The Curmudgeon


Saturday, June 25, 2016

Taking Back Control

Well, here's a thing: having fought and won their jolly little campaign to cut the Continent adrift, the robustly straight-talking Englishmen have taken less than twenty-four hours to go virtually full Clegg.

First, having spent the last few months promising to throw an extra three hundred and fifty million a week at the NHS, the strutting Caudillo of the Farage Falange has decided he'd really rather not; which is probably just as well, since the figure was made up anyway.

Then, having fought the campaign largely by squealing that the bloody wogs are coming over here and taking our jobs, the prominent Fox News blah-blah Dan Hannan has loftily informed his dupes that they had better not get all excited about zero immigration just yet; possibly because free movement is not going to stop - at least, not unless the new régime thinks the British economy can do without the European market.

Then, having argued for separating from Europe in double-quick time because Britishness rah rah, the London Haystack has proclaimed that the mainland is part of Europe and no less European than ever and really loves Europe and there's really no hurry about any of it.

In other words, to those among the fifty-two per cent who voted to leave on any of those three grounds: fooled you again, proles. Enjoy your democracy.

Friday, June 24, 2016

Independence Day

What can I say? The pessimists, the experts and the wogs stand chastened and defeated; and, aside from Sinn Fein and Nicola Sturgeon urging the breakup of the kingdom; and the twenty-seven remaining EU nations informing us that a prompt exit will enable them to keep their books in order; and the strutting Caudillo of the Farage Falange being frightfully witty about decent people having won with no shots being fired; and Spain making condescending noises about Gibraltar; and the pound looking a bit less sterling than it has done for quite some time - well, it all looks jolly rah-rah so far.

Thursday, June 23, 2016

Bring On the Willy Pete

It seems fitting, on this day of national-historical renewal, to note that the present government of Iraq seems to have internalised Western values to a degree for which even the Ascended Incarnation of the Reverend Blair can hardly have dared to hope. Falluja, the site of some of the crusade's most edifying scenes, is once again hosting the clash of civilisations, with the Iraqi government declaring victory over the Fighting Islamic Sons of Tony even though only a third of the city has been cleansed of the insurgent filth. Further glories and new, happy lives are undoubtedly to come. Meanwhile, the UN has warned that a swarm of up to 2.3 million human locusts may be poised to descend upon Middle England; though perhaps not precisely in those exact words.

Wednesday, June 22, 2016

Making the Positive Case

A former Farage Falange councillor in Bristol has been defending British values from those who seek to undermine the nation that spawned Oswald Mosley, Enoch Powell and the Falange's own strutting Caudillo. A Muslim resident and family centre worker sent a group email to local councillors in which he had the temerity to quote the Koran's definition of Ramadan as "the month of prayer and guidance, discipline and tolerance, repentance and charity": all ghastly foreign traditions bound up with terrorism and female genital mutilation; and the former councillor, apparently driven to breaking point by losing his seat in last month's local elections, had no hesitation in pointing out the general inferiority of such values by comparison with those of the Farage Falange. For the benefit of any wogs who might have failed to get the message, he told the Bristol Post that "whatever race, creed or colour you are, if you want to be accepted into our country, obey the law, accept our culture, enjoy our freedom, and if you can't or won't, you have the freedom to leave." It is as yet unclear which laws have been violated and which liberties and cultural norms have been trampled by communicating about a tradition shared by a couple of million British people; but if the Farage Falange's referendum campaign has taught us anything, it is that facts are for wimps.

Tuesday, June 21, 2016

Police as Business

The Metropolitan Firearms and Headbangers' Club has paid unctuous tribute to the "brave and innovative operations" carried out by the Special Demonstration Squad: not, as might be supposed, the Kettlers in Kevlar, but a sneaks-and-spooks unit initially set up in 1968 to spy on leftists. Undercover officers concealed evidence in court cases (operational discretion), spied on the relatives of Stephen Lawrence (race relations) and utilised long-term sexual relationships as part of their cover (family values). They also engaged in identity theft, hiding behind dead children; and, as it now emerges, lied about the value of the information they gathered in order to fleece the taxpayer. It all sounds rather like the entrepreneurial activities of those reliable people at Serco and G4S, with just a naughty hint of Britain's Head Boy and his human shield, Little Ivan™; and so proud is the club manager, Sir Bernard Hogan-Howitzer, now an inquiry has recounted all these brave and innovative doings, that he has been sitting on the report since last year. Doubtless he was waiting for a week during which he couldn't be accused of burying the bad news.

Monday, June 20, 2016

Adult Reasoning

Junior threats to our way of life have received a boost from the hotbed of radical-left subversionism that is the high court. The minions of Mad Tessie May have been ordered to stop throwing children in jail on the grounds that somebody happens to think they look eighteen or older: a policy which the Ministry for Wog-Induced Panic has found perfectly humane and rational hitherto. Local authorities have to conduct a full age assessment before deciding whether or not to boot an asylum seeker into jail; but the minions of Mad Tessie May, in order to counter any risk of taking some of the blame which more justly attaches to politically-correct council profligates, are subject to no such restrictions. Fortunately, the taxpayer has been granted the privilege of spending more money defending the Ministry's doings, should the minions of Mad Tessie May so choose.

Sunday, June 19, 2016

Bone Tomahawk

S Craig Zahler 2015

In a year of Westerns which take themselves either not seriously enough (The Hateful Eight) or too seriously by far (The Revenant), it's been refreshing to encounter a couple which respect the genre sufficiently to essay it on its own terms and without postmodernist flippancy. Kristian Levring's The Salvation provided some fine flourishes to the virtuous-avenger subgenre, and Bone Tomahawk gives an equally watchable make-over to that of the posse in pursuit, mingling old-fashioned virtues of character and dialogue with thoroughly up-to-date violence and horror.

Before the pursuit begins, the film spends a considerable portion of its running time building up the characters: cool-headed sheriff Franklin Hunt (Kurt Russell), garrulous elder deputy Chicory (Richard Jenkins), dandy shootist John Brooder (Matthew Fox), impetuous foreman Arthur O'Dwyer (Patrick Wilson), who has broken his leg falling off a roof; and eventual kidnapee and main object of their pursuit, O'Dwyer's spirited wife Samantha (Lili Simmons), who substitutes for the local doctor on the frequent occasions when he's too drunk to dig one of Hunt's bullets out of a felon's leg. By contrast with Eva Green's snake-eyed mute in The Salvation, it's a pity that Samantha, whose character in these early sequences is developed as carefully as the men's, does not in the end have all that much to do.

The dialogue throughout is first-rate, peppered with polysyllabic archaisms after the fashion of the Coens' True Grit ("shut up" becomes "close that aperture") and delivered with aplomb by all concerned. As a zinger-laden vehicle for character, the script is comparable to Howard Hawks at his most amusing, or to the first and far superior half of The Hateful Eight; and, unlike Tarantino, Zahler has the good sense to keep Russell's character around for the whole duration.

When his town is invaded by anthropophagous troglodytes who murder a stable-hand and make off with Samantha, a young deputy and half a dozen horses, Hunt rides out in pursuit, accompanied by Brooder, Chicory and the crippled but obdurate O'Dwyer. The film takes care to establish that its savages are not mainstream Native Americans; in a typically witty touch, it does so via an expert who is himself an Indian, and who remarks with deadpan disdain upon whitey's refusal to distinguish between cannibal cave-persons and normal decent tribes. (In fact, thanks to the chalky dust with which they cover themselves, the troglodytes turn out somewhat whiter than the whites.)

During the arduous and unpredictable chase, the film effortlessly mingles its comic dialogue with bursts of bloody violence. The climax comes with a supremely gruesome sequence at the cannibals' cave, where Samantha gets to deliver one of the film's best lines, succinctly diagnosing the real difficulty with frontier life. Although the men she's criticising arguably give her words the lie, a delightfully nasty prologue has already shown us how the trouble started; and as that fine, upstanding American, the Man with No Name, observed in another dusty situation, God is not on our side because He hates idiots also.

Saturday, June 18, 2016

Peace is Their Profession

Germany's foreign minister appears to have misunderstood the purpose of NATO, which is now engaged in a large-scale provocation in the Baltic states. Lots of toys are being played with, including jets, warships, tanks and armoured vehicles, and Britain and the US are standing shoulder to shoulder as ever; so there is almost no chance at all of anything going catastrophically wrong. Nevertheless, Franz-Walter Steinmeier is worried that NATO military exercises - "a symbolic tank parade on the alliance's eastern border" as he rather hurtfully put it - could worsen security rather than improving it, which would obviously be a Very Bad Thing for all those chirpy wog-bombers with their ever-open beaks. Vladimir Putin, for his part, has urged co-operation and search for compromise: an approach which was discredited as long ago as 1990, when Germany re-unified and immediately joined NATO in democratic defiance of the fiend Gorbachev's plea that it remain neutral.

Friday, June 17, 2016

All Decent Britons

All decent Britons abhor and deplore the assassination of Jo Cox. All decent Britons regard it as an attack on decency, democracy and British values. All decent British politicians are completely against it. All decent British prime ministers are doing their utmost to claim Cox's values as their own. All decent British journalists condemn the atmosphere of hatred and contempt for politicians which has been fostered by social media. All decent British pundits are appalled at the hatred, recrimination and mendacity which has emerged from the referendum campaign, and wish that we could all disagree a bit more respectfully with those who call us shirkers, scroungers and terrorist sympathisers. All decent British right-wing tabloids are concerned about the melanin-challenged suspect's mental health, since he does not appear to have shouted Allahu akhbar, in defiance of the precedent set by the devastating sanity of ISIS and al-Qaeda. All decent British publishers of the likes of Katie Hopkins are deeply concerned about the indecent rhetoric being used by the other side. All decent Britons look forward to the day when Cox's murder attains the status of latest excuse for censorship, government snoopery, or bringing back hanging, and everything is normal again and we can all get back to being decent and British as we always were before.

Thursday, June 16, 2016

What It's All About

It isn't about saving the NHS. It isn't about rebalancing the economy. It isn't about national security. It isn't about more jobs at better wages. It isn't about a British bill of rights. It isn't about national sovereignty, or about keeping the Queen Gawblesser on the stamps, or about saving the pound; and it isn't about fish. It's about keeping the wogs out, and we all owe a debt of gratitude to the strutting Caudillo of the Farage Falange, and to his sponsor, the NHS privatisation fan Arron Banks, for their final, absolute and unequivocal confirmation of that highly edifying fact.