Am I standing up straight enough Daddy?
I blog because there are certain things I feel strongly about. So many of those things are unfashionable amongst the media chatterati, who labour under the twin delusions that not only do they hold the one correct political viewpoint on any question, but they also represent some righteous but silent majority who also hold that same viewpoint. Of course they’re wrong on both counts but they all live in medialand and with a boring regularity get reminded they’re actually nothing more than media studies propagandists pretending to be journalists.
That chasm between reality and how informed and influential they think they are has been pretty stark this year – the UK general election that they said was neck and neck but turned out to be an outright majority for the Conservative Party who won a hundred more seats than Labour, and another supposedly neck and neck vote in Greece that overwhelmingly told the EU exactly where they could stick their austerity policy.
I recently wrote an article called points of divergence in which I made the assertion that alarmist climate science is essentially a criminal enterprise. The activist scientists are not making mistakes or silly blunders, they’re actively perverting both the reputation and the basic process of research with an establishment cynicism that hasn’t been matched since the heyday of consensus Lysenkoism in the Soviet Union. There’s nobody doing any science there – it’s all just activism or toeing the official line.
Calling it activism and them activists is actually softening the blow – the most strident of them are actually fanatics.
I’ve always thought of them as that and often referred to them on this blog as such. Another thing I’ve said on several occasions is that their fanaticism is both their strength and their weakness. They have no bounds, no doubts and live in a hypocrisy blind spot. It’s not so much that they’re moral idiots, it’s that they’re empathic idiots – it’s always about them and their messianic compulsion to save the Earth from us grubby human beings and there’s a complete absence of any human feeling for those who must be sacrificed to save the Earth.
In the service of that imperative, anything can be used, and abused, and that very definitely includes the children.
They want to tug at our emotions using the threat that global warming is supposed to be for our children. They blew up a few of them in front of our eyes to convince us and were stunned to realise we might have a few problems with children being turned into gouts of meat with all the attendant blood splashes over the other kiddies. Jesus H bloody Christ, goodbye Phillip And Tracy …
A couple of news items this week highlighted how there are no non-combatants in the fanatic world, and that most certainly includes children.
The always hard-hitting Jo Nova did a piece on activists being allowed into a primary school and being permitted to use the children as political cannon fodder to write letters to politicians, the templates for which the activists would kindly provide.
I know we’re supposed to be living in dumbed down days but what ever happened to education duty number one – teachers standing in loco parentis? That’s actually neither a debilitating disease of insane parents nor a new sort of Samba. It means that for those hours those children are in your care, you do actually have to act as their parent, and exercise a reasonable duty of care. What happens next? Do the local Nazis get equal access to the children? Perhaps the paedophiles should be next in the queue to have their fair share of time with them?
Has anyone found our missing moral compass, never mind some common sense? Bueller? Bueller?
The next one up would be Ezra Levant, whom I’ve mentioned before on this blog. He’s a real bloody throwback, an old-fashioned reporter who actually goes out to chase a story, does the pavement talking to people, has a laugh with them but make no mistake he’s as sharp as a bullwhip, and seeing as he’s a Jewboy, knows despite us all living in these wonderfully more enlightened times, he has to be twice as smart as your average goyim.
He does remind me so much of a guy I went to school with – Manny. There weren’t many Jewish schools around our neck of the woods so the wandering tribe had to settle on sending their scions to the Catholic school. It was the nearest thing to anything vaguely religious in a largely godless land as far as they could see, and there was always the distant hope we could pick off one or two of them. Obviously, certain accommodations had to be made and at certain points they’d be allowed to slip away when we did mysterious things like sacrifice Wesleyan babies but the rest of the time, we got on remarkably well. We real internees wanted to be able to slip out of things like they did.
Manny was the first one through the door. I got pushed to the front of the tribal crowd to find out about him.
So, you’re a Jew? Yes.
Why’d you kill Jesus? That wasn’t us, it was the Romans.
I see …
Jesus was Jewish you know.
Really. Emm … I told him I liked Desmond Dekker, which was my juvenile idea of an olive branch to this strange Jewish person in our midst. I quite frankly knew bugger all about them except that we weren’t supposed to like them.
Quick as a flash, he was back with his preference for Jimi and his version of Dylan’s all along the watchtower, and from that instant onward we became firm friends. His Dad was Jewish but his Mum was Catholic, and in a moment I playfully nicknamed him Oyvay as in Oy Vay Maria and for better or worse it stuck with the poor bugger for years in that hellhole of education. Oyvay turned out to be a bloody great holding midfielder, which totally cemented his place in the young testosterone tribe that we were. We never knew Jews could play footie.
Anyway, getting back on target.
Ezra is walking around a demo and it looks like there’s barely fifty people there and he’s laughing and joking with a vegan over their Methane emissions, which we all know is their farting. Suddenly a Mummie appears and tells him her daughter would like to ask him a question. Despite what he says, he’s too smart a cookie not to realise straight away what particular gotcha thick-as-two-short-planks Mummie believes she’s walking him into. There’s a long YouTube link here and a shorter one here but suffice to say, Mummie had drilled a tricky question into her daughter which Ezra handled with the thoughtfulness any decent person would with a child.
Mummie wasn’t happy when the child and him started to have a conversation.
She rearranged the football in the middle of them, which was her child, and you can see Ezra trying to disengage. No way, Mummie of the Year ain’t going to let that happen but you can watch as he shifts focus off the child to her, highlighting just how much she wants her kid to take a bullet from an evil skeptic but of course he won’t oblige. Perhaps he thinks children have no place being used as sacrificial pawns in any debate.
Whatever points she was hoping to score, she failed miserably, as you can see in the video of the whole thing and I’d encourage you to watch the whole encounter, if only to learn how a real reporter walks a tightrope between a mother quite prepared to put her child into harm’s way and some journalistic integrity, if not human care for the feelings of the child themselves.
Mummie turned out to be an environmental reporter for the Toronto Star and wrote up a totally dishonest account of the encounter for a paper that apparently pays reporters to make up stuff. I don’t mean getting a few facts wrong, it was just blatant lying and she was quite prepared to spend her daughter to make whatever political points just had to be made.
Take another look at that child’s face at the end of the clip. She knows something has gone wrong and sort of knows Ezra in ever so much a nice way, has shown up Mummie. When I was a child there used to be a bottom of the pit saying you directed at certain people – you at least need a dog license to have a dog but nothing at all to have a kid. What that pageant mother did to that child was nothing more than exploiting the innocent dependence of a child’s for love from them for some tawdry political end. Some people might very well call that child abuse.
Once in a while a documentary series and the people in them can strike home in ways you’ll never forget. They nail your attention. One series, called I think the World at War, bundled all the pieces from the thousands of live interviews that they couldn’t naturally fit into the topic matter of any particular episode, into an unstructured one at the end. One of the people talking was a woman called Christabel Bielenberg, an Englishwoman who’d married a German lawyer before WWII broke out. He’d be what’s called a human rights lawyer nowadays and of course ended up in a concentration camp. She wrote a couple of extraordinary books about her experiences, which if you can get hold of them, I would highly recommend.
Once every few months, she’d get permission to visit him in Ravensbruck concentration camp. She’d park the children with some sympathetic Bavarian neighbours and set off on the long train journey northwards. On one occasion, it was mid winter and the wooden carriage was unheated and icy with nobody in it but her. An obviously drunken SS officer crashed into the carriage and you could tee up the terror from that moment on. He soon learnt she was English and he felt safe talking to her because she was petrified and he knew whatever he said to her was deniable.
For no reason, he started talking about his military service in Russia. She wasn’t required to say anything, just sit there and listen in horror. He was in charge of what was called an Einsatzkommando, or special operations group. Industrial murder hadn’t been quite perfected at that point; their job was to dig big pits, line people up in front of them and shoot them.
She sat there on the wooden bench for hours in frozen terrified silence as the train chugged away and he free-associated his way through atrocity after atrocity and she wondered if she’d ever get out of that carriage alive. As any good writer will do, she distilled the horror of his ramblings. It’s people’s words that haunt you in the end, just as they haunted him.
An old man standing in front of the pit and shaking a pointing finger skywards. “God is looking down on what you’re doing this day, and he will not forgive you”.
Or the toddler turning to his father and asking “Am I standing up straight enough Daddy?”
That child’s hurt eyes at the end of that clip reminded me inescapably of that toddler trying to stand up straight enough in the middle of some adult dispute they should never have been dragged into. Shame on you Mother, shame on you.
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