Chapter 3: The Brothers Miliband
“I had the feeling they were quite in danger. One was hit by the car, the car ran over him and the same little guy caught fire when we watered the flower pots with gasoline and set them afire. He caught fire and I extinguished him with my body. I threw myself on him. And when he was extinguished I told him ‘I’m gonna jump into a cactus if you all survive’”
Werner Hertzog, on what happened to the dwarf actors on the set of ‘Even Dwarves Start Small’ (1970)
Say you’re a teenage boy, and one morning you walk into the family kitchen only to discover Mullah Omar of the Taliban making himself a cup of tea. The normal response would be to panic, seize up, but if you had good fortune not to, you would search for a Stanley knife and if one isn’t to be found, you’d run to the study, lock the door and call the filth. What you wouldn’t do is blush, go up to the psycho and wander suggestively around him, like a vulnerable choirboy. You wouldn’t compliment him on his appearance - you wouldn’t say: “I’m really, seriously - honestly - a massive fan.”
But that’s roughly what an oddball called David Miliband did - as a teenager - one morning when he came downstairs to find Joe Slovo in the kitchen, helping himself to some English Breakfast. Slovo, the white South African communist, and David Miliband’s father, Ralph, the English “socialist”, were - obviously - big friends, and this incident with the tea was occasioned at the Miliband home in North London.
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Ralph was born Adolphe Miliband, in Brussels, the son of Polish immigrant Jews. He fled Europe for Britain in 1940 and quickly changed his name on account of its similarity to someone else. He didn’t like Britain much. A much-criticised diary entry from the same year reveals this in no uncertain terms:
The Englishman is a rabid nationalist. They are perhaps the most nationalist people in the world … When you hear the English talk of this war you sometimes almost want them to lose it to show them how things are. They have the greatest contempt for the continent in general and for the French in particular. They didn’t like the French before the defeat: (1) because they don’t have order, (2) because they talk too much, (3) because they change their ministers every month, etc. Since the defeat, they have the greatest contempt for the French Army … England first. This slogan is taken for granted by the English people as a whole. To lose their empire would be the worst possible humiliation
Ralph was no doubt academic, and as you can guess from reading this, there are few places someone like this could go…other than to academia. So he went, first to the London School of Economics, then Roosevelt University in Chicago, then back to the LSE. He joined the Labour Party and some of Sutenbastud’s extended foundations in the New Left, a movement seeking to incorporate environmentalism and feminism alongside the nationalisation of all industry. With his Polish-born wife, he had two sons: the aforementioned David, then Edward.
The boys grew up in the shanty town of Primrose Hill, then the favelas of Boland Gardens in South Kensington where the average house now sells for around £2.1m. David was educated privately (Ed not so lucky), before both were shipped off to Corpus Christi College at the University of Oxford, where they both received the Sutenbastud degree in Politics, Philosophy and Economics, or PPE - the destroyer of the Western mind. David would become a Kennedy Scholar in 1989 and Ed would go back to his father’s stomping ground, the LSE, to get another unnecessary degree.
Alongside Joe Slovo, another of Ralph’s biggest friends was a piece of work called Eric Hobsbawm. Eric was a lifelong Marxist who lived until the age of 95. Exactly what did Eric and Ralph shoot the breeze with? Well, hear that from Eric directly - from an interview with the author Michael Ignatieff on the 24th of October 1994 on BBC Four, about the fall of the Berlin Wall five years earlier:
Ignatieff: If Communism had achieved its aims, but at the cost of, say, 15 to 20 million people - as opposed to the 100 million it actually killed in Russia and China - would you have supported it?
Hobsbawm: Yes
Say what you like - you have to credit the psychopath with no mealie-mouthing “oh-well-Michael-hahaha-you-mischievous-rascal-oh-well-now-I-say”- it was a YES!, straight up - I commend the murder, the genocide, the infanticide, there are just too many annoying peasants - I LIKE IT. As he would today, he got away with it, but can you imagine how the BBC would have shat itself had someone like Donald Rumsfeld, at around the same time, said something like: “Well I think the bodies of Muslims across the Middle East is an entirely justifiable price to pay to sustain America’s various industrial complexes.” But getting away with that statement was only one part: Tony Blair awarded him the most prestigious gong that is possible to bestow onto “an intellectual” - The Companion of Honour. The day he died, BBC staffers reportedly petitioned their employer to hold a minute’s silence, and, judging by the responses of its personalities to the piece of work’s death, it most probably acquiesced - I don’t know - possibly allowed those degenerates to hold a vigil right underneath the Prospero and Ariel statue at BBC HQ sculpted by Eric Gill (who was, haha, a pedo).
In 2007, David Miliband was appointed Foreign Secretary a day after Gordon Brown’s long-awaited turn eventually arrived. Ed Miliband also was appointed to the prestigious cabinet position of Chancellor of the Dutchy of Lancaster. It was commented at the time that, unlike the red hot iron poker of their father’s radicalism, both had sought pragmatic journeys into politics - I think this means that what appeared a “path” was actually a circle - of loathing and confusion, beset by the contradictions of New Labour and New Left, the emerging “third way”, the brother’s minds poisoned by PPE and hentai-ish communism. Just how acute these contradictions were was revealed by David in a BBC interview on the 16th of August 2009 on an occasion lamenting the life of Joe Slovo.
I have tried to imagine exactly how the young boy and the old communist would have corresponded in the former’s family kitchen. Did Joe ask: “Do you like cricket?” No, I wouldn’t have thought so either - if I were to guess, I’d imagine the man who cheered when the USSR invaded Hungary in 1956 would have leaned down and shoved a finger in young David’s face: “Now listen here, I don’t care what they’ll tell you, how much biological or scientific evidence exists to the contrary, remember this NOW: there is NO such thing as a woman.”
Needless to say, the interview was a disaster. The subject moved to terrorism in South Africa. David Miliband was asked by the homosexual reporter Matthew Parris: “Are there circumstances in which violent reaction, terrorism, is the right response?” David stumbled: “Um…I…erm…I think…the answer has to be…um…yes…um there are circumstances…in which it is justifiable.” He then mumbled something about Umkhonto we Sizwe’s attack on the Sasol refinery.
Now. Imagine if you were the squad captain of a bunch of FARC guerrillas deep in the jungle and you’d heard this on the BBC World Service. Your boys would be lively - you’d have to give them the day off and maybe a few grams of cocaine each. In Somalia, you’d have to slaughter a goat and permit your Al-Shaabab guys to inject themselves with gunpowder (“we’re totally gonna blow up the FIFA World Cup in Johannesburg next year innit habibi”). In the Hindu Kush it would be young dancing boys all night.
It was a bizarre situation. Sutenbastud had asked Sutenbastud whether indiscriminate brutality and mayhem was permissible. Sutenbastud had stammered a “yes” - and was attacked by Sutenbastud. For it was Menzies Campbell, the former leader of the Liberal Democrats, who led the condemnation of David’s remarks, followed by Alastair Campbell, who complained that the statement put at risk the lives of soldiers in Afghanistan. No mention of Iraq.
But David knew exactly what he was saying, and he meant it, only regretting he didn’t have the icy, direct conviction of his father’s friend Eric. All the learning in his life had brought him and his brother to a point of pathological loathing for white, English-speaking and Afrikaans South Africans. He was uncompromising: the ANC always owned the land - they owned everything - and whatever they did in pursuit of this, whatever the collateral damage, was irrelevant. His father and his father’s friends - Joe, Eric and co - had quite literally shat in the brothers’ heads and statements that day were merely indicative of the skid marks.
In 2010 the brothers mounted challenges for the leadership of the Labour Party and made it to the final two. The arithmetic suggested David, but the smart money was on Ed, for it was he who was seen courting the exhausted or confused trade unions, who were now led by fat barons more often spotted at all-inclusive resorts in Benidorm and Lanzarote than they were on the grubby picket lines. David couldn’t bear to associate with these antiquated people: unless they started concerning themselves with gender identity - unless girl bosses became a thing on the factory floor - he was done with them. At the 11th hour, Ed thrust the knife into the back of his brother the favourite - it was he who would be crowned leader - who would bring Ralph and his comrades’ legacy into the 2010 mainstream. Or try to.
In 2013, just shy of 3 years since Ed’s election victory, the “right” wing press, namely the Daily Mail, declared that “his father Ralph hated Britain”. Not only was this correct, but it was also unusually perspicacious; instead of obsessing over the current things of the “right” during that time (e.g the white flight from south east London to neighbouring counties, “diversity is our strength”, etc), the press had researched some important history, and discovered an uncomfortable truth in the past that could be considered an impediment to any political leader’s future judgement: Ralph Miliband did hate Britain. He hated its people, traditions, systems, identity and individual ambitions. None of these were consistent with his idea of society - to him the peaceful image of middle England, the family standing at dusk looking into rolling green hills of their land content that they were steeped in values and manners and cushioned by prosperity, was repulsive. That the young were fed a diet of Biblical order and meritocracy was equivocal internment, a society unacceptably bent toward Randian enlightened self-interest. He hated Britain with such intensity that he froze in the mud then sank, and from its bubbles emerged his sons.
As the leader of the opposition, Ed was miserable. He lacked the urgency possessed by Blair (incidentally: the message of New Labour during Blair’s Clinton-esque framing was orchestrated by two PR girls - Sarah, the wife of Gordon Brown and one Julia Hobsbawm, haha, Eric’s daughter). Eager to democratize his own Jewishness, he would be photographed eating bacon sandwiches - the idea being that truckers and fitters and joiners would see this splashed across The Sun or The Express or The Mirror in greasy spoons and shrug, “heeeeee’s awwroight inheeee?” But there was a more brutal strategy designed to shield Ed, and it started the day the “right” wing press accused his father of hating Britain.
Those who were doing the accusing had overlooked a potent weapon of deflection that Ralph, Eric and other devotees of the Frankfurt School, particularly those who had infiltrated California, had used against their enemies. If their misanthropic views were subject to even elementary scrutiny, the most effective response would be to accuse those doing the scrutinizing of anti-semitism. With Hitler’s treatment of Jews still so fresh in memory, it was an impossible position to claw back from. So attacking Ed, his supporters and the agitprop media argued - despite Ralph having shuffled off way back in 1994, was actually just anti-semitic. Publishing extracts from Ralph’s diary, or his conversations with others about the very country that had saved him from torture and persecution, was anti-semitic. Commenting on the suspiciously short distance from Ralph’s gravestone at Highgate cemetery, North London, to that of Karl Marx’s, was anti-semitic. Everything Ralph had done seemed to rail against Britain - but to acknowledge such was anti-semitic.
Does any of this sound vaguely familiar?
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The ubiqutuous defence strategy of countering any criticism with the claim of racism in South Africa was occasioned in the late 1990s and early 2000s - beta testing if you like - before rapid market uptake. There were three telling incidents here.
For the first incident, we return to the 5th of September 2000, to the studios of Radio 702 in Johannesburg, where the host John Robbie interviewed then Minister of Health Manto-Tshabalala Msimang. The interview started pleasantly enough before John accused the minister of circulating a document that clearly sought to enhance the scepticism prevailing through the ANC about HIV / Aids. Clearly, of both her own volition and encouragement from above, she was seeking to question the “settled science”, and provide some alternative commentary.
The document was a theory extracted from “Behold, a Pale Horse” by the American William Cooper, which posits that HIV/Aids was introduced to Africa via the smallpox vaccine in 1978, that a cure was known but would only be released when the body count was sufficient to the originators of the scheme - The Illuminati. Manto, whose alcoholism and loyalty to President Thabo Mbeki were well known (her husband Mendi was the party’s treasurer), distributed the document to all 9 provisional health administrators. Of its time it was the WhatsApp message sent by your mad uncle Victor claiming that the moon landings were faked or that Nancy Pelosi sacrificed a child in a satanic ritual that also involved her husband Paul bumming a tramp in a parking lot - essentially something wild-ish you may have once privately, quietly questioned, then blown to pieces beyond any logical parameters by too many ultra wild correspondents.
Things started kicking off. John accused Manto of entertaining “looney tunes” which didn’t please the old girl. The bickering started and voices were raised, each speaking over the other. John, a man of the ‘left’ who had once played professional rugby, then committed the error of calling the Minister “Manto” and Manto took exception: “Who is Manto to you?” John ended the interview abruptly: “Oh go away. I can’t, I just can’t.” The following day, the ANC’s grievance armed response unit rocked up and accused John and his station of insulting a black woman. We feel, they claimed, that John’s hostile attitude to Manto was because of her skin color. A few days later, John apologised for his conduct and offered the Minister an opportunity to return for another interview.
So what was happening with HIV/Aids in South Africa - how many of its people were infected, what was being done about it, Manto’s refusal to supply zidovudine to all pregnant women with HIV, or victims of rape, Thabo Mbeki’s own spurious grounds for scepticism - lost. That a significant number of the South African National Defence Force were suspected to be HIV positive, and thus a threat to national security - lost. The country was made to look like a joke amongst the donor/aid complex - as if these people needed any more currency to be annoying. What was found was all-important: John was racist, and his patronising manner of scrutiny - an expression of supremacy - was all people needed to know.
The second incident involved a very naughty man called David Malatsi. In 2002, David was the MEC for Environment in the Western Cape under the command authority of its Premier, Peter Marais. A wealthy Italian Count and property developer, Riccardo Augusta, was seeking to build a prestigious golf course on the fringes of Plettenberg Bay, which required planning and permission approvals, so made overtures to David. At what David described as a “pasta evening” with the Count, he accepted an amount of R400,000 (£16,775) to ensure the project went smoothly. David then went back to his staffers and instructed that conditional permission be approved via document record of decision (ROD).
One of the staffers was a white woman, Ingrid Coetzee. Sensing something fishy, she declined the ROD and requested he withdraw her delegated authority to issue it. David lost his cool and stomped around the office waving his hands in air: “Racist! Racist!”
Then the filth got wind of the caper, and South Africa’s elite financial police, the since disbanded Scorpions, went and house-called the Count, who immediately fessed up and paid an admission of guilt fee. Hauled to court, David needed to do the same but instead, he opted for his own strategy of not guilty plus: “Racist!” He portrayed his department as being filled with racist obstructionists and complimented his testimony with another incident in which the department’s legal advisor accused him of playing Tetris on his Nokia 9210 during a meeting. “What was racist about that?” he was asked. “It was racist because it implied that blacks are easily distracted, and like playing games.”
The game he was playing, however, succeeded because on balance more talk about racism emerged than about the corruption charges. It would create channels of confirmation bias but more importantly, provide invaluable insights into the beta testing. In October 2006, David was found guilty, but awarded leave to appeal. Only in 2012 was he jailed. So for a decade, he was free to speak, to entrench into collective consciousness the idea his activities paled in significance to his perceived treatment.
The third is not well known, but it aided the testing. It involved an incident that occurred at the Mount Nelson Hotel in 2004 - and the spawn of Joe Slovo. His daughter, ahem, “Shawn” (remember what I said earlier? Men and women?) was there and noticed the lack of “diversity” among the waiting staff in the restaurant. So she confronted a manager and the manager, some based edgelord ahead of his or her time, dared to declare: “I’m sorry Madam, we do not discriminate based on complexion. We hire according to merit.” Now you can imagine the shrieking fit the harridan flew into: she called up her friend, then Minister of Defence Mosua Lekota, and Mosua, a good man whom I knew a little, felt obliged to moan about the incident in Parliament.
In October 2004, South Africans were able to gauge the success of the stratagem. A white rape survivor and women’s advocate, Charlene Smith, wrote for the Sunday Independent an article entitled “Rape is becoming a way of life.” “The President,” the article said, “clearly has a problem with… sex and sexuality and that is delaying South Africa’s capacity to effectively deal with sexual violence and HIV/Aids.” At the time crime figures had been released, showing a marginal reduction in violent crimes - the problem, however, is that these were police statistics, in all likelihood misleading, at worst, dreadfully inaccurate. Nevertheless Thabo Mbeki was shown the article and lost his rag immediately.
It is claimed that prior to this article, Thabo and Smith were on friendly terms - but this was the end. Without referring to her by name, Thabo took to an ANC newsletter on the 1st of October 2004 to detonate with words to the effect of: “A so-called ‘sexual expert on sexual violence’ has been going around mouthing off that our cultures, traditions and religions as Africans make every African man a potential rapist which defines the African people as nothing more than barbaric savages”.
A few days later the opposition party, the Democratic Alliance, stormed to the defence of Smith in Parliament, only to be met with doubling-down douchebaggery: “I”, sneered Thabo, “for my part will not keep quiet while others whose minds have been corrupted by the disease of racism, accuse us, the black people of South Africa, Africa, and the world, as being by virtue of our Africaness and skin colour — lazy, liars, foul-smelling, diseased, corrupt, violent, amorally sexually depraved, animalistic, savage, and racist”.
Smith had said none of those things. She was even careful not to allude to the obvious: in a country where the vast majority of the population is a certain demographic, Occam’s Razor would suggest that the majority of rapes in that country will be committed by members of that certain demographic - to say nothing of the documented fact that rape was much less underreported in poor, black communities. She was an activist - but more: she didn’t need to be accompanied by loud claims of Robin de Angelo's “anti-racism” and other frauds of the kind we see today. To most good people - including the majority of white South Africans - antipathy toward racism was something you had within you, one of the things that made you good in the first place and gave you the confidence to exercise your freedom of expression knowing that it was based in sound judgement and decency.
(Barely one year after these remarks Jacob Gedleyihlekisa Zuma (Thabo’s deputy at the time), was arrested on the charge of raping the daughter of a good friend and fellow Robben Islander, Judson Kuzwayo. “Kewzi” (“star”) as she became known, was HIV+. She appeared to be depressed and vulnerable when she went to visit Gedleyihlekisa at his Johannesburg home in Forest Town. She had worn something akin to a kanga, and her behaviour, according to Gedleyihlekisa, had illustrated a woman in need. “You can’t just leave a woman like that,” Gedleyihlekisa said in court. When quizzed about Kwezi’s HIV+ status and whether he knew of the potential danger, Gedleyihlekisa just shrugged. He’d had a shower afterwards, so all perfect).
But Thabo Mbeki wasn’t Manto or David. He was the President, and the President, with all testing complete - was effectively saying: “Right: all criticism of ANC, if it comes out of the mouth of a white person, is racist.” Black people were not spared either; if you were a sensible black person, who took exception to the party’s nervous twitch of positioning village idiots in security-related or health ministerial portfolios, you were reluctant to speak out. Because were you to do so, you would be given the Christine Qunta treatment and be called an “Askari” - outside of Sutenbastud, possibly the most brutal insult in black South African identity politics.
So in London, to criticise Sutenbastud was anti-semitic and in Pretoria, it was racist.
Only in London, you weren’t criticising Jewishness: you were criticising collectivist, socially-engineered, factually-vacant, savings-destroying, control-at-all-cost, academia-bukkake nonsense. You were criticising the blend of creepy internationalism and “progress” that had drifted westward since the end of the Second World War. In Pretoria, you were criticising the shameless gluttony of public officials, the staggering incompetence of administrators and the defiant attitude of the ruling party when fingered in malfeasance. You were criticizing the wasted resources and applied logic that emasculated the police force into a “service”, led by a procession of helpless fools who couldn’t service anything, least of all victims of violent crime, most of whom were poor black people. This was apparent in the footage of the Marikana massacre in 2012 where the sum total of democratic dispensation policing attitudes and effectiveness was laid bare. You saw them. Those undertrained, out-of-shape people lost their nerve, scattered, then blew holes in the condemned strikers as they ran away.
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There will never be any justification for the way critics of Sutenbastud were treated in either country’s capitals. But with the greatest of respect to Jews, I’ve come to learn that dismissing people like Jeremy Corbyn, the cartoonist Zapiro, Ronnie Kasrils and Andrew Feinstein as anti-semites is neither particularly helpful nor accurate - and serves only the corrupt and dishonest grievance vortex the custodians of which today include David and Edward.
First and foremost, these unprepossessing crisis actors are actually just pro-Hamas fanatics - and Palestine being “free” is only ever a by-product of base fanaticism. Just to exist they need to project onto the world the image of suffering and oppression, irrespective of whether its true or not, because from that comes the prospect of an earner from professional protesting, or endlessly punching down.
Accusing the foursome of anti-semitism affords the accuser an outdated and thus blunt sense of conviction as it presupposes these people possess the faculty to feel shame or shame’s adjacents. However, emphasising the habits of the “freedom fighters” they consider legitimate (Hamas is a terrorist-designated organisation) is more objective. Some of these four men have sipped tea with gang rapists, who are unapologetically homophobic (racist and transphobic too - sorry to all the black guys and gals and them / theys who waste their time making videos) and delight in violent depravity. This leads to the position of hypocrisy - which none of the men enjoy being accused of. But they are: they moan about alleged human rights abuses of Israel, but when it comes to countries like China, or legislated injustice - not so much. They’ll all do the pussy hat thing or the BLM thing or the “Times Up” thing - but they’re the last to condemn sex attacks and assaults on Jewish and Israeli women. And besides, the claim of anti-semitism has benefited Andrew before: at some point during his time as MP, he got up to speak but was heckled by a National Party (NP) member who shouted “Kommunis!” Gill Marcus, the Jewish former South African Reserve Bank governor was also present, and she called point-of-order on that heckle, claiming it was anti-semitic. The MP got booted out.
As it happens, I learned from a Jewish man that addressing your enemies accurately is more effective way of forcing them to retreat.
He owned a well-known restaurant in Johannesburg's northern suburbs, and on Friday nights a convoy of SUVs belonging to a then-premier of Limpopo Province would arrive in the parking lot. The owner would then be intimidated by the premier’s 10 or so security heavies into finding him a table - on the busiest night of the week. The premier obviously never bothered booking and the owner, unwilling to disturb regular patrons, was forced into blocking out the private dining room for the party.
Some strange things happened. One Friday night, the premier insisted on buying a bottle of Chateau Rothschild, at the time selling for R27 000 (£1,137). The premier made the black Zimbabwean waiter wear a pair of white gloves to pour the wine but he wasn’t pouring wine, he was actually pouring ink - because the owner had forgotten that the bottle purchased was a dummy for window dressing only. Anyway, the premier and his group happily drank the ink and the owner only realised what had happened when they smiled their goodbyes and all their lips were noticeably blue. The owner also noticed that the eye-watering bills were paid with a provincial government credit card; it’s unlikely that residents of Limpopo, with 42.6% poverty intensity at the time, were aware of their leader’s profligacy.
But the owner formed a rapport with the premier. Having grown up in the trade, he was no-nonsense, and would occasionally rib the premier about the expense, and who was paying, describing him - to his face - as a “champagne socialist”. But if the owner was hoping for offence, something that could lead to the premier never returning, he didn’t initially get it. Instead the premier laughed when the owner called him “a left-wing fanatic” (in that same year, the premier had made a series of speeches praising people like Tanzania’s former President Julius Nyerere and Robert Mugabe).
Then one night after dinner the owner sat down next to premier and looked at him directly in the eye. “I’ve finally realized what you really are,” the owner said, “you’re a fucking warlord.”
After that, the premier never returned.
*
Ed Miliband’s time as Labour leader was painful. In January 2012, the black MP Diane Abbott - a subject of one of many of Anthony Tice’s fantasies - tweeted an opinion in respect of the British Empire’s habits - that it enjoyed the tactic of “divide and rule”. There is truth to this, just as there is much truth to how the richest man in the history of the world, the black King Musa Mansa of what is today Mali treated his own black slaves. But at the time, control of the race narrative was not in Abbott’s purview: despite being black, despite being a woman, despite being a Labour MP, the matter belonged to a different division of the party and you could argue that hasn’t changed. So as the condemnation sounded against the old girl who occasionally mix-and-matches her shoes (brown with laces on left foot, black with buckle on right), the slippery Sky News confronted her. Dianne is not a classic, spontaneous interviewee at the best of times, so you couldn’t help feel sorry for her being put on the spot. “Explain yourself,” scold-whined Kay Burley and at that, Diane’s phone rang in her pocket. It was Ed himself, and the camera kept rolling as Ed rebuked her for the tweet - possibly: “how many times do I have to tell you woman, race is not your issue, are you stupid or something?” Or something.
As they do, the polling firms got the 2015 elections ass about face. Four days before what pollsters were predicting as a photo finish, Ed rolled out what was described as the “EdStone” - an 8’6” tablet unveiled in a car park on the 15th May 2015. Six pledges were carved into “EdStone”:
1 A strong economic foundation
2 Higher living standards for working families
3 An NHS with time to care
4 Controls on immigration
5 A country where the next generation can do better than the last[[
6 Homes to buy and action on rents
Bacon sandwich-eating Moses had laid down his commandments in Hastings & Rye - where the Sutenbastud and former Home Secretary Amber Rudd held a seat for the Conservatives (“the people move to my constituency,” she once said airly, “to take drugs and chill out by the sea”). The stone caused consternation within Sutenbastud’s ranks - John Rentoul, Tony Blair’s biographer, called it the “most absurd, ugly, embarrassing, childish, silly, patronising, idiotic, insane, ridiculous gimmick I have ever seen” - that the sneering and deeply compromised Amber Rudd managed to increase her vote by 5.4% is a testament to how well it went down. Labour was crushed, with the equally Sutenbastud Liberal Democrats exiting the coalition in a much weaker state than they had entered. With David Cameron’s Conservatives exceeding all expectations, Ed resigned.
Then he returned. On the 29th of November 2021, Ed was appointed Shadow Secretary of Climate Change and Net Zero - of Sutenbastud’s current things, this is the most current, current thing. Two years before his resurfacing into the role, when he was back to being a normal MP, a young Swedish catastrophe goblin with a documented history of mental impairment called Greta Thunberg (documented in the sense that her own mother wrote a book about it) came to London to meet with a cross parliamentary section of MPs.
There’s a photograph which records the meeting in gory detail. On the gov.uk website, in the “news from DEFRA” section, there’s an account of what happened, led by a photo of MPs fawning over her. There’s Michael Gove, the man from whose urine so much cocaine has seeped into the gills of the eels who made that section of the River Thames their home that these poor creatures are all cross-dressing now. Next to Michael, there’s Layla Moran, the unhinged Liberal Democrat MP who once smashed her boyfriend’s face with a laptop before turning pansexual. Then there’s Caroline Lucas, the vegan insurgent from Brighton, and finally, there’s Ed.
And Ed is sitting watching Greta address the room. But he isn’t just sitting. He is cradling his chin in his hand. Now, say you and your wife invited a friend away for a weekend, then your friend asked if he could bring a friend, to which you agreed, only to discover that your friend’s friend was Lionel Ritchie - and your wife is a lifelong groupie. After dinner Lionel agrees to play the piano, and then you notice your wife, and she’s sitting with her hand cradling her chin, and there’s the look - the look you’ll never, ever get, the one she’s kept for Lionel. That’s Ed right there. But don’t feel sorry for Mrs. Miliband - she’s Sutenbastud to her fingertips, and these people don’t feel, think in the way we know ourselves to.
*
Today David makes a fortune in the Sutenbastud charity industrial complex as the CEO of an NGO. The sector is rife with sexual abuse - see Oxfam, and more recently, Care for Calais. Its founder, a white woman in her mid-50s, basically reversed the classic Gambian sex holiday for middle-to-late-aged European women and parked it on her own doorstep. Presumably armed with a torch, she located a Tunisian hunk of fighting age in the jungle at Calais and after doing what they did, she dumped him. He got the hump, then set the headquarters of the “charity” on fire.
So David and his friends have come up with a novel solution to stop the chatter and terminate the “conspiracy theory” of “the great replacement” once and for all. Refugees, they claim, are all just LGBT+ fleeing whitey and whitey’s greatest weapon - climate change. So damaged are these LGBT+ by whitey’s climate change constantly brushing up against them that they flee across countries like France and Spain to Britain. So shut up.
If demography is destiny, it is firmly in the grip of these people.
And there’s nothing to distinguish David from the other David - Cameron - or even his brother Ed anymore. All three have graduated beyond superannuated, nuanced liberal profiles to merge into an executive form of covid marshal, who doesn’t see people, just measurements of economic value.
As of writing Ed’s jumped the shark again, in the manner of shit Moses and EdStone again, in the manner of bacon sandwiches and calling people anti-semites - again. Recently he took his guitar and his phone to one of Britain’s subsidised wind turbines. There he produced a rendition of Bob Dylan’s ‘Blowing in the Wind’ - “the answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind” - he nasal whined, trying to convince us that this was something worth flipping cars over in the street for.
But it wasn’t the only thing that blows. The defence of tragic, deceitful thinking with counterclaims designed to be impossible to defend, built by a group of damaged white men, then fostered by the brothers Miliband and others, covers the entire west in a thin film of sick, ruining relationships, igniting cancelations and providing cover for real racists, like Joe Biden.
“The answer is blowing in the wind,” Ed repeated one last time, before smiling and waving the guitar around. Because we all know you can run a grid off cringe.
*Coming Friday 8th December, Chapter 4: SABC > BBC