Greens, like Nazis, See the Entire World through the Prism of One Big Idea: Theirs

The Kindly OnesLes Bienveillantes if you read it in French, which I didn’t — is probably the most brilliant piece of trash fiction ever written. I dedicated most of the summer to Jonathan Littell’s much-praised, internationally bestselling blockbuster and loved almost every minute of it.

But it’s definitely not as great as Le Figaro thinks: ‘A monument of contemporary literature.’ Nor Le Monde: ‘A staggering triumph.’ Nor yet Anita Brookner who claimed, in The Spectator no less, that it is not only ‘diabolically (and I use the word advisedly) clever’ but also a ‘tour de force’ which ‘outclasses all other fictions [this year] and will continue to do so for some time to come.’

Note that two out of three of those rave reviews are French. There are reasons for that. The first is that the French are always going to be hot on the idea of an American who decides to write in their language rather than his own. And the second is that it’s very long. Über-pretentiously long. The story I heard is that Littell’s French editor tried to get him to slim it down a bit and that Littell refused. And rightly so, as another editor at the same publisher cynically told a friend of mine: ‘If it had been half the length, it would never have sold anywhere near as many as 800,000 copies in France.’

But just because it’s 984 pages doesn’t make it the ‘new War and Peace’ (as Le Nouvel Observateur has it). Being concerned with the wartime adventures of just one SS officer, it hasn’t nearly Tolstoy’s range or breadth. There are places — the ones involving the ethnologist, for example — where you do feel slightly that you’re being served up raw, indigestible gobbets of the author’s evidently diligent research. And the central premise is flawed. (Don’t read the next pars if you don’t want to know what happens.)

If, as the book invites us to believe at the beginning, brutal Nazi atrocities are something any of us could have committed had we lived in the wrong place at the wrong time under the wrong regime, then why make the narrator a matricidal homosexual serial killer who only ever found true love in an incestuous relationship with his sister and fantasises about being sodomised by eight-armed green-skinned Martians? Doesn’t make him exactly Everyman, does it?

Towards the end, Littell seems to admit this to himself when he gives up even trying to be Tolstoy (or Vasily Grossman) and comes over Thomas L. Harris meets Ian Fleming meets Lord of the Flies. There are two policemen who appear to have strayed from some sort of early Tom Stoppard comedy; there’s a bloated, flatulent rich industrialist in an armoured train flanked by hot-babe blonde SS women and stroking a cat; there’s a superfluity of dream sequences which you skip because you think ‘well if it’s not actually happening why should I care? It’s not like I don’t know already the guy dreaming this stuff is weird’.

Don’t get me wrong, though. The book is still a magnificent achievement, whose qualities vastly outweigh its flaws. The Stalingrad scenes are hallucinogenically intense; as too are Littell’s great set-piece descriptions of the early Einsatzgruppe atrocities like the Babi Yar massacre. You’ve probably never tried putting yourself in the shoes of a young SD officer who, whether he likes it or not, has the job of supervising the extermination and burial of village after village of (all too human-looking) men, women and children. Littell does the job for you with a verisimilitude — at once nauseating, heartbreaking and intensely disturbing — which will haunt your nightmares for months.

(to read more, click here)

Related posts:

  1. Frogs, scorpions, greens, lies…
  2. Why do I call them Eco Nazis? Because they ARE Eco Nazis
  3. Only a nutter like Gordon Brown would think it’s a good idea to scrap Trident
  4. Nazis: the gift that goes on giving


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Paternity Leave? Any Man Who Says He Wants It Is Really a Liar…

Nearly half of all new fathers are refusing to take their paternity leave entitlement because they’d rather be at work, a survey has found. Well, quelle surprise.

I could have told you that. In fact, it was a point I was arguing a month ago on Radio 4’s Woman’s Hour when I told Jenni Murray that men aren’t nearly as well designed for childcare as women; that, frankly, we’d rather be in the office than at home with the children.

My goodness, you should have heard the foaming outrage! Many women listeners said I was a Neanderthal sexist pig, completely out of touch with the modern world.

Man leaving home for work

Controversial: James landed himself in hot water on Woman’s Hour for suggesting men are not as well designed for childcare as women

What really took me aback, though, was the male response. I was amazed by how cross some of my fellow men got.

One of them  –  describing himself as a rugby-playing type who was, nevertheless, fully comfortable with the joys of parenting  –  warned that if ever I came his way, he’d throttle me.

But the reason I was amazed was because I’d never before realised quite what a lying, sneaky bunch of cowardly hypocrites so many of my sex are.

Afterwards, I had lots of secret calls from male friends congratulating me for ‘telling it like it really is’. But they all admitted they would never dare say as much in front of their wives.

And this, I fear, is very much the problem we chaps face in these supposedly enlightened, post-feminist times.

We feel the same way about childcare as our grunting, hairy, mammoth-hunting ancestors did. The difference is that thanks to decades of re-education by the likes of and Germaine Greer, we are required  –  on pain of death  –  to lie about it.

(to read more, click here)

Related posts:

  1. Paternity leave? It’s not natural
  2. Why did Congressman Joe Wilson need to apologize for calling Obama a liar?
  3. How The West Was Lost (ctd): the Burkini
  4. BBC – Radio 4 Woman’s Hour


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Question Time: Is That Panel Really the Best They Can Do?

Nick Griffin is the greatest orator since Pericles. He has gravitas such as we have not witnessed since Winston Churchill’s “blood, toil, tears and sweat” speech. His rapier wit makes Oscar Wilde sound like John Prescott. He has the encyclopaedic knowledge of a Paul Johnson; the courage of Charles Upham VC and bar; the loveability of Stephen Fry; the dramatic power of Fiona Shaw in some exceptionally moving new play about a lesbian who is slowly tortured to death by homophobic society…

Actually not – though you wouldn’t guess it from the general, angst-ridden debate about who best should be fielded against the BNP leader on tonight’s Question Time.

Nick Cohen has the details:

By this weekend, nervy producers were hitting the phones as they began to realise the 1,001 ways the show could go wrong. One minute, they booked Douglas Murray. He runs the Centre for Social Cohesion, which examines neo-Nazi, Islamist and other extremism in Britain. But he is also from the right, and so, the BBC reasoned, could tell the audience that it was possible to worry about immigration without being compelled to vote BNP. Murray was more than ready to take Griffin on, but the next minute the BBC called back with second thoughts. If he were to say anything in favour of immigration controls, Griffin would look like he was the voice of consensus. As confused call followed confused call, Murray formed the impression the BBC did not know what to do.

Nor do the political parties. Originally, the Conservatives put up Michael Gove, one of their best debaters. Then they decided that, as a British Asian, Lady Warsi would be the ideal face of progressive conservatism and a living rebuttal of BNP prejudice. So she would, had she not run a nasty campaign against the sitting Labour MP in Dewsbury in the 2005 election. In white areas, she declared that she would campaign “for British identity and British citizens” and fight the menace of mass immigration. In Muslim areas, the flag appeared in leaflets in a blood-spattered montage of Tony Blair and George Bush and troops in Iraq, while underneath it she played to religious homophobia by claiming that Labour was allowing children to be propositioned for homosexual relationships.

Jack Straw is a more formidable politician, but as a series of leaks to the Observer in 2006 showed, he spent a part of his time as foreign secretary trying to “engage” with the Muslim Brotherhood, an organisation that, in its origins and policies towards women, Jews and gays, is not so different from the BNP. So assiduous did Straw’s attempts at “engagement” become, the British ambassador to Egypt warned him he was engaging for the sake of engagement, and that there was no prospect of Britain being able “to influence the Islamists’ agenda”.

Me, I think the whole panel is pretty low-grade and that this particular edition wouldn’t even be worth watching if it weren’t for the Griffin factor. Bonnie Greer is too palpably nice and reasonable; Baroness Warsi’s talent is overrated beyond measure; Jack Straw (see Cohen above) is a dhimmi; and Chris Huhne – Chris Who?

At least Griffin’s likely to say something interesting, which is, after all, the point of Question Time is it not? It’s about entertainment. Gladiator sport. It’s not – though it’s amazing how many media commentators appear to think otherwise – the official occasion on which all the main parties gather together to make it quite clear how much they abhor racism. Duh! We knew that already. Now tell us what you think about immigration and Islamism. Otherwise Nick Griffin’s going to win more votes still.

Related posts:

  1. I’m glad that the BNP’s Nick Griffin is appearing on Question Time
  2. Nick Clegg’s riot inquiry panel is beyond a joke
  3. The love/hate joy of Andy Murray
  4. President Perry or President Bachmann? It’s the only question remaining


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There Will Be Blood

All right, I surrender. There’s just no way on earth I can deal in 600 words with all the great, or potentially great, TV that has been on lately. Emma; Alex: A Passion for Life (the sequel to that moving documentary about the brilliant Etonian musician with cystic fibrosis); Generation Kill. Truly, it has been what we classical scholars call a Weekus Mirabilis. I’m going to deal with just three offerings.

First, Criminal Justice (BBC1, all week for a whole hour each night, which is a serious commitment, n’est-ce pas?). I’ve only seen episode one and I’m torn. I sympathise totally with screenwriter Peter Moffat’s predicament: every possible permutation in psychological courtroom-drama murder-mystery has already been done on TV a billion times, so the only way you have left to maintain viewer interest is through trickery.

You withhold key information: who is this strange, cold, fragile woman (Maxine Peake)? Why does she not answer the phone in that incredibly irritating way when her smug barrister husband (Matthew Macfadyen) calls? What’s with the shower and the pills? How does any family get to keep their home quite so chic and minimal? Why does this series feature virtually the entire cast of Little Dorrit?

At the end of part one, smug barrister lay dying (or possibly not) of a stab wound inflicted (or possibly not) by his wife. But do we care enough to invest another four hours of valuable life waiting for the outcome? If the secret is that the pretty teenaged daughter did it, well I’m not happy because she looks nice and pretty. If it turns out the wife did it, well she’s frazzled and weird and what did you expect? All very languorous and finely drawn and lots of acting going on, though, I’ll give it that.

True Blood (Channel 4, Wednesday) is HBO’s biggest hit since The Sopranos and was created by Alan Ball. I hope it doesn’t go badly off, like his previous ex-masterpiece Six Feet Under did. Mind you, name me one US series that doesn’t go off. (Apart from The Sopranos, the exception that proves the rule.) The only question is will it be three or four episodes in, like Lost, a series in, like Heroes, or several series in, like Frasier?

What True Blood has in its favour is… (to read more, click here)

Related posts:

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  2. Warts and all
  3. We need more armed police – but do they have to be like the ones who killed Mark Saunders?
  4. So what if Cameron left his daughter behind in the pub?


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Copenhagen: A Step Closer to One-World Government?

You have to be careful when talking about “One World Government.” Sooner than you can say “Bilderberg”, you’ll find yourself bracketed with all the crazies, and conspiracy theorists and 9/11 Truthers. But I don’t think you need to be mad to be concerned about the issues raised by Lord Monckton in this speech.

Monckton believes that climate change hysteria is being exploited by the green liberal left – watermelons, as they’re nicknamed: green on the outside; red on the inside – to usher in a form of one world government. He claims to have seen evidence of this in a draft treaty due to be signed off by world leaders at this December’s Copenhagen climate change conference.

It will, he believes, in rich nations having as much as 2 per cent of their GDP diverted to third world countries – supposedly to compensate them for the evils wrought by two centuries or so of Western industrialisation; and tough new climate change rules to be imposed on Western economies by UN bureaucrats over which sovereign nations (and their electorates) will have no control.

I don’t know how accurate he is on the specific details, but Monckton is certainly right in principle. The climate fear industry is, I believe, the single greatest threat to national sovereignty (as we’ve already seen under the EU, with its directives on carbon emissions, landfill etc) and individual liberty of our era. It is financed by business interests so powerful that they have even suborned Big Oil (to look at most oil multinationals’ adverts these days, you’d think their main trade was wind-farming); its propaganda is spread by a supine mainstream media and subscribed to wholesale by glib politicians, few of whom have bothered to familiarise themselves with the growing body of evidence against AGW but who think sounding caring and touchy-feelie about “climate change” plays well with the voters.

I don’t believe in conspiracy theories. Unfortunately, the Climate Fear Industry isn’t a theory.

Related posts:

  1. Climategate: we won the battle, but at Copenhagen we just lost the war
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  3. Welcome to the New World Order
  4. Climategate: Is the British government conspiring not to prosecute?


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Come Off It, Paxo! If You Earn a Million a Year the Licence-Payer Has a Right to Know

Last night’s Newsnight saw Old Malvernian millionaire interrogator Jeremy Paxman clashing with Old Etonian millionare Mayor of London Boris Johnson. But according to Paul Waugh the most exciting bits of the interview weren’t included:

In what insiders described as “fantastic political theatre”, Mr Johnson clashed repeatedly with his interviewer over his stance on an EU referendum, on his membership of Oxford University’s Bullingdon Club and on David Cameron’s public image.”

Mr Johnson raised the issue of Paxman’s pay, saying: “You are paid elephantine sums by the taxpayer.”

Paxman replied: “If only that were true. You don’t know [what I earn]. I should stop making assertions.”

In unscreened exchanges, Mr Johnson pointed out that Londoners could see how much he earned as Mayor but licence-fee payers were not allowed similar transparency. At one point, Mr Johnson said: “Why don’t you get a proper job?”

When asked about drunken antics in his Oxford days, the Mayor replied: “Ask me a serious question…”

Splendid stuff and I quite agree with those “Mayoral Aides” (Boris?) who are urging that the full interview be put up online.

What interests me especially is the question of Paxo’s alleged £1 million salary. It interests me first as a nosey bastard. It interests me second as a licence-fee payer. But most of all it interests me ideologically.

They can be terribly grand BBC presenter types – the Paxos and Dimblebys – when quizzed about their personal lives. The salary issue, especially, they seem to think is tantamount to asking the Queen whether or not she goes to the loo. And up to a point I agree with them. A BBC political interviewer’s private life, in so far as it does not bear on his public role as frank and fearless interrogator of slippery MPs, is none of our ruddy business.

Where it is our business, though, is in cases like the Paxo/Bozza clash above. The ideological undercurrent to Paxo’s line of questioning (he may not share it but tough: that’s his karmic price for working for the pinko BBC) goes like this: “You are a toffy public school boy. David Cameron is a toffy public school boy. You were both in the Buller. You both earn way, WAY more than the national average. How can throwbacks like you possibly be fit to run modern Britain?”

This tack is outrageous and deserves to be challenged at every turn, as vigorously as possible. (Can you imagine a similar line of questioning being adopted if Boris’s and Dave’s “crimes” were to be, say, black or female or homosexual or physically handicapped?) Boris was quite right to make his response personal, for an ex public schoolboy on a million a year (or whatever Paxo earns) by asking such a question lays himself open to a charge of  hypocrisy.

No more do Boris Johnson’s or David Cameron’s class, background and income rule them out of being great, effective and morally decent politicians than Paxo’s class, background and income rule him out of being a first rate interviewer.

If Paxo wishes to be impertinent (and disingenuous) on this score, then he should damned well expect some impertinence back.

Related posts:

  1. Wind Farms: Will Paxo ride to his brother’s rescue?
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  3. Maybe we’d be better off if David Cameron had gone to Harrow
  4. BBC endorses tax avoidance. Good. Now can we stop paying our licence fees?
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I’m Glad That the BNP’s Nick Griffin Is Appearing on Question Time

Well I’m sorry, but I am. I’m glad for various reasons, some of which have to do with freedom of speech and the democratic right of political parties which have won seats in local councils and in Europe to be represented on Britain’s main political debating programme.

Mainly, though, I’m glad because of the discomfiture it has caused among the chattering-idiot classes. Though personally I despise the BNP – as I do all parties of the left – the people I despise only marginally less are the ones who go round boasting about how incredibly outraged they are about how disgusting and wrong it is that Nick Griffin is appearing on Question Time.

“I don’t think you have ANY idea about how incredibly, amazingly un-racist I am,” runs the subtext of their boasting. “I am SO unracist that if I’d been around 250 years ago, do you know who I would have been? William Wilberforce, that’s who. Except if I’d been William Wilberforce I wouldn’t have stopped with banning slavery, no sirree. I would have made anti-race-hatred of any description so completely compulsory that there wouldn’t be a single piece of race hatred anywhere left in the world by now. We’d all be like ebony and ivory, living together in perfect harmony, side by side on the keyboard, just like on Stevie Wonder and Paul McCartney on a piano. Only more harmonious than that even. Races and creeds wouldn’t exist any more. We’d all have skins made up of whatever colour you get when black and brown and white and yellow are all mixed together. A sort of beigey ecru, maybe. Cos that’s how anti-racist I am!”

It’s not just the nauseating smugness and self-righteousness of all these daringly outspoken Nick-Griffin-/BNP-haters that annoys me. Its the sheer fatuousness. In fact I can safely say that the moment I hear a person tell me how much they hate the BNP and/or how cross they are that Nick Griffin is appearing on Question Time, I know with absolute certainty that I can safely discount any political opinion they have on any other subject whatsoever. (Especially on Anthropogenic Global Warming, which they’re bound to believe is the second most serious threat to the world after racism, and sometimes even more serious than that!!!!)

Indeed, their sheer fatuousness is not merely annoying but actively dangerous – as Fraser Nelson points out on one of his ever-insightful blogs over at Spectator Coffee House. What this general, knee-jerk “oooh it’s the BNP! They’re racist! Pass the smelling salts!” response does is to lend further legitimacy to all the main parties’ ongoing refusal to address the real reasons why the BNP wins so many votes.

As Fraser says:

Some of their views (anti-EU, anti-mass immigration) are that of the mainstream in Britain but find no Westminster representation. Their racist views have no traction in a Britain which is perhaps the most tolerant country on earth. But on the stump, they campaign on other issues – including Westminster sleaze. To denounce them as a racist party ignores not only their multifaceted campaign style, but the concerns of the million-odd voters who backed them.

Exactly. So do remember that all you BNP-haters, next time you dare to venture – with the courage and deep insight which are your wont – how jolly disgusting you think Nick Griffin is. There’s no better recruiting sergeant for his cause than a dumb white liberal.

Related posts:

  1. Question Time: is that panel really the best they can do?
  2. Nick Clegg’s riot inquiry panel is beyond a joke
  3. David Dimbleby interview: celebrating 30 years of ‘Question Time’
  4. The Spectator’s editor agrees: the only way out of this ghastly Euro fudge is OUT


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Why Is Cameron Getting into Bed with This Dumb Blond?

Every now and then another moronically stupid political idea comes along which lots of people conspire temporarily to believe in because it sounds groovy and different. Some people call these trendy new theories paradigm shifts. I prefer to call them by the more accurate appellation of  total and utter b***ocks.

In the Blair era we had “The Third Way”; in the Cameron era we can apparently look forward to something called Red Toryism.

Red Toryism, my bull***t detectors tell me is pretty much what you’d get if you took Compassionate Conservatism and handed it over for a two-hour blue-sky-thinking, outside-the-box rebranding session at top London ad agency Wanka Gakhead Toss.

God I wish I’d thought of it, though. Not because it’s in any way useful or clever but because had I done so I would now be running a £700,000 think tank like the man who did invent it Phillip Blond. Not only that but I would be the subject of flattering Sunday Times interviews and have the ear of our soon-to-be-prime-minister Dave Cameron and his policy strategist Oliver Wetwin, both of whom apparently believe that the theories underpinning Red Toryism provide the perfect intellectual heft for their plan to heal Broken Britain (TM).

But what are the theories underpinning Red Toryism? That’s the ingenious thing about it. No one really knows. Least of all, I suspect, its creator – former theology lecturer, student of Continental Philosophy and relative of well-hard James Bond actor Daniel Craig – Phillip Blond.

Not unlike “the Third Way”, Red Toryism poses as a kind of political philosopher’s stone – the magic formula which will allow a functioning market economy and social justice to thrive simultaneously.

Actually, as Jamie Whyte points out in the latest issue of Standpoint, it’s nothing but Blairite snake-oil-salesmanship.

[Blond] believes the state should protect local grocers from competition with non-local firms by denying Tesco and its ilk permission to trade. The same goes for capital, which will be have to be raised locally (after it has been redistributed, presumably). Consumers must be obliged to use their local supplier. To prevent monopoly, we must impose it.

This economic Balkanisation, not promoted by most protectionists at the national level, but between — let us say — Exeter and Bristol, is the central policy proposal of Red Toryism. It is the means by which Britain will supposedly be transformed from a “market state” to a “civic state”.

In fact, it is a means by which Britain would be transformed from a rich country to a poor one, as anyone who understands the connection between the scope of trade, the division of labour and wealth creation could tell Blond. Alas, it seems that Blond is doing all the talking and others, including senior Conservatives, are doing the listening. And that is a shame.

Related posts:

  1. Why the Tories are doing so well in the polls, pt 1: Phillip Blond
  2. Climategate: why David Cameron is going to be disastrous for Britain
  3. So much for Cameron’s Cuties…
  4. David Cameron, renewable energy and the death of British property rights.


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Not Even God Believes in Anthropogenic Global Warming Any More, Archbishop

Do you drive a car? Fly abroad occasionally? Hope your salary will get bigger? Want your kids to be more comfortably off than you are?

Oh dear. Then it’s Outer Darkness for you, my friend.

Or so reckons the Archbishop of Canterbury. Apparently, according to a speech he gave in Southwark Cathedral the other day in a talk sponsored by the Christian environmentalist group Operation Noah, you are living “inhumanly.” (Hat Tip: Philip Foster)

Here’s how the celebrity Muppet-/Druid-/The-Master- impersonator (and sometime spiritual head of the Church of England) put it in his sermon.

In his splendid book, Hell and High Water: Climate Change, Hope and the Human Condition, Alastair McIntosh speaks of our current ‘ecocidal’ patterns of consumption as addictive and self-destructive. Living like this is living at a less than properly human level – McIntosh suggests we may need therapy, what he describes as a ‘cultural psychotherapy’ to liberate us. That liberation may or may not be enough to avert disaster. But what we do know – or should know – is that we are living inhumanly.

Yes, I suppose in a very real sense, this is just the sort of achingly worthy, anti-materialistic line you would expect a preachy churchman to take. But why, in God’s name, does it have to be yoked to the scientifically-dubious, Al-Gore-sponsored narrative about Anthropogenic Global Warming (AGW)?

One of the reasons the celebrity Muppet-impersonator still has his attractive day job – with way-cool perks including his very own Palace and the ability to really wind up Tony Blair in Iraq war memorial services – is that it is quite impossible, even in an age of science and rationalism, for anyone to disprove the existence of God. Not so AGW. Every day, more and more scientific evidence emerges to suggest that mankind’s contribution to the ongoing, natural process of climate change is negligible and that AGW is the biggest money-making scam since the South Sea Bubble.

Is the Archbishop of Canterbury really sure he should still be nailing his colours to the mast of this rapidly sinking ship?

Related posts:

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  2. ‘Global warming? What global warming?’ says High Priest of Gaia Religion
  3. The real cost of ‘global warming’
  4. Rowan Williams may or may not be the Antichrist


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I Watched, Helpless, as a Vicious Staffie Ripped up My Children’s Guinea Pigs

I’m sorry to have to break the news so brutally but there’s no other way: Pickles Deathclaw and Lily Scampers are no more. They are ex-guinea pigs. They have ceased to exist. And all because of one of those bastard, evil dogs you see everywhere these days attached to the arms — or, more worryingly, not attached to the arms — of the nation’s hooded underclass yoof. We were sitting in the kitchen having lunch when it happened. ‘What’s that noise?’ I said. Already I was on my feet and heading for the garden, fearing the very worst because I had been here two months before.

On that previous occasion it had been our beloved old cat Beetle who’d gone for a Burton — hunted down and deliberately killed by a member of a vicious South London gang whose specialities, besides stabbing and drug-dealing, include cat assassination. Hearing a yapping commotion in our garden (which is surrounded by a 10ft trellis), I’d arrived just in time to see Beetle being tossed in the air and having his neck broken by the muscular, tan-coloured cur. The dog, I learned later from the police, had been put deliberately over our wall. Beetle was at least the third neighbourhood cat to have been got in this way.

So when I entered the garden I pretty much knew what to expect. Yes. Sure enough: carnage. Pickles Deathclaw was already dead at that point; Lily was about to be got (their outdoor run had been overturned) and I just wasn’t feeling quite suicidal enough (that would come later) to place myself between her and the jaws of her ravening Staffordshire-terrier-style assassin. Instead, I stood, helpless, just as I had when Beetle died, going ‘Noo! You bastard! Nooo!’

By now a face had appeared at our garden wall. ‘Here, boy. Here!’ called the youth: black, teenaged, hooded, as all the devil-dog-owners are round our part of Sarf London. And I yelled at him: ‘What the f*** is your f***ing dog doing in my f***ing garden killing my kids’ f***ing guinea pigs?’ To be fair he looked almost as upset as I was. ‘It’s not me, man. It’s my dog,’ he said. ‘He won’t come. How do I make him come?’

After that it’s a bit of a blur. Kids crying. Wife fuming. Me going right up to the hoodie’s face to tell him exactly what a s*** I thought he was. Dog bounding nonchalantly over the fence. Hoodie disappearing. Me saying: ‘The camera. Where’s the f***ing camera?’, finding it and, before wife could stop me, tracking down the hoodie via sundry concrete walkways and dingy alleyways to his housing estate.

(to read more, click here)

Related posts:

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  2. Techno deprivation
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  4. In the name of JUSTICE we MUST send Mark Thatcher to Equatorial Guinea
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