Three babies crawl into a bar…

The first baby says, “I was specially-bred on a slave-breeding plantation in Virginia. I am to live my life as a pedigree slave.”

“Aw, that’s too bad,” says the second baby. “I was specially-bred in a Nazi race-breeding programme. I will live my life as a pure member of the Aryan race.”

“Alhamdullillah,” says the third baby. “My mother left the West to join ISIS, where she bred me especially so I may die a martyr. I feel sorry for the two of you.”

Why I’ve said nothing about Nice (so far)

I was with friends on a pleasure boat on the Seine, huddled together in the cold, drinking champagne and enjoying the spectacular fireworks display at the Eiffel Tower when, beneath the whoops and ahs and wows and awesones, this subsensory stimulus worms its steady way, mouth to mouth, its touch dropping faces, both away from the Eiffel Tower, and away from the exuberant mood. Smiles transformed into confusion and then into recognition and finally into utter disgust, all in slow motion, one face to the next to the next. We exchanged “Fucking bastards,” “Oh nos” “When will this ends?” “I want to kill them myselfs” and such like amongst ourselves. Slowly, one by one, we looked around to reassure ourselves that all the security personnel we’d earlier seen on the river around us were still there, and thus reassured, one by one, our faces drifted back to the Eiffel Tower and the fireworks display. By this time, a small fire had started in a building at the foot of the tower. We wondered about that, but no-one said anything. The sirens of the emergency services have become a standard feature of the Parisian soundscape, like a recently-discovered part of Hausmann’s grand design. I knew that my friends felt likewise, and I became determined not to have my night of celebration of the end of feudalism in France, and the conception of the free individual in the world—liberté, égalité, fraternité—ruined by people determined to bomb and hack and shoot us back to when even feudalism would have been progressive, and the building of the Bastille was still an unimaginable seven centuries in the future (1357 lies exactly halfway between where we are today and where Islam wants to take us all back to). We shivered, and looked, but didn’t whoop, or wow or awesome anymore. We were all in our own thoughts. How dare they bring their pre-feudal religion into our world, into our time? How dare they? Mindless people on a mission from the seventh century. Dead people left in bits all over the twenty-first. Time-travelers out to kill the furture. In the future, many will insist this has nothing to do with Islam. I cannot stand it. I raise my glass, and put it down again.


Sadly, I am leaving Paris today. This is my comment on Nice.

Plans for Disneyland Mecca postponed indefinitely.

The muted disappointment was palpable in this Holy Kingdom of 31 million, when it was announced during Friday prayers that the much-anticipated opening of Disneyland Mecca had been indefinitely postponed. Inconsolable children were given brightly-coloured Qur’ans with honey-coated covers and dates concealed in specially-designed recesses within. It isn’t known whether this worked. However, as the clergy explained, and His Majesty’s loyal subjects understand, it is a small price to pay for the vigilance with which Islam must be protected. The Disneyland site, across the road from the Kaaba, will now be renamed in honour of Muhammad Al-Munajid. Alhamdulillah!

The Holy Month of Ramadan comes to an end

Ramadan 1437 is at an end — and 1,850 lives along with it. Eid Mubarak to those Muslims who have once again defied the Qur’an to avoid indulging in the annual month-long murder megafest. However, only explicit Muslim repudiation of the Qur’an will finally relegate its values to the seventh century where they belong, and turn those Muslims who still subscribe to this murderous text into pitied people lost in the wrong century. Failing that, expect Ramadan 1438 to be an even more spectacular orgy of killing.

Just when you thought things couldn’t get more obscene…

The Islamic terrorism ravaging the world is routinely portrayed in moderate Muslim circles as a “battle of ideas”. It is a battle of ideas in which, somehow, limbs and heads end up violently dissociated from torsos — sometimes left hanging by a sinew if the ideas weren’t incisive enough; at other times flung tens of metres through the air, if they were powerful ideas. I do not know what to call it when this “battle of ideas” obscenity is topped.

Yesterday, on 1 July, terrorists shot their way into a bakery leaving two civilians and one police officer dead in Dhaka (you know, the place where atheists are fair game), taking at least twenty people hostage.  At 23:55, the bakery supervisor says, “the attackers were shouting ‘Allahu Akbar’ when coming into the bakery.” At 00:05, it is reported that the Officer-in-Charge of the local police station is killed. At 00:10, a US State Department spokesman says that they are “in constant touch with the Bangladeshi authorities,” over what “appears to be a hostage situation, …as of now, just before I came out here …it is obviously too early for us to say who’s involved, motivation, any of that stuff.”

Screen Shot 2016-07-02 at 06.57.18

At 01:24, this tweet appears: “Breaking: #ISIS ‘Amaq claims group’s credit for attack in #DhakaAttack.” At 01:29, CNN reports on the attack as breaking news. Their reporter in Istanbul is particularly determined not to know “any of that stuff.” She starts out with what has by now become a standard media disclaimer: “I want to be crystal clear. We can’t label what’s happening here because we simply don’t know who these gunmen are.”

This is not just bullshit. It is not just obscene. It is sadistic. This broadcast is made from Istanbul, with the name “Ataturk” emblazoned in large letters behind the reporter’s head. If anyone knows anything about the mass killing by Islamic terrorists in Istanbul just three days earlier, they would know that it had taken place at that city’s Ataturk Airport. Sure, “we simply don’t know who these gunmen are.” In the meantime, Istanbul is racked with grief and horror by all “that stuff.” I am filled with disgust.

I’m trying very hard not to refer to Trotsky’s The Stalin School of Falsification. To do so would just be obscene, wouldn’t it.