Sunday, June 08, 2008

Some Motherfuckers Is Always Tryin' To Ice Skate Uphill

You know, I've been accused of self-hatred in the past.

Not literal hatred of myself, mind, but hatred of Britain, of the West, of liberal democracy, presumably caused by some kind of guilt over our imperial past.

I get a chuckle at that, since I live in one of the most venerable and beautiful cities in the country and have the freedom to do whatever I like, and nobody gives me any grief provided I put in five days a week at work. I love this place - I like how everyone's a cynic and a smartarse, I like the fact that the buildings I pass on the way to work are hundreds of years old and were designed and built at great expense by the foremost figures of their day. I love our awful national football team and the what-the-hell, mine's-a-pint attitude of fans for whom every game is really just an excuse to get pissed with their mates.

That doesn't mean I don't have issues with the country, how it's run and those who run it. Call that self-hatred if you like, but you know what? At least I don't have so much contempt for the place that I spend my days fantasising about how Britons deserve to be enslaved under Sharia law.

Now, that's what I call hatred.

Of course, this is the rather mental Peregrine Worsthorne we're talking about here, riffing on the batshit Bishop of Rochester's recent attack of the vapours. For non-Brits, the Bishop was complaining that not enough people listen these days when Bishops try to order them about, and how it was all fields round here when he was a boy... Worsthorne agrees and appears to have decided that the only way to save the nation is to behead some sense into the populace.

I'd say it's a bit early to declare that small-c conservative Britain's raging disgust at modernity has finally outweighed its hatred for foreigners. When the next opportunity for smiting some respect into the Other presents itself, I suspect it'll be the non-English speakers that'll be doing the dodging.

It's just the logical conclusion to the forty-year backlash, finally laid bare for all to see. As the professional disapprovers of the fifties finally slouch towards that great pastoral fantasy in the sky, how many of them could've imagined they'd spend their twilight years dreaming darkly of the day when the eastern invader will wreak their stone-flinging, lamppost-hanging revenge on their behalf?

Who knows, perhaps if Jihadists laid off the foreign policy stuff and concentrated on promising to persecute wealthy liberals, they'd find eager allies in the most unexpected places.

The day may yet dawn when Worsthorne, Peter Hitchens and Melanie Phillips discover Abu Hamza isn't such a bad chap after all, when you get past the hook and the suicide bombing stuff, and together they march into a bright future free of anyone who objects to state enforced standards of public politeness.

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