Slick lies and awkward truths

The Slog asks some awkward questions on several fronts: why is anyone remotely interested in anything Piers Morgan has to say? Why is an obviously factual observation made by Nigel Farage depicted as hate speech? Why would anyone ever trust Boris Johnson again? Why do so many Americans still take seriously the Biden account of January 6th as a genuine attempt at a coup d’etat? Why do black footballers abuse their privileged position by supporting the untenable revised histories of divisive victim-narcissists? Why has the soccer establishment felt the need to sell out to media owners and sugar-daddy corporate sponsors? Why has sportsmanship been replaced by gamesmanship? What turned Al Gore into a Nazi pig with his nose in the bullshit trough? And why is Vlad the Lad giggling at the stupidity of Western climate obsessives? All is revealed below.

There are a growing number of people based in the UK who – using my technical mastery of demographic terminology here – are either thinly disguised plankton or, even worse, taking the King’s Shilling and pretending to be thus stricken. Way out in front in this marathon of cretinous denialism is Piers Stefan Pughe-Morgan O’Meara, widely believed to have lied his fat face off during the phone-hacking inquiry: I am a firm believer in his guilt, having once sat at a Press Gazette dinner and listened to his chums ribbing him about some infamous examples of the practice. At that time I was socially friendly with a tabloid journalist who insisted that ”Piers taught me how to do it, and Murdoch knew all about it”. In turn, several former Sun/Mirror hacks claimed to have heard an office Party gathering being treated to a song track written especially for his then partner by Paul McCartney. Paul confided to friends that his phone had ”obviously” been hacked by Morgan [or one of his underlings] to obtain the recording.

The Dirty Digger Murdoch himself once told an interviewer, ”I always back Piers to the hilt because he has his finger on the pulse”, which would potentially leave another seven fingers to work out the safe combination at his leisure. Bron Waugh once allegedly estimated Morgan’s IQ as ”minus fifty-seven”. Perhaps the need in Piers case is to put one’s finger on his pulse just to check that he didn’t undergo trans-human Davos surgery some time before 2018; but in reality, he cannot hide behind inaccurate estimates of his intelligence, because he has eight O-levels and three A-levels to his name.

His latest jolly jape – for our Piers loves a good lark – concerns his claimed belief that the Covid19 ”vaccination” refuseniks are ”cry-babies scared it will hurt”. I would call this playground stuff, but that’s being unnecessarily rude about five year old kids: Piers Stefan Pughe-Morgan O’Meara is a gutter hack who has been followed by self-created clouds throughout his life, and has little or no sense of accountability.

He’s just a good ol’ boy….and an all round knockabout brown-enveloped twat.

Long term followers of The Slog will be well aware of my antipathy towards both Boris Johnson and Nigel Farage. Some cockamamie story broke in a tabloid last weekend about BoJo and Barrage cooking up a deal to form an alliance between a ”new style” Tory Party and The Reform Party. As neither man has a seat in the Commons (Nigel has never been elected an MP) it was a non-story along the lines of ‘Everest expedition hopes dashed as base-camp tent blown away by slight breeze’.

But our captive media couldn’t wait to get their teeth into Farage and find him guilty of racism on a massive scale.

His crime? To have used the term ”Black Africa”, and refer to its penchant for corrupt elections.

Is this really ”news”? Er, no: he made the remarks during the 2019 General Election.

Are his observations accurate? Er, yes. It is not racism to point out Black Africa’s long history since independence of ballot stuffing, military coups and harassment of Opposition leaders and supporters; and what colour would the BLM hypocrites like him to employ as the descriptor of the Dark Continent’s citizenry – ”light brown with just a hint of black curly hair?”

Farage is being empiricist, not racist: pc has not faced hard reality for almost fifty years. In the US, Joe Biden flatly refuses to accept BLM’s history of aggressive anti-honkey agitprop, despite the KKK being squeaky clean flat-Earth sort of historically eccentric plonkers by comparison. Instead, he goes along with fantasies about Donald Trump being the instigator behind the January 6^th garden party later depicted as America’s Reichstag Fire.

Let me leave the reader in no doubt: the only thing I have against Nigel Farage is and always has been his belief in the Bourse model of global capitalism – preferring as I do the mutualist community model. I have traveled in sub-Saharan Africa widely since 2006 – to SA, Rwanda, Nigeria, Tanzania, Kenya, Senegal and now The Gambia. A common factor in all these nations is police and judicial corruption, MP and bureaucrat backhanders, and a host of other reprehensible practices. Gambia is by far the best culturally adjusted African State I have yet discovered, but here too the kindness of the average citizen is more than matched by very low commercial ethics often caused by the desperation of grinding poverty.

The despicable greed of the average African leadership cult coupled with their hypocrisy during UN sessions – summarised as blaming the white man for a Slave Trade that, in my homeland, was abolished in 1820 although it continued for another eighty or more years in Africa – is made worse still by the bulging Swiss bank accounts kept by corrupt embezzlers ready to pocket fortunes from the ”loans” of variously Islamic, Chinese and Washington neocon sources.

Now if this makes me a racist, then I am for sure a dayglo banana with a serious cunnilingus habit*. The Left around the world has to rid itself of the kind of rigid ideological fascism that condemns factual comment. Like the guy or hate him, Farage has done more over the last forty years to try knocking some sense into the kind of surreal belief systems that soi-disant UK ”liberals” cling to as if they might be immutable examples of settled science.

* Which I am not.

As and when I point out that northern Spanish wines centred around Bilbao are vastly superior to overpriced French claret, does this make me a Francophobe? It does not. If I point out that BLMs in English soccer taking the knee while pocketing £100,000 a week have deplorable double standards, does it make me avowedly anti-negroid? It does not.

The very MSM act of disinterring this four year old smear tells you that the [in my view, very slight] possibility of a Johnson-Farage coalition has rattled some NWO cages and produced a speed-of-light hatchet job from our woefully captive media pack.

Sensible people will ignore it, regretting only that anyone with intuitive political antennae would want to get involved in a second-guessing game with a rogue slimeball serial liar like Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson.

And so to today’s ‘What we have lost’ slot. Oddly enough, there is an unforced segue from the previous section above, in that it involves first of all, regret about the way that greed has ruined the near-universal sportsmanship we used to see in soccer; and second, the question of loyalty to the entire idea of being English, Welsh or Scottish. [Many will see the absence of Ulster as an insult; but I am a lifelong believer in Ireland for the Irish, and it’s well past the hour when the Proddydogs and the Cattylics learned to live together. As a product myself of marriage between the Orange and the Green, I do not apologise for this view…despite having a profound dislike of the IRA Establishment.]

Tribal identification is the natural state for Homo sapiens. I have no problem with living in a multi-ethnic society, but beyond the inflexible comfort-blankets of the post-reality Libleft, Multiculturalism is a busted flush. Almost nothing about their simplistic anthropological analysis bears examination: the Germans, Catalans and Italians in particular have learned this lesson the hard way.

One regrettable side-effect of all this near hallucinogenic Room 101 piffle is that local and national loyalty has been diluted almost beyond recognition – perhaps nowhere more than in the Beautiful Game.

I first went to see Manchester United play in September 1957. There were 66,000 crammed into the then much smaller Old Trafford stadium, and the gates had been closed since 2.00pm for a 3pm kick-off. This was quite normal, as the ‘Busby Babes’ were far and away the best supported and most attractive team in England at the time. In those days, there was none of the graceful calm entry of two teams together in a regimented line – that only happened at the FA Cup final. The visitors would emerge first, followed by the home team. The roar when United emerged was guttural and ear-splitting, partly because the Red Devils were facing Aston Villa and this was a ‘needle’ match: thanks to what became by popular vote the worst foul ever in an FA Cup Final the previous May [Villa’s Peter McParland smashed pointlessly into United keeper Ray Wood, breaking his cheek bone] and in those days, as substitutes were not allowed, United played the rest of the game with ten men, losing 2-1.

Justice was restored however on that September afternoon when the Reds thrashed Villa 4-1. The United team was 100% British, and all paid twenty pounds a week – the maximum footballer’s wage at the time. The top league in those days was called the First Division, and every footballer in it would have played for the glory alone.

In December of that year, I went to my first Derby Game between City and United – 84,000 rabid fans at the old Maine Road stadium, and a 2-2 draw the result. City’s hero that day was a Scottish alcoholic, Bobby Johnston. The late City wing-half Ken Barnes once confided to me during a chance meeting in the 1980s that they had to drag Johnston out of the pub at twenty past two to play in the match.

The following February, eight of the eleven United team were wiped out in a tragic plane crash on take-off at Munich Airport. A massive donor to the club – the Jewish mogul Willie Satinoff – also died. He was one of my Dad’s customers and a good friend. That evening was the only time I ever saw Pop cry.

The following day, I had to meet my father in central Manchester to see a private dental surgeon, and work out what to do about my having been born with eighteen teeth too many. The City was one genuinely respectful silence, lasting way beyond the sixty seconds usually allocated to a tragedy. Manchester United was the ultimate local club, in that manager Matt Busby [a recognised PR visionary] insisted that every player must join the YMCA, and actively mix with the regulars. The Munich disaster made headlines worldwide, and despite the local roots, ironically it made the club the first truly global soccer brand. Alfredo di Stefano – the legendary Real Madrid player from Argentina – once told reporters after a game that ”Manchester United were even then the team you didn’t want to face….but there is an eternal bond between our club and theirs that goes way beyond respect”.

The main dimensions that the Beautiful Game has lost are – in unison – loyalty to a club and the triumph of glory over munnneeee.

Just look at the state of MUFC today….a gigantic melange between player narcissism and globalist greed as demonstrated by Cristiano Ronaldo and the Glazer family respectively. Observe the naive introduction of BLM knee-bending bollocks by Marcus Rashford. All of these self-preening egos should remember that they are paid astronomical sums of money to entertain footie fans – not indulge in showboating, childishly inaccurate slavery observations and Bourse debt offshore tax avoidance. There is no do-or-die path to glory any more: the quiet social loyalty of the High Noon sheriff Gary Cooper has been replaced by the gunslinger-for-hire Jack Palance from Shane.

Of course soccer is tribalist. But do I want to see my national team reduced to mediocrity in return for trophy success by eleven players whose names I can barely pronounce? No, I most decidedly do not. Equally, do I want every pre-season bit of footie broadcast opinion to be about who is going where [without a thought for the colleagues and fans they are leaving behind] in favour of the obscene salaries on offer in Bavaria, Milan, Paris and Tampa Bay? No – certainly not: I want to see more players like Eric Cantona forming a bond forever with the team he took from European to Global glory. Eric may be no more than a soccer pundit these days, but he is a legend at Old Trafford chiefly because he will always be, come Hell or High Water, a Red Devil – that unique human being, a Mancunian Frenchman.

And finally (as the anchors used to say on News at Ten) a roundup of unthinking fascism from people who should know better. Al Gore says that people having access to information outside of mainstream media sources is a threat to “democracy” and that social media algorithms “ought to be banned.” Well, as a serious threat to liberty, I guess he should know.

At Cop28 (a bit like Covid19 but far more deadly) the Russian delegation includes a team of elite ESG eco-heroes from Sberbank. Having created a “Russian branch of WEF’s climate initiative” in 2020 [with encouragement from Bond villain Santa Klaus von Davos] Sberbank is now spearheading Russian “carbon regulation” at a UN conference dedicated to making life unnecessarily ruinous. Putin is suspected of holding sceptical views about the entire climate emergency. Join up the dots. Your time starts now…

The Septic Isle of my upbringing reports that nearly a quarter of Scottish councils warn of ”effective bankruptcy”*, as every single council plans spending cuts to services, affecting millions of residents. The UK is rapidly going bankrupt (as is the US) and the MSM refuses to accept any explanation other than pernicious incompetence. This is a conclusion not only unsustainable, it is way beyond a dereliction of Fourth Estate duties. No wonder Al Gore is cheered up by reading the New York Memes.

*Another euphemism that makes me want to ask what the hell an ineffective bankruptcy might be.