Well, there was I, thinking it’s Thursday and what am I going to Post about today, given my new sitting-room rug hasn’t arrived yet and li’l Hunzi has got his legs crossed waiting, and hurrah! Overnight, Akismet has put forward two new Comments for me to approve.
Both seem to be on the same theme, that of removing all the black people to somewhere unspecified.
Okay, so today Monica Wells and Kelly Matos have emailed me a second time, to tell me all black people are rapists.
What does that make you, silly little worthless baboon-women?
And why do these crude messages not count as Spam, Akismet? Any more and I will take down my site, Word-fucking-Press. I WILL NOT APPROVE RACIST SHIT ON THE BOGLINGTON PRESS.
I am reminded by one of the messages that the black people living next door are criminals. Actually, the black people living next door moved away last October and the black people living next door are now most definitely white, I’ve checked.
But judging by the aroma drifting from time to time over the garden fence they are definitely criminals. Smoking that stuff ain’t legal, I’m told. And the white couple on the other side are from Birmingham. ‘Nuff said.
The black people living next door might have been criminals for all I know, especially the daughters aged 8 and 9, and the overpolite teenage boy. The mum I’m not sure about either, I’ve seen her sneaking about the university campus with a rucksack filled with books she was probably stealing from the library to sell on the black market. They were suspiciously shy and neatly turned-out, hardly ever speaking in their black criminal argot other than to threaten me with a Good Morning, and the only sound you ever heard was the boy practising his scales on the saxophone; surely a crime against music. The kids snuck off to school every day, the girls’ black hair done up in illicit braids, the boy in a pair of shiny shoes he must have shoplifted during a riot; the whole gang fled to church every Sunday, a definitive sign of guilt-ridden consciences.
And then one dark night, or maybe it was day, they did a bunk. I’ve reported them to the authorities, of course.
Now, why Akismet, the WordPress spammeister who claims to have otherwise protected me from almost five thousand Spam messages over the past four years, should imagine I might be happy to read the kind of purulent racist bile that would kill a Komodo dragon, let alone Approve it for publication on this, muh sainted bogl, is one of life’s enduring mysteries. Indeed, it is a question I frequently pose, that is never answered.
No, the problem I wish to identify is that there seems to be no way of reporting to WordPress when some foul-smelling gas-bubble from the undredged, anoxic bottom of life’s slimy pond has burst over my life’s work.
I’m assuming WordPress don’t give a shit what anyone says, as long as they get the advertising revenue. They still won’t let us single-space, the criminals.
A destructive row has erupted within the Labour party over accusations that too many Labour supporters are ‘anti-Semitic’ and the party leadership is in meltdown not doing anything about it.
Anyone except the media would think there was an election coming up next week. On Holocaust Memorial Day, too.
The row has spilled over into a violent verbal assault by the combative self-publicising Labour MP John Mann in the foyer of Westminster Hall on the outspoken former very leftwing head of the Greater London Council, Ken Livingstone. Mr Livingstone, who was trying to give a telephone interview to a radio station at the time, sought sanctuary in a disabled toilet, pursued by Mr Mann, with consequent weird radiophonic sound effects like two dinosaurs in rut.
Mr Livingstone has defended the position of Naz Shah, a Labour MP and until this week parliamentary private secretary to Labour’s shadow Chancellor, John McDonnell. Ms Shah has now been suspended from the party over a stupid tweet two years ago, for which she has already fulsomely apologised. Mr Mann is accusing Mr Livingstone of being a ‘Nazi apologist’. Mr Livingstone has made some very curious remarks. But is the beasting of Ms Shah evidence in turn of anti-Islamism? And do we make the mistake of being too clearly defined by the past?
Ms Shah, who was not an MP at the time, retweeted a tweet she had received, a photo showing the State of Israel superimposed on a map of the USA over a cretinous suggestion that it could be relocated there. Ms Shah, a Muslim, humorously appended the words ‘problem solved!’ Now widely suspected of wanting to forcibly expatriate all Jews to America, she has been accused of the worst crime of all: being an ‘anti-Semite’. Her real crime was being naive. You can’t get away with using humour in politics these days. Words are meant to be twisted.
Who has inflated this non-story to discomfit Mr Jeremy Corbyn, the Labour leader? Why, none but our old friend, ‘Citizen Dave’ Cameron.
Mr Cameron has recently been embarrassed by accusations of living off, as it were, the amoral earnings of his stockbroker father, who ran his investment trust as if it were an offshore company to avoid paying tax in the UK.
What better, then, but to stir up hatred of the Labour party during Prime Minister’s Questions, by castigating Mr Corbyn for failing to expel this ‘disgusting’ tendency from his completely eclectic, secular party? Mr Corbyn didn’t help, when he paraphrased the apocryphal quote famously attributed to his predecessor, Jim Callaghan: ‘Crisis? What crisis?’. (Let’s be frank, Jeremy is a bit of a walking PR disaster.)
Mr Livingstone has apparently tied his own shoelaces together. The party was wrong to suspend his protege, Ms Shah, he argued. There was a big difference between anti-Zionism and anti-Semitism. (I’m not sure Ms Shah was expressing either point of view, I think she probably just thought there was some ironic humour in the idea of moving Israel, where a lot of American Jews are settlers involved in a disputatious land-grab in Palestinian East Jerusalem, to America, where the pro-Israeli lobby is all-powerful.) Hitler, he had explained without much forethought on a morning radio show, had even supported the Zionists before going mad and trying to exterminate the Jews instead. (He stands by this interpretation.)
That was when Mr Mann, who found the claim offensive and unbelievable, repeatedly shouted the words ‘Rewriting history! What about Mein Kampf?’ (which I doubt he has read) and accused Mr Livingstone of having Nazi sympathies; a totally inexplicable accusation as Mr Livingstone is known by all and sundry as a lifelong Socialist holding anti-racist principles to the point of tiresome obsession; the very reason he has been so supportive of the Palestinian cause, as he believes them to be victims of Israeli racism.
So who was right?
Some years ago I edited an anniversary collection of writings from History Today by fifty eminent historians, chosen by Professor Frank Furedi. Among them, Hugh Trevor-Roper (the ‘expert’ on prewar Germany, who was famously bamboozled by the fake ‘Hitler Diaries’) had contributed an essay I found compelling, investigating a link between the early National Socialist party and German Zionists; both of whom found it in their interest to promote the emigration of German Jews to Palestine.
Persuaded at least of the possibility of this unlikely collaboration, to find out more I’ve just been online to the website of the authoritative-sounding Institute for Historical Revision, and a dissertation-length article by its editor, Mark Weber, complete with an imposing list of citations.
Mr Weber quotes numerous sources and makes a compelling case that German Zionists, in their zeal to create a Jewish homeland, collaborated extensively with the Nazis, who ploughed millions of dollars into a project between 1934 and 1938 to persuade as many Jews as possible to emigrate to Palestine – although they didn’t cling for long to the idea of a Jewish State they thought might become their enemy.
Most Jews, however, refused to go, believing themselves to be good Germans; a naive faith that sealed their death warrants.
Indeed, Weber argues that many Nazi functionaries actually admired the German Zionist Jews for their sturdy independence (unlike the rapacious bankers, or the riff-raff of the eastern stetls); encouraged settler training camps, and were willing to assist them with their campaign to create a separate state, to the extent of helping to build factories to create employment for Jewish settlers in Palestine.
He argues, perhaps a tad less convincingly, that anti-Jewish laws from 1935 onwards were designed not to oppress, but more to offer Jews essentially a two-state, apartheid solution within Germany while they were contemplating the prospect of mass migration to the Holy Land. Kristallnacht, which he skirts around, gives this view the lie. (Sounds more like bullshit, but that’s history. Ed.)
Weber fingers the former Israeli PM Yitzak Shamir as a member of the ultra-nationalist Stern Gang, an underground terror organisation that, he says, went so far as to propose a military alliance with Germany against the British, who were also opposed (but for other reasons) to a Jewish state in Palestine. There is written evidence, a letter signed by Stern himself, he claims. (There’s always a ‘letter’ somewhere.) The Germans didn’t respond.
Hitler, he suggests, was uncomfortable with the accommodation with Zionism, but went along with it, until becoming impatient with the slow progress of this voluntary ‘ethnic cleansing’ and on the eve of Operation Barbarossa, the conquest of Russia, he ordered the ‘final solution’ in 1941; as one would.
Wow. This all seemed like dynamite until I read-up next on the Institute for Historical Revision.
It seems it’s been branded along with its maverick editor by dozens of respectable academics as being about the biggest bunch of lying, anti-Semitic, flakey racist historians northward of the Ku Klux Klan – in fact the IHR went out of business in 2002 citing lack of staff and funding. Weber himself attended the notoriously racist University of Illinois and is said to be a huge Holocaust-denier, something he denies. He only questions the claimed extent of the Holocaust, he says, the ‘six million’ – although he was forced to stump up a $50k reward after a survivor of Auschwitz proved conclusively there had indeed been gas chambers there, which (along with his friend, David Irving) he doubted.
So, has ‘Red Ken’ been led up the garden path by anti-Semitic, pro-Nazi revisionist historians? Or are the ferocious attacks on Mr Weber and his institute – hence, on Mr Livingstone – further evidence of the worldwide Zionist PR machine, that seeks to close down all and any debate about the increasingly repressive tactics of the Israeli government by promoting the worst possible account of the Jewish experience in wartime Germany, bitterly attacking as racist anyone who does not go along with their narrative? Making it virtually impossible for politicians and academics to enjoy the freedom even to discuss the historic circumstances of the Holocaust and the subsequent foundation and strategic development of Israel, without accusations of anti-Jewish, racial and religious bias.
Is historical revisionism actually anti-Semitism? And is anti-Zionism (a political movement) evidence of racism? After all, they are just words; loose definitions of one form of Jew-hating or another. Israel was supposedly founded as a secular, not an exclusively Jewish state. Is the Israeli government actually Zionist? Or has it been hijacked by religious fanatics on the right? Is there a difference? Should we allow the Left to promote a view that is by no means confined to non-Jews, that Israeli suppression of the aboriginal Palestinian population has gone too far? Or the opposite, that to accuse Tel Aviv of crimes against humanity is in fact veiled anti-Semitism, fear and loathing of the Jew that aligns its critics with Hitler, as Lord Levy, a former Labour party treasurer, has today alleged?
And what of the white American settlers’ treatment of their aboriginal minority, the British treatment of its vassal subjects in the Empire? How clean are our hands of accusations of genocide? How comfortable does that make us feel about criticising (more often not) Israeli domestic policy? How far should we go back in time to demand apologies and reparations for historic wrongs – to the Roman empire, maybe, Julius Caesar’s ruthless ethnic cleansing of Gaul? Are such ‘rearrangements’ of ethnic populations not the done-and-dusted accompaniment to centuries of intolerance and greed for land and resources, that have left us geopolitically where we are today? Is it not unhelpful for special-interest groups to consider themselves to be nothing but victims of history; a belief that traps them forever in the past?
In my view, the whole furore is utterly childish. If it was wrong of Germany to wall Jews up in European cities and use overwhelming punitive force against them when their young men revolted, then without rewriting history, how can it not be equally wrong to wall Palestinians up in parts of Israel and rain down sophisticated weaponry on their women and children when their young men rebel against the ongoing seizure of their homes and farms by settlers in defiance of UN resolutions? It is not good enough to present Palestinian resistance and the rise of Hamas as inexplicable acts of terrorism and anti-Semitism, unconnected to the historic occupation. Is that an anti-Semitic thing to write?
Many Israelis and diaspora Jews feel deep discomfort about it too, but their voices are not listened to in the Knesset. And many of them feel that non-Jews should keep out of it, as they too are being branded as ‘anti-Semitic’ by Jews to the right of them. To me, the moral position is clear: if Palestinian terrorism is wrong, then so too must have been the Zionist terrorism and political assassinations in the 1940s, that eventually pushed the war-weary British mandate into shamefaced accession to their demands, armed as they were with an unanswerable moral case that, post-Gaza, is now looking increasingly tarnished. But if Palestinian intransigence, the tropes of Hamas’ propaganda, is racism, what is Israeli intransigence, imposing their State by force, to be called?
It’s a convoluted moral argument. In reality it has nothing to do with race. Anti-Jewish feeling is more often rooted in economics than in religion. Calling people names is not helping to heal this seemingly incurable wound.
Closing down discussion is evidentially increasing anti-Semitic feeling across Europe, exacerbated by the usual popular response to the current climate of economic adversity to blame ‘alien’ minorities. Those who perceive anti-Semitism as being on the rise should perhaps look at the wider perspective: anti-Everything is on the rise. But to seize party political advantage from one silly young woman’s momentary lapse of taste by making her out to be some kind of Untouchable whose vile racist views have infected the entire Labour movement is pretty low politics.
Then, I detest Conservatives, as you know. Especially Labour ones.
For the third time this week, while engrossed in the polemical literary endeavour above, I have burned my lovely dinner: a steak-and-kiddly pud.
I am totally incapable of holding two objectives in my head simultaneously*. I need a partner, or at least an attractive kitchen timer, to prompt me with news of the passage of time. I certainly have no idea how to set the programme on my elderly cooker, without light and strong glasses I can’t read the legends beneath the little buttons. It’s why I thought a new one might help.
To bogl, then, or to cook?
As I write, I am crunching my way disconsolately through a hardened silo of suetcrust pastry, in the mix of which I have forgotten to put salt, my one remaining molar splintering on little hard knobbly chunks of meat, blackened carrot and dehydrated mushrooms, knowing that before retiring for the night I shall have to forestall my incipient heartburn with copious draughts of Gaviscon.
Hunzi, who has gone on a diet, eyes my plate wolfishly.
Little does he know.
*I’m seriously worried. A new report linking increased depression in the over-50s with early onset Alzheimer’s fails to take note of something I did this morning. Next to my bed is a table with, on it, a lamp and a radio. Both were switched on when I got up. Getting dressed, I went back around the bed and switched off the radio, before going back to put on my socks. A few moments later, realising I had left the lamp on, I went to switch that off and instead, switched the radio back on.
What am I like, eh?
Who the hell are you?
As if the furore over anti-Semitism in the supposedly secular Labour party, and is it the same as anti-Zionism or merely a vague irritation with pushy people, isn’t enough to be going on with, the politics of ‘identity’ is fast becoming another tangled web with which to ensnare us all in what we thought was our own language.
(Forty years ago you were allowed to point out without being accused of being a Nazi, or merely a facetious imbecile, that the Palestinian Arabs are also a Semitic people with a two-and-a-half thousand-year history of occupation of Galilee/Judaea. They predate Islam by a thousand years. Come on Ziobots, have a go at me for that, why not?)
Having been treated to video coverage of the attractively transgendered Caitlin Jenner, the burly Olympian formerly known as Bruce, ceremonially visiting the Ladies’ powder room in New York’s Trump Tower to test The Donald’s assertion that he supports voluntary self-identification and mixed ablutions, we learn today that April was BBC Identity Month.
Sorry I missed it.
Once upon a time, I seem to remember, it was all so simple: men were men, and women weren’t. You stood up to pee, or you sat down. (I have to try both, these days.)
No longer. It appears we are free to select which degree of bifurcated humanity we represent, and to demand that we be treated accordingly with unique respect. Not content with Trump toiletry, some transgendered people are even demanding their own segregated facilities. One envisages an endless line of toilets stretching down every corridor, each designated with a different little stick figure indicating which self-defining group may enter therein without causing social offence, moral outrage and general consternation.
Apart from the ‘straight/gay’ divide, now so old-hat, a bizarre article on the BBC website today ‘identifies’ at least fifty shades of grey between hormone-fuelled, red-blooded heterosexuals and pathetic old, post-sexual jazz lovers like me. Some categories merely refer to how you go about managing relationships:
- Asexual (‘aces’)
- Grey asexual, or ‘grey-ace’
- Demisexual (doesn’t mean you only fancy Ms Moore…)
- Polyamorous (polys)
And so on. (Autosexual doesn’t get a look in, sadly. Wankers demand recognition!)
Other finely nuanced ‘identities’ are more to do with where you feel you’d like other people to agree you fit on the gender spectrum; how comfortable you are in your male or female skin, in your mom’s high heels.
Yet more are concerned with race and religion (one story concerns the persecution of a gay ultra-Orthodox Jew… take your pick) and the divisive perceptions those create. As with race and skin colour, disability, too, has grown its own vocabulary and social hierarchy, bidding for recognition as a separate spectrum of ‘identities’.
That’s if there is anyone left standing outside any of these self-declared republics to confer the respect and/or recognition they demand. (See, the use of the word ‘they’ labels me as a colonialist, or worse….) What did John Donne write about it, that ‘No man is an island’? Well, some of us are incontinent, ha- ha, frowny face.
Then, of course, there are the manifold ‘identities’ conferred on hapless humans by class and birthplace.
Apparently more of us are feeling more international than ever, ‘global citizens’ or, at least, African, American or European or, an increasingly confident group, Asian. If we have become more middle-class, more of us are feeling ‘squeezed’. And the religious minorities – ‘Pastafarians’ celebrated their first legally sanctioned wedding just recently, with spaghetti cake, having been officially recognised somewhere.
Finally, there are the various classes of victimhood, endlessly setting up dedicated charities – silos for people ‘like themselves’ – demanding more costly public inquiries and being trotted out on chat shows, prisoners – many of them – of their past. We are rapidly acquiring too, a new set of persons known as the ‘victims of victimhood’; former public servants and others forced to fall on their swords because of their too-human failings in office.*
That’s an awful lot of toilets we’re going to need.
My thought is that we shall eventually arrive at a point where there are so many minutely categorised ‘micro-identities’ out there, we’ll suddenly realise we’re indistinguishably all the same – which is where we started out, a big messy jumble of crapulous baboons who’ve been at the fermented fruit again.
Let’s keep calm and remember, people – discrimination is the highest form of recognition.
*I have learned today that ‘victimology’ is now a formally recognised branch of the social sciences, and a module in the Law degree. I am beginning to feel like a persecuted minority of one, myself.
Pointing the finger
The big story this Bank Holiday weekend, however, is ‘Fingergate’.
You might not be a fan of the game of snooker, in which case you’ll need to be told that this has been World Championship fortnight at the Crucible theatre in Sheffield.
So, last night it’s the semi-final, the last of four sessions over two days in a tense best-of-33-frames match between current world no. 1, Mark Selby from Leicester, and the unfancied Marco Fu from Hong Kong. It’s finely balanced: 12 frames apiece. In the 25th frame, Fu is trailing slightly by 12 points to 7, 128 points on the table still to play for, and Selby has hit a ‘safety’ shot that has left the white cue ball touching one of a tightly-packed cluster of reds. (Potting one red at a time, scoring 1 point, enables you to play for a higher-value ‘colour’ ball. Now read on…)
If the cue ball is touching another ball, the rule is you cannot attempt to score from it: he has to hit the cue ball away from the red without moving it. Fu has difficulty bridging his cue (that’s the pointy stick, that you poke the ball with) over the reds, to get the angle he needs on the white. His hand is at its maximum extension, resting on spread fingers. He strikes the cue ball cleanly away, but as he does so, in pulling back he accidentally touches one of the reds with his index finger.
Now, strictly speaking, it’s a foul stroke. You’re not allowed to touch any of the balls with your finger, just like at school, thereby possibly improving the lie of the table. Although it remains exactly where it was, the red ball has rocked slightly, a trembling movement visible to the TV camera, which is tight-in close, but not to the referee, who does not call the foul.
Snooker being a game invented after dinner between English gentlemen in large country houses (you may have noticed the referee, with his black-tie, white gloves and deferential attitude, forever polishing the cue ball, is really the butler), an honest player would have put his hand up and nobly confessed that he has just committed a faux-pas.
Controversy soon rages in the commentary position, and between the studio experts: two players with, between them, thirteen world championship titles. Could Marco possibly in a hundred years, a professional player, not have realised what he had done? Maybe in the heat of battle… but… shaking of heads… it was all most irregular. The words foreigner, Chinese, what can you expect? were left hanging in the air, unsaid.
Now, I have part-time work twice a year, for a total of five weeks. It pays for my jazz hobby. I work as an invigilator in the exam rooms of my local university. Part of my job is to discourage – and, in the last resort, to catch – cheats. I feel a bit of a hypocrite, because in my time I might have done a bit of ducking and diving myself, principally to keep our children alive. So I have an ambivalent attitude towards cheating. I only report the most blatant or incompetent of cheats, for their own good. Nothing will happen to them anyway, the university needs the fees.
Sometimes I think, so what? It’s their life. If they can’t pass an exam without cheating, what sort of success are they going to have under professional scrutiny in their chosen career? (Most businesses need people who know how to cheat creatively.) How much information do you need to smuggle into the exam room, to make any sort of difference to your results? Writing the odd formula or a name up your arm isn’t really going to help: if you knew enough to write it down, you know it already! Like a Chinese student I once caught, you need to bring the whole essay in with you (unfortunately, in his case the essay wasn’t the answer to the question.)
Then, the examination system itself is a kind of cheating. It loads the dice against candidates who might be brilliant, but who are forgetful or just not good at exams. It relieves academics of the responsibility to ensure that all their students are elevated to the same level of knowledge. And it’s a totally artificial situation you will never encounter again in your life: we have these things called personal computers nowadays.
So when you leave university, life becomes morally less certain. I once had to take a local knowledge test as part of an application to work for BBC News. I was alone in the room, sitting at a computer on which I was answering questions to the best of my knowledge. Having only recently moved to the area, I didn’t know the answers to some of the questions. Afterwards, checking my score, the news editor asked me incredulously, why hadn’t I just Googled the answers? For being honest, I didn’t get the job. And I had once been a news editor myself.
Back at the Crucible, we had a situation where a player has accidentally touched a ball with a wayward finger, and technically it’s a foul. You’re supposed to keep your fingers under control. But because the rules don’t allow him to score directly from the shot, and there were no other reds he could hit, he could have gained no possible advantage from merely touching the ball. Touching it has not enabled Marco to play a better shot, as he touched it only after he played the shot. The red ball has trembled, but not moved. It’s still in exactly the same position it was before he touched it. Touching the red ball has not altered the chances of his opponent either: it’s the new position of the white cue ball that matters. If anything, moving the red ball would have benefited Selby, giving him an easier shot. Besides, it was an accident.
Should Fu have done the decent thing? Serving what purpose, other than to chalk-up a small gesture of chivalry in an otherwise ruthless fight to the death?
Ironically, by admitting to the foul Fu would have changed the run of play, which might then have turned to his advantage. He would have been docked four points, but at that early stage of the frame it mattered less. Selby would have had to replace the white ball on the baulk line instead of being able to play his shot from where it lay. (alternatively, he could have asked Fu to replay the shot.) Fu might have obtained some psychological advantage from the warm audience applause and approving commentary that would have greeted his honourable admission. By keeping quiet, to what extent do we think that his mildly dishonourable decision to fib, taken in the heat of the moment, might have preyed on the challenger’s mind for the rest of the frame?
But he kept quiet.
Selby goes on to win the frame anyway – and, eventually, the nailbiting semi – and at last, the championship. One up for the decent folks, you might say.
Until you look at the world beyond that unforgiving exam room, that microcosmos that is the Crucible theatre, Sheffield, in World Snooker Championship fortnight.
Take the distasteful actions of ‘billionaire retailer’, Sir Philip and Lady Green, for example; the former owners of the ageing, once-loved British Home Stores retail chain, that has collapsed with the expected loss of up to eleven thousand jobs and a £500 million hole in the pension fund. The deficit, equivalent to several schools and hospitals, will have to be made up by the Government’s pensions emergency fund; while (£580 million richer) the Greeds, as they are now known, having sold the chain for £1 to some random bloke who turns out to have been been bankrupted three times, but who is nevertheless reported to have taken out a £1.5 million loan* shortly before the business went into administration, bask on their $100 million superyacht in Monte Carlo, sticking two fingers up at the world.
Ransacking a business you own, letting a bunch of idiots drive it into the ground and expecting the taxpayer to pick up the pieces while you party with supermodels in your sunlit tax haven is not, as I understand it, against the rules of the game; in fact it’s pretty well compulsory in business. It’s not as if they touched the ball, or anything.
Now that’s what I’d call ‘Fingergate’.
*All figures from memory. See, I’m cynically cheating too.
Trump, Trump, Trump, the boys are marching…
Okay, oops, sorry, he’s won. I take it all back, whatever I said.
Let me just say now, for the record, that no finer man e’er existed; no sounder mind, no nobler spirit, no truer friend, no more handsome visage, no loftier ambition or greater soul, no more apposite candidate for Leader of the Free World, no tinier hands, no finer-spun angel hair.
Come, build us your towers, your rolling fairways. Come, cut us your famous deals. Put up your walls, your trade barriers, your punishment blocks for women, your transgender toilets and transit camps for evil Muslims. Come, laugh in the faces of disability and womanhood, Great Manager of Huge Enterprises. Introduce us to your connections.
Make America grate again.
Of thee I sing.