We’re quite grown up, really. We know when we’re being lied to.
©2016 Gordon Flakjacket, Security Correspondent. @bunkermental.co.uk
Found guilty last month of ‘pledging allegiance to so-called Islamic State’, an offence under Section 12 of the Terrorism Act, 2000, radical Islamist preacher, Anjem Choudary and his dead-eyed sidekick Manzanur Rahman, at whose doors may be laid a number of conversions of more active bigots who have gone on to commit atrocious crimes, have been sentenced to five and a half years each in chokey.
While the BogPo doesn’t pledge allegiance to anyone, and absolutely decries the nihilistic brutalities of that cynical bunch of chancers, rapists, small-time crooks, drug dealers, slavers and child-murderers calling itself whatever, Daesh, nevertheless we have to say:
It’s a bit of a sad day for freedom of expression.
There used to be a whatsisname, an aphorism, that went: ‘Sticks and stones may break my bones, mere words can never hurt me’. The Terrorism Act in our humble view (as purveyors of words to the motley) went way too far in making any public utterance of sympathy for any kind of organisation labelled by the government as ‘terrorist’ in any part of the world, a prisonable crime.
For it is surely better to know, than not to know, what these creatures intend towards us?
The Islamic Thinkers Society was the American branch of the al-Muhajiroun movement launched in the UK by Choudary’s mentor, the Syrian preacher Omar Bakri Mohammed. Just like its British counterpart, its activities were focused on calling for an Islamic state for the whole world. – BBC News report
“Islamic thinkers”? Possibly the greatest oxymoron ever! Islam does not permit thought, unless it is thought of God. It apostasises and often kills free thinkers, as in Bangladesh currently where a number of teachers and bloggers have been hacked to death by credulous village simpletons. Islam as codified in the books of the Quran and the Hadith claims to be the final, the only true religion. Nothing that is the product of thought may therefore come after.
But it’s good to know what they’re thinking.
We had this before, didn’t we, in the eighteenth century? The sedition laws that protected the majesty of the absurd Hanoverian dynasts were eventually abolished as being unworkable in the face of the growing globalisation of the publishing industry; and the strength of the vitriol purveyed in the public pamphlets subsequently declined.
There is a school of thought, to which we subscribe, that believes the things Mr Choudary was going around saying – which, for twenty years before he was finally entrapped into saying it, did not it seems go as far as publicly pledging allegiance to the so-called Islamic State terror gang – ought to be common currency.
As, we here at the BogPo have no idea what he said!
We should not have to speculate; be kept in the dark. Everyone should be allowed to hear what creepy, manipulative, religiose proselytes like Choudary are saying, know what dangerous, improbable nonsense they are promoting, why, and what is in their oddly shaped heads; we should be free to discuss and rubbish their noxious doctrine, to laugh at them and spit on them and throw rotten eggs in the street; or to consider them fair and sensible, moderate and proportionate if that’s what they are – we, the Jury, can decide.
That’s the British way.
It worked with the fiery radicals of the 1968 intifada on the streets of London and Paris, look at them now: Jack Straw? What, the Privy Councillor, former Labour Home Secretary and principal apologist for Blair’s War, caught on Candid Camera offering to hang his well-paid arse out on a daily basis for a dodgy Chinese PR firm (invented by Channel 4)?
What, ‘Professor’ Tariq Ali? ‘Green MEP’, Danny Cohn-Bendit? But I followed these exciting young opinion leaders and their dangerous anti-American, Trotskyite ideas into Grosvenor Square, along with tens of thousands of other people like me, except possibly worse dressed, twice! And now look at them.
And it worked with the leaders of the IRA, McGuinness and Adams, now cosy partners in government with their erstwhile sworn enemies, the DUP. Identifying poverty and lack of opportunity as the root cause of extremism on both sides in Northern Ireland made it easier and cheaper to buy violence off, than to try to suppress it militarily.
For many years the public intellectual and journalist, the late-lamented Christopher Hitchens, took his readers’ and audiences’ breath away in staged debates, interviews and books with his repeated, courageous demolitions of so-called Islamic jihadi thinking, as well as of the more obvious idiocies and inconsistencies in Christianity and, indeed, Judaism: they are all of a piece. He martialled, calmly, with fact and reason, on the basis of impeccable historical research and detailed knowledge of the content of the claimed ‘holy’ books, a case against the absurd cowardice of the apologists for Islam as a ‘peaceful religion’. Born in blood, that it has never been.
Open debate in the light of knowledge is the surely the only way to defeat ‘jihad’. Sticks and stones will never hurt them.
Prosecuting hate speech on the grounds that it radicalises Britain’s young, disaffected Muslim population and persuades them to engage in stupidities like fleeing to Syria to blow themselves up for a handful of raisins* in the cause of restoring an eight-hundred-years-old ‘caliphate’ which, on a moment’s reflection, anyone would not really want to live in, does nothing to halt the process and belittles the intelligence of its hearers.
Trying to ban the currency of those ideas simply makes it more dangerous and excitingly anti-authoritarian to hold them in secret, creating that very sense of superiority and ‘apartness’ which is the main attraction of Jihad for impressionable teenage baboons in the first place. If they thought the grownups were all in on it, they’d soon find something else to do.
Egging each other on, modern British governments have become over-addicted to ‘more prison’ as the solution to all social ills. It’s a growing paternalism, frankly, with a level of surveillance and morality-policing we all resent at times. We’re quite grown-up, really, we know when we’re being lied to.
Except Brexit voters, obviously.
*’Virgins’ is a mistranslation, apparently.
Let us now praise gruesome men
An open letter to Crispin Blunt MP
PRIVATE AND PERSONAL
I feel I have some strange affinity with the Yemenis as my great-uncle Harold was the British envoy to Yemen before the Second World War, responsible for brokering a now-forgotten treaty that united the Bedouin tribes on the side of the Allies.
His wife Doreen wrote a well-received Foreign Office report on the condition of tribal women that remains to this day a landmark in Yemeni social history – or would, if that impoverished country were not embroiled in a devastating proxy war whose prosecution by an interventionary neighbour state is being supported in large part by illegal arms sales to the many-headed tyrant of the House of Saud; prime exporters of Sunni Wahhabist jihad throughout the Middle East and beyond, to Manhattan and Paris and to our shores.
In the light of your recent statements in Parliament and on the Newsnight programme I feel, however, that I have no connection with you personally, as a member of the human race.
You revolt me to my core.
Devious old shits like you make me wish devoutly that I had not been born British. I am sick already of watching the government of this country demeaning us all with its craven lamprey-mouth firmly affixed to the arsehole of Arabia, prepared to do and say anything, anything at all, to tolerate any hypocrisy, any abuse, to keep that crude a’pumping. Do we not suppose ourselves in all other respects to be better than that?
As you plainly well know, there is clear, ample, recorded and fully investigated evidence of war crimes and crimes against humanity being perpetrated on an almost daily basis by your unpleasant chums in Riyadh: the murder of doctors and nurses and teachers and pregnant women and children in the deliberate terror-bombing of schools and hospitals that are well known to the Saudi forces and properly identified as supposedly ‘safe’ sites, protected in international law.
So cowardly are they, so brutish and, as are by extension their bought British ‘friends’, so arrogant, that they cannot win this war without it.
Yet you continue for whatever reason may be known only to yourself to deny what is happening, to propose more delays and ‘inquiries’ before Britain suspends its illegal supply of weapons of death; to suggest, as the thin porridge dribbles from your twisted old mouth down your stained Old Wellingtonian tie, that the Saudis themselves are best placed to investigate their own complicity in crimes against humanity – please! You dismal emitter of noxious, self-serving claptrap! – and to bluster and bombastify and threaten and rail under Parliamentary privilege against the media and your actually honest political colleagues who rightly draw attention to disturbing matters of which you are apparently entirely unaware in your enthusiasm for more murder.
It has often occurred to me that the notorious love for all things Arabian shared by the upper echelons of the British political, diplomatic and military establishment has its roots, principally, in their fondness for young Arab street boys and their shapely little brown bottoms. The current festival curiously celebrating the poetic pederast, Oscar Wilde reminds us of it.
It is no wonder the Mother of All Parliaments is crumbling to pieces, its fine mock-Gothic stonework eaten away and rotted by the acid breath of generations of expedient, slimy hypocrites.
Yours most sincerely, and with maximum prejudice
The foregoing article does represent the opinion of the Editor.
Getting the show on the road
Cyclo-fascist and presenter of the new series of Crimewatch, the nearest thing the BBC ever gets to public-service broadcasting after the Antiques Roadshow, Jeremy Vine has been rehearsing for his new career move by dobbing-in angry motorists to the cops.
When Lord Rank wanted rid of him, my TV documentarist father was posted to the presenter’s chair of Rediffusion’s Police Five as a stand-in for the regular smug drone, Shaw Taylor. I too was nearly driven out of the broadcasting profession after several punishment shifts for LBC, reporting on traffic from Scotland Yard. (It still didn’t get me an invite to the 40th anniversary bash.)
Coming from Radio 2, Jeremy (what is it with people called Jeremy?) may not realise the symbolic intent behind being offered Crimewatch. He probably thinks it’s a job of national importance to be seen standing on a wooden platform in front of a big green screen, earnestly linking to improbable reconstructions, teary press conferences and sententious coppers calling on widowed mothers to shop their wayward sons, with his Sunday face on. He may not know that the criminal class vies to get on the show.*
A few days ago, Jezza unkindly posted video online of a black woman driver haranguing him for pedalling slowly in front 0f her car down a narrow one-way street with parking on both sides making it impossible to pass him.
It’s probably just as annoying to have a cameraphone shoved in your face, she was probably in a rush to save her burning children and she may have uttered threats and imprecations of the usual kind we all do nowadays. I don’t know, I haven’t seen it. Life’s too short. All I know is, ‘a woman’ has been arrested and bailed to report later this month. There but for the grace, etc.
The only time I ever tried to kill someone was about 25 years ago, when, as I was pulling off the main road onto the forecourt of my office building, I could see this vision in Lycra hurtling down a gentle incline towards the rear of my car through the traffic lights behind, that had just turned red.
I flashed my brake lights frantically to warn him against the course he was clearly about to take, and waggled my indicators, but as I turned the stupid cunt still tried to overtake me on the inside.
Illegally mounting the pavement, as he shot across my bow he insolently threw me a V-sign. I set off in red-misty pursuit, with the full and likely fatal intention of running the little bastard into the railings.
Happily for both of us, my anger-management angel prompted me just in time to abort the mission, and instead I overtook him. As I started to get out of the car to make certain points clear, he jumped from his bike and fell to his knees, operatically begging for mercy.
It was such a sickening spectacle, I got back in, turned the car and headed off around the block to try again to get to work, where I really needed to be. Reader, I spared his worthless life. I’d hate to think that cyclist grew up to be Jeremy Vaine.
Luckily in my day the cellphone hadn’t been invented. Only God saw what we got up to. Cyclists, eh? Way to go, Jez. That’s one cleared up before the red light’s even gone on.
*I’ve just been made aware of a news item whose headline suggests there has been a small change in the format of the show. It seems part of it is now fictionalised, to sex it up for the Strictly crowd no doubt.
From our Correspondent ©2016 Polly_Wood@fuxnews.org
OMG!!!, not Hiddleswift? Surely not yet? THE END ALREADY??? #terrifiedface
(Who this? Ed.)