has come out strongly in favour of the repositioning and repackaging of the brand.

The anecdotal evidence from the clerical focus groups shows that the subjects favour “a simplified baptism which omits mention of the devil”. The old wording, they feel, damages the brand value of Christianity by “putting off people who are offended to be addressed as sinners.”

The test sample has suggested a simpler, non-judgemental pitch, promising only that we “shall do all that we can to ensure that there is a welcoming place for you.” This repositioning strategy will enhance the brand’s sales potential by enabling the Church to compete for a share in the markets currently dominated by pubs, hotels, strip shows, community clubs, casinos, restaurants and massage parlours.

Although no comments to that effect have been made, the Church clearly envisages further brand-specific activities aimed at re-establishing its role as market leader. Though the time for taking subsequent steps hasn’t arrived yet, the marketing logic dictates additional embellishments.

The strategy practically writes itself. Now that the obsolete notions of Satan and sin are about to be abolished, the matter of salvation comes into sharp focus. Salvation from what exactly? Since there is no Satan and no sin, what are those newborn babes to be saved from?

Such questions could present a problem to anyone unfamiliar with state-of-the-art marketing, but any MBA worth his/her/its salt knows how to turn a negative into a positive. In every crisis there is an opportunity gagging to be seized and ravished.

All it takes is some radical thinking unhindered by any unwanted baggage. Persons endowed with the mental faculties to think in this innovative way will be unafraid to offer groundbreaking solutions. To wit: if salvation has sunk into obsolescence, the term must follow ‘sin’ into oblivion.

It logically follows that the Christ-centred marketing strategy has outlived its usefulness, as senior Church figures have been intimating for decades. Since no sin exists, and hence no salvation is necessary, the figure of a saviour becomes redundant.

For the sake of continuity in the brand personality of so-called Christianity, the fictional presence of Jesus Christ, though downgraded, will still have to be preserved. Jesus will take his place next to Buddha, Mohammed, Confucius and Karl Marx as a teacher of a new all-inclusive, all-permitting morality free of such outdated concepts as sin, original or otherwise.

In parallel with school tests, now designed to guarantee top marks for all participants, the new morality will enable every parishioner to feel like the paragon of virtue regardless of his/her/its misdeeds. There are no bad men… sorry, persons. There are only bad societies, those that renege on enforcing the ultimate, nay only, virtue: all-inclusiveness.

Lord Williams, the former Archbishop of Canterbury, embodies this virtue in his own person, and one can only lament his absence from the forefront of the current marketing effort.

When still the principal prelate of Anglicanism, by way of job-sharing His Grace also acted in the capacity of chief Druid. Now that he has some spare time on his hands, Lord Williams has been inspired by Buddhism to spend 40 minutes meditating every day. Though his celebrating the black mass hasn’t yet been reported, His Grace is clearly in tune with the new direction taken by the church he once led.

By endorsing the new strategy, the Board of Directors (formerly the House of Bishops) takes another step along the road brightly lit by modern marketing techniques. Now members of the Satanist community will no longer suffer ecclesiastical exclusion: no longer will the founder of their faith be disparaged or indeed mentioned in the baptismal ceremony.

Therein lies the social significance of the new strategy, happily coexisting with the commercial opportunities. By excluding Satan and thus potentially including his followers, the Church strikes an important blow for equality and religious freedom.

Displaying enviable foresight, the Board of Directors (formerly the House of Bishops) has courageously abandoned the strategy that once made Christianity the brand leader. The Board is thus serving not the parochial interests of the so-called Christians but the community at large.

Though the strapline encapsulating the new strategy is yet to be finalised, the current frontrunner is ‘Vade retro, Jesus’. If the dollar bill can have a Latin slogan, why can’t the Church?