It’s coming to something when the popular conception of politics is ‘rock and roll for ugly people’
I mean – was Disraeli pretty? Was Dr Johnson much of a ladies man? Time was, William Gladstone could set out charitably visiting London’s prostitutes without even so much as a whiff of scandal, so sophisticated, in such a supposedly backward time, were the general public. Nobody wagged their fat head or clicked their thick tongue in the obvious assumption the leader of the nation was getting his noble end away.
But that’s all gone. And today we’re so wildly liberated that a man is judged, by women, and shamefully by many slavish men, purely on the basis of whether he’s eligible for partnership with a woman. As for politics – well, that’s just ‘boring’ Er..right.
It’s probably boring because it’s so fucking orthodox and out of touch and reduced to the general level of an interesting ongoing social event for – what was it? – ‘ugly people’?
The idea of an unmarried man going into British politics, at least over the age of 30, is anathema to our small-minded, shopkeeper-soiled feminazi culture of mindless hysteria and indiscriminate sexual repression (sexual repression for men, that is – not women. Not many blokes can face the notorious ‘Vagina Monologues, but take my word for it, they’re pretty much an endorsement of female paedophilia – and no-one blinks an eye, naturally.)
But it’s now obligatory to accept that old women can toss themselves off over pictures of Justin Bieber – which I can’t say I’d be too happy about if he was my son (Christ what a nightmare – ‘I was Justin Bieber’s Dad’ – yyyyyyyuuuuuuurghhhh), but if a bloke over 30 just tells the truth and says he fancies women – adult women – of most or all ages up until they’re just too totally decrepit to be sexually attractive, he’s a filthy horrible old pervert and – thanks to all the mighty convenient and wildly dangerous boundary blurring of public witch-hunts like the laughable Operation Yewtree, (a nauseatingly cynical police PR stunt designed solely to tear public attention away from the genuine scandal of ingrained police corruption set to be exposed this September) – that not only that, but that said harmless isolated bloke probably wants to monsterise everyone’s kids into the bargain. And this officially sanctioned insanity is excused and rationalised by which ludicrously flawed orthodoxy again? Oh yes. Feminism.
It is impossible to get anywhere in mainstream society today without saying that you are a feminist. Not being a feminist will be as damaging to your career – unless you’re completely self made, and even then it’ll hold you way back – as not being a member of the National Socialists in pre-War Germany. Disagree with feminism on any level and you will be not only not listened to, but automatically branded a reactionary bigot. And it doesn’t matter if you’re a man or a woman – look at what happened to Erin Pizzey.
Conservatives like to complain of the Nanny State, and never was there a more apt word for our pathetic single issue society.
Take the most hypocritical, tyrannical, fucked up Victorian Nanny you could find and set her loose on setting our school curriculums and dictating the conduct of our socialist ‘third sector’ state and it couldn’t get any worse.
Nanny is censor. And anyone who offends her gossipy, ignorant, suspicious little pig eyes simply isn’t admitted to the house of social acceptance.
I mean – get this: I’m an old man. Not elderly perhaps – but old enough for kids to go ‘there goes that old guy’. I mean I think twice before putting on a T-shirt these days – you know what I mean? I don’t do much mirror shopping. End of the day – The Edinburgh Woollen Mill beckons.
So it’s getting to the point that society forces me to be in official denial about certain things – particularly when it comes to sex.
This is partly of course on grounds of taste. As the prospect of an emergency Edinburgh Woollen Mill model – possibly wearing those comfortable laceless shoes you still occasionally see advertised in the Daily Telegraph – having sex becomes more absurd and repugnant – I just have to deny I have a libido.
But it shouldn’t mean that if I’m honest, and don’t deny I have a libido, that – and this is no exaggeration – I’m viewed at worst as a potential rapist, and at best a ‘dirty old man’.
Seriously – these days if I meet an attractive women in her twenties, or even her early thirties, I have to click a switch in my head, pretend I’m her grandfather, and damn well act accordingly, no matter how hot to trot she is.
Draped across the dead centre of mainstream society, drenching a once healthy body politic, is this great sick veil of self-denial and censure that says unless you’re Marlon Brando, or officially approved through marriage, or loaded enough to buy some gold-digging chick whose morality boils down infinitely lower than that of a working prostitute, you have to pretend you fancy knackered old trouts. In fact it’s worse than that – you have to pretend you ‘respect knackered old trouts’ for who they are. Which is generally – well, bigoted, selfish, embittered, knackered old trouts. Great.
Then there’s ‘polite society’ – in which ideas are dead, and the well to do sit numbly hypnotised by formerly informative and now ludicrously dumbed down and feminised radio channels like ‘Radio 4′ – (a badge of supposed intellect that, if you actually listen to any of their wretched broadcasts, is in fact just a barrage of outrageously innacurate and poisonous Fabian and radical feminist propaganda). Knock-kneed mangina presenters vie with insecure young harridans in boots to bray about the ‘terrible isolation’ that childless women, or single men – (a social group who once isolated get further maligned by the crackpots-that-be managing this supposedly liberated and challenging strand of debate as being, if not practising, then closet homosexuals) – in general, socially – (‘socially’ being, for the listeners of Radio 4, the shorthand for ‘at dinner parties.’)
Well I’m not invited to many dinner parties. Alright I’m not invited to any dinner parties. But when I can force my presence on any kind of social forum that involves any women I even vaguely like or respect, (generally ones who’ve made a go of marriage against the vicious odds society puts in their way), I have to spend about six hours in a fucking flotation tank beforehand, meditating on the blind azure and generally getting at one with infinity, to clear my mind in readiness for what boils down to an open season volley of the most insulting and depraved abuse about my sexuality they can muster – and that’s generally pretty depraved.
If I were unmarried in medieval Italy, and had been resultantly tied backwards to a donkey and forced to parade the streets for the jolly local townsfolk to throw tomatoes at me – it would be frankly a relief; I mean, you don’t have to condascend to answer a tomato.
It’s unbelievable. Generally it kicks of with some typical bollocks about ‘life goals’ (although one of my friends not-a-little-feisty wife generally just downs a bottle of wine and then cuts to the chase by asking me if I’ve ever had sex with a man – which obviouly makes her very happy but does tend to put her kids off their dessert.)
From ‘life goals’ it’ll whinge inevitable towards, not any longer ‘settling down’, of course, as the prospect of any woman ‘settling down’ with their destitute grandfather becomes less and less appealing, but ‘where are you heading’ – ‘what are your hopes and dreams’ and so on and so on ad nauseam.
Couples, I can never fail to notice, do not get asked these questions. And that’s because all this guff about hopes and passions and vague self-improvement jargon in general actually means this;
‘WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING WITH YOUR LIFE? HOW LONG CAN YOU CARRY ON JUST WANKING? AREN’T YOU TIRED? WHY ARE YOU SO WEIRD? FUCK OFF! OK JUST TELL ME YOU’RE SECRETLY GAY. THAT WOULD SOMEHOW MAGICALLY EXPLAIN EVERYTHING.’
Yep. Thats what they mean. As surely as if they hired loudhailers for the evening, let off an air raid siren as you entered the porch, and publicly disinfected your cutlery before donning rubber gloves to stow it in a draw marked ‘common diseases of prostitution’.
The reduction to total idiocy of modern society by an out of control state capitalism hell bent on raping us into all becoming concussed and traumatised consumers rather than human beings, the erosion of any respect for intellect, the usurping of moral religion by ridiculous pseudo-tribal quackery whose early doctors would laugh out loud to see still duping such a technologically advanced society, the unquestioned rise of outrageous bigotry and prejudice posing as harmless ‘feminism’, and most insidious of all, the hilarious Dawkins crusade, in which a heavily coiffed TV Don ludicrously over-simplifies outdated and increasingly irrelevant Darwinism for the sole purpose of baiting otherwise relatively harmless rednecks for the entertainment of nasty middle class wankers in Europe and on the East Coast, has led us to a popular culture in which we esteem ourselves according to the lowest possible common denominator. As a bunch of fucking apes.
The awesome Bill Burr is fond of proclaiming to his audience ‘Why the fuck am I here?’, on the basis that he’s 40, doesn’t have any kids, and doesn’t do anything materially useful. He’s a comedian. He’s kidding. Unfortunately – no-one else is.
They’ve been convinced we are all in fact not descended from apes – but not progressed beyond being apes. And a 40 year old single male ape is a waste of space. Whereas a 40 year old single man – is not. Only this now counts for nothing. It’s open season on the solitary monkey, across the board.
If you’re single, and a man, and over 30, or worse, over 40 or 50 – and if you’re not drop dead gorgeous, rich, famous, polyamorous, gay, and last but not least if you won’t bow broken-backed to a load of loathsome feminist bullshit whether you can see straight through it like a fat cheerleaders negligee or not, you’re on your own. But laydees – this isn’t a fucking rainforest village – ok? It is possible for a man to have worth and be ugly, single, eccentric – whatever. You may be weak enough in the head for the Metropolitan Police and a big Plasma TV screen to beat into your frail psyche the insane belief that the single man who doesn’t give up on life and traipse around womens petticoat tails like a lost dog is a – (what was the last unprovable, utterly ridiculous, nutty as a fruitcake claim they made about that dead entertainer no-one much cared about in the first place – oh yeah – a necro-fucking-philiac!) – so a necrophiliac, or a – I don’t know – a bird abuser, or a towel rapist, or a dogsodomiser by royal appointment or whatever – but the rest of us aren’t that thick. Particularly the ever swelling ranks of dispossesed and disadvantaged bright, strong and talented men who have to put up with a society of complete fuckwits shitting on them daily. Men who are increasingly joining Britain’s flood of
political and social exiles, and just leaving you miserable myopic bastards to drown in your own shit. Which is wrong – but hey – what other choice do we have?
None – unless – ah fuck it. I suppose we could all get into politics