For shame

The government have—narrowly—managed to defeat the Dubs amendment to their immigration bill, which would have extended the pitiful number of refugees we are accepting to include an additional 3,000 unaccompanied children, after arguing that it would act as an “incentive” for families to make the difficult Mediterranean crossing.

To which there can be no response but: fuck you. Fuck you, every single one of the 294 inhuman, vile, despicable, callous, soulless, revolting, xenophobic bastards who voted this amendment down. Fuck you again, and then fuck you backwards. After a short pause for respite—because I, unlike you, am not inhumane—fuck you again. And again, and again, and again. Also: fuck you.

This, my privileged friends, is the incentive for making the crossing.

Assad Crimes in Syria

Destruction in Syria. Flickr/FreedomHouse. Public domain.

If there are unaccompanied children in Europe, my loathsomely indifferent parliamentarians, then one possible cause could be that their parents are here:

Mass-Grave-of-230-Killed-by-ISIL-Terrorists-Found-in-Syria

Mass grave following ISIS massacre. News Impulse/Creative Commons.

And in the instance that there are living parents who have sent their children on ahead of them… well James Brokenshire, Home Office minister suggests that the Dubs amendment would “inadvertently create a situation in which families see an advantage in sending children alone, ahead and in the hands of traffickers,” and, James, you may well see your own children in such cold-bloodedly exploitative terms, but I would suggest that when parents do send their children on alone, it is rather more likely because they cannot make the trip themselves, but do not want this to happen to their sons and daughters:

The body of a child lies on the ground next to other bodies afte

What happens in war. Flickr.com/FreedomHouse. Creative Commons.

The fuckers who voted down this amendment constitute the moral detritus of humanity, and those—like the odious James Brokenshire—who did so suggesting that any of the victims in this horrific war act out of calculated cynicism and not simply from desperation make me aghast and ashamed to live in a country governed by such hatefully indifferent, shameful, vile, sordid, steaming excreta of the world.

 

Rogues’ gallery

Do you remember George Speight? In 2000 he usurped Fijian democracy, nominally standing for indigenous rights, but by a strange coincidence he was also an undischarged bankrupt about to face court proceedings.

Or how about Pervez Musharraf? In 1999 he usurped Pakistani democracy, purportedly fighting corruption, but he had also just overseen the disastrous Kargil operation and was facing calls to be court-martialled.

Hell, do you remember Gaius Julius Caesar, who usurped Roman democracy supposedly to restore order to the empire, but who was about to lose his consular immunity and face repeated Senatorial prosecutions for exceeding and ignoring their military instructions?

And now? Now a man facing charges of taking bribes worth $40 million, pillaging of state assets, and money laundering is firmly on his way to removing a democratically-elected president accused of a bit of creative accounting, in the name of the family and God, of all things. Congratulations, Eduardo Cunha. Welcome to the dismal brigade of self-interested, power-hungry, democracy-screwing arseholes.

Speight, Musharraf, Caesar, Cunha

Can we quit with the “German” jibes about Mrs Windsor, please?

I’m a republican (with a very definite small r) and, as I didn’t get handed a nice little earner as a senior civil servant on my father’s retirement, I see no reason why Charles Windsor should get his Mum’s job—or anyone get it, for that matter. I’m quite happy to take down the monarchy, and as I’ve written elsewhere, jokes and satire are a very good way to undermine the presumption of the right to power upon which institutions such as the monarchy depend.

But then there’s this, retweeted by the Republic official account. And Frankie Boyle asking whether we should “be forced to sing songs about a German.” And Russell Brand’s Facebook idiocy. And many other dull variations on the same theme.

Can we stop this, please? The last monarch to be born outside of Great Britain was George II, in 1683. Mrs Windsor’s real name, Russell, is not Saxe-Coburg-Gotha, because it was changed to Windsor, and if we are republicans then surely we consider Elizabeth Windsor and her ancestors to be no different from us, and not due the special considerations they currently get. As such, they are just as entitled to nativization as anyone else and they are just as entitled to change their names as anyone else.

This is not simply a matter of being pedantic about a cheap, inaccurate, and lazy joke. In the poisonous atmosphere of anti-immigrant rhetoric that currently pervades our political culture, calling the Queen a German is not just a silly throw-away line, it is endorsing an almost BNPish refusal to accept that three hundred fucking years, for God’s sake, is enough to grant one the entitlement to be considered a citizen of a country. A narrative about immigration with which most progressive leftists would be unhappy is suddenly embraced when it comes to knocking the monarchy.

Please, stop. It’s an embarrassingly lazy and unoriginal joke, anyway, but in its dogmatic and far-right refusal to accept the fact that descendants of migrants have the right to be considered natives of the country in which they are born it is doing far more damage to ordinary people struggling against the xenophobia currently gripping the UK than it will ever do to Mrs Windsor.

In which I find another member of the government raiding my underwear drawer

I came home today to find—once again—a member of the government going through my underwear drawer. This time it was Theresa May, and she was accompanied by two unsmiling policemen. They appeared to be methodically checking each and every item, and taking down details of the brand, colour, and a note of how used they appeared.

“Excuse me,” I cried indignantly, “but what on Earth do you think you’re doing?”

Theresa gave me a smile, or at least made a grimace that approximated one. “It’s perfectly alright,” she said, “we’re just recording some metadata, exactly as the bill I currently have before Parliament allows, and checking for any naughty pants you may be in possession of.”

“Well can I see your warrant, then?” I asked.

“Of course not!” laughed Theresa merrily, as she inspected an elderly pair of boxer briefs for infelicitously-located holes. “Under our proposed legislation the entire contents of everyone’s underwear drawers will be open to the police without the need for a warrant.”

I was appalled. “But this is tantamount to a police state! What possible business is it of the police what underwear I wear, unless they have very good reason to suspect that I wear naughty pants—good enough reason to present before a judge and obtain authorization to examine my (ahem) drawers drawer?”

“But you don’t appear to have any naughty pants,” said Theresa, rubbing her fingers along the waistband of my favourite lucky pants and covertly sniffing them, “and as my former colleague pointed out to you: if you are innocent, you have nothing to fear.”

“That is the most chilling defence of mass surveillance,” I retorted, “and also quite simply untrue. There are plenty of pants that, though not naughty, are nevertheless tasteless and embarrassing. I used to own a leopardskin-print posing pouch[1]: it was not by any means naughty, but it was highly embarrassing. I have every right as a private individual to not have my ownership thereof known to the police, or to anyone.”

“But it’s perfectly alright,” said Theresa, surreptitiously but appreciatively stroking my one pair of posh-night-out silk boxers. “If it’s not actually naughty, the police aren’t interested in your leopardskin pouch.”

“That’s not true, for three reasons. Firstly, though I own no naughty pants, as the police are going through everyone’s underwear drawer, they may find that most people who own leopardskin posing pouches do also own naughty items. Suspicion of owning naughty items will therefore be cast upon me, and I may be required as a result to prove a negative—that I have none hidden away anywhere—which constitutes another small chip away at the edifice of innocent until proven guilty.

“Secondly, whilst it makes it very easy for the police to find people who own one or two pieces of naughty lingerie, the routine wearers of these shocking items—let alone those who manufacture, sell, and encourage others to wear them—will already be quite alert to this legislation and will have long since taken steps to circumvent it, such as keeping their naughty items in their socks drawer, or only using public lockers for underwear storage. This, combined with the pressurized environment of massively reduced funding within a targets-driven culture, risks shifting the police’s attention to minor miscreants who are easy to pick up, rather than the drivers and builders of the naughty lingerie industry. It is equivalent to pursuing occasional and casual drugs users rather than the gangs who traffic and push them.

“Finally, it presumes that the police are both competent and benign, when they are demonstrably neither. In 2005 they killed a man precisely because they got confused due to his underwear drawer being next to another one which they considered suspicious. Despite the staggering and malign incompetence of this act, no-one from the police force has ever been censured in any way for it and indeed the woman who oversaw this extrajudicial execution—because if you hold someone down and shoot them in the head eleven times, that is an execution—was promoted soon after, and has a distinguished service medal. The police have also already spent a substantial amount of taxpayers’ money raiding the underwear drawers of people such as the mother of a murdered teenager who has spent twenty years trying to hold them to account for the corruption and incompetence in their handling of the case, and non-violent environmental activists—rather notoriously the police seem to at least have been indifferent to, and probably actively encouraging of, their covert panty-sniffers actually climbing into the pants in question.”

“Well that’s an entirely different matter,” Theresa replied, “I have been clear that covert operations require great oversight, and have commissioned a review into these practices.”

“Well I’d argue that the two issues are not so different,” I answered. “Both pertain to the police’s access to the private behaviour of private individuals, and the oversight of them in obtaining such access. In the one case you have appeared to endorse strong oversight—though I note you have repeatedly avoided commenting on the conclusions of precisely that review you so proudly trumpeted—yet in the other case you are endorsing utterly unfettered access with no oversight.

“And there’s a final issue concerning this,” I went on, “pointed out by David Allen Green. Your own government’s attitude towards the publicly-funded underpants that they themselves wear is in stark contrast to their attitude towards my private underpants. When the Independent newspaper sought to obtain a list of your very own publicly-funded panties—not your private ones, just those that we have paid for—your office refused to divulge this information, claiming the request was “vexatious.” We have already been excluded from knowing anything about the extremely expensive underwear that we, the taxpayers, provide for Mrs Windsor and her family. And now your government is attempting to water down the Freedom of Information Act yet further, to create “safe spaces” for policy meetings. So whilst you appear to consider the private underwear of private individuals to be open season for the police force, you are attempting to obscure from us the publicly-funded underwear worn by public servants when going about their public duties. Is this not the rankest hypocrisy?”

Theresa shrugged, indifferently, and nodded approvingly to the policeman who had taken up a pair of decidedly naughty crotchless panties. “Looks like we found something after all,” she said.

I was genuinely surprised to see them. “Those aren’t mine!” I cried. “They must have been left there by a guest, or got mixed up in my washing at a public launderette, or it could even be someone has created a little robot that puts naughty underwear in innocent people’s drawers.[2]

“Oh we don’t care about that!” she laughed. “If they’re in your drawers we’re going to presume they’re yours. Now, why don’t you leave off this whole inconvenient discussion? Or perhaps you’d like us to take naughty-panty action against you?”

“But this is just blackmail!” I cried again. “You are using the broad remit of your laws coupled with a narrow interpretation of responsibility to hound me into conformance with your agenda.”

“Really?” Theresa smiled, knowingly. “Well fancy that…”

[1] This is entirely true.
[2] Malware. Difficult to stretch the analogy this far.

You know I make all this stuff up, don’t you?

As regular readers (hello? taps microphone) will know, almost everything I bang on about here is made up, largely for my own amusement, and one of the little fictions that I like to maintain in order to bring some levity to this vale of woes is the claim that I have “narcolepsy,” a wholly implausible condition causing excessive sleeping and sudden loss of muscle tone with consequent full or partial collapse, both of which I have to fake on a regular basis to keep my fiction alive.

Of late, one strand of this little tale has oriented around the possibility of getting a new, rather successful but rarely authorised treatment for it: obviously this will alleviate the need to fake the symptoms so much, but will come with the problems of having to pretend to take a highly controlled substance. I have decided to spin this out a while longer, so at my “appointment” with my “neurologist” on Friday I decided that he would tell me that the application was still in the works, but be somewhat more downbeat than he has been previously about the chances of success. This is, fictionally, a bit of a bummer: especially since the stopgap drug I am fictionally trying in the meantime, whilst no longer making me hideously and entirely fictionally sick due to equally fictional anti-nausea tablets, I have decided will start to give me other side-effects which, though relatively minor, are not worth the reduction in faked falling-over that I get from it.

At the recent appointment my invented neurologist (who I feel a bit sorry for, having had to go through many years of imaginary medical training in order to play his part in this whimsical drama) asked me if I’d be happy to get involved in a bit more research: sequencing my DNA for certain fictional genes, and even taking a look to see if they can see any of the fictional antibodies which cause this ludicrously made-up condition in the first place. Comparison with my antipodeanly-resident twin will be desirable if this goes ahead, but as I’m disinclined to fork out the hundreds of pounds necessary for the artifice that he be brought over here for it, I’ve decided that he’ll just give some blood at a research centre local to him.

You may also recall that I gave myself the opportunity of another strand of this tale by making the neurologist hint at the previous appointment that he had a Plan B. I am wondering whether I could make this associated with the Plan B: it could be that by my helping the research a kind of quid pro quo gets me the invented drug. But this is speculation on my part; I have yet to decide how to develop this strand of the narrative.

All this is not so great; my story-telling has definitely taken a more pessimistic turn. As many of you know, though faking this silly disease has caused me and others great amusement over the years, nearly thirty years of doing so has started to get a bit much for me, and I was really hoping I could at least substantially reduce the need to put on all these symptoms—the fragmented night-time sleep in particular seems a wholly redundant artifice as there’s very, very rarely anyone else to actually see my pretence.

But it looks like I’ve decided to spin out this entertaining nonsense of mine for at least a few months more. I hope it continues to amuse, though frankly I kinda regret having dreamt it up—largely as an excuse to sleep through boring classes—all those years ago.