Here's a strange thing:
We have been exploring the motivations for changing gender and the often undesirable and painful consequences of "sex-change" surgical and medical intervention. The concept of non-binary gender identification seems to hold out more hope for satisfaction with one's birth sex than a gender construct based on extremes of masculinity and femininity. The transracialism controversy currently airing seems to take us logically to an analagous position regarding race: it's a spectrum, not a polarisation.
Jessica Krug, an associate professor at George Washington
University (GWU), admitted that she was in fact a white Jewish woman from
Kansas City.
"I have built my life on a violent anti-Black
lie," stated her blog post. It seems her admission came because she was about to be outed. But why would she wish to pass as black? Historically, the term "passing" referred to black people assuming white identities in order to gain the "privileges" of being white. Presumably, there are now more advantages to be accrued by having a black identity, in a hiring environment which is keen to recruit people of colour.
There are strong parallels with Rachel Dolezal, a white race
activist who claimed to be black, until 2015, when her parents
outed her as white.
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| Rachel After Rachel Before |
The former civil rights activist and African studies
instructor had kept up the pretence of being African American for years, saying she "identified as black".
In 2018, a theatre director going by the name Anthony Ekundayo Lennon was outed as white.
He had gained one of four two-year full-time
residential traineeships funded by the Arts Council England, only open to people of colour, in an effort to increase
ethnic minority representation in the arts. However, a
BBC show from the 1990s described him as being the child of two white
people from Ireland. It appeared that the ‘Ekundayo’ bit of his name
came later when Lennon saw the advantages that might be accrued by claiming a non-white identity.
Krug has been criticised for the new offence of
Cultural Appropriation, the adoption of an element or elements of one culture, usually disadvantaged, by
members of another, dominant culture. This appropriation is said to be a form of colonialism. I would have thought that if the masquerade is undertaken to obtain a financial advantage, as it was in Anthony Lennon's case, and may be in the cases of Krug and Dolezal, then the term "fraud " would be more appropriate than this peculiar concept of cultural appropriation. For goodness sake, if a working class kid goes to Yooni, enters the professions and adopts a middle class identity, it isn't called cultural appropriation, it's called being upwardly socially mobile.
Now, if Krug and Dolezal can pass as black, after perming and darkening their hair and skin tone, surely this makes nonsense of defining anyone in terms of race? Until the mid 20th century, it was taught that there are 5 races: Caucasian, Negroid, Mongolian, Amerindian and Austroloid.
Since the second half of the 20th century, the association of race with the discredited theories of scientific racism has contributed to race becoming increasingly seen as pseudoscientific. Modern scholarship views racial categories as socially constructed, that is, race is not intrinsic to human beings but rather an identity created, often by socially dominant groups, to establish meaning in a social contex. Pretty much like gender - not sex, I hasten to add.
............................................................................
Anyway, mr ishmael had many thoughts about the socially constructed identity of the Scottish nation.
A referendum took place on Thursday 18 September 2014 on Scottish independence from the United Kingdom. The referendum question was, "Should Scotland be an independent country?", which voters answered with "Yes" or "No". The "No" side won with 2,001,926 voting against independence and 1,617,989 voting in favour. The 2015 United Kingdom general election was held on Thursday, 7 May 2015.
Labour lost 40 seats as the party was crushed by the SNP, while the Lib Dems lost 10 of their 11 seats to Nicola Sturgeon's party.
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| Before 2015 After 2015 election SNP in yellow |
Exodus
REFUGEE VESSEL
MOORED IN NORTHERN SCOTLAND,
LAST NIGHT.
LAST NIGHT.
A humanitarian crisis was unfolding yesterday in the People's Republic of Fathomless Grievance, recently torn apart by the SeeYouJimmy tribesmen, a dangerous cult of drunken, cross-dressing, wife-beating inbreds led by the fabled Mrs Gnasher, who has vowed to tear the country, the proper country, apart because of her hatred of a dead old woman, who was also also barking mad.
Harsh, strident, monomaniacal, convinced of her own deity, the Gnasher, too, has surrounded herself with incompetent, beholden lickspittles, banging patriotism's noisy drum to drown-out the sounds of their own troughing.
It is an adage, isn't it, that people can become the thing they hate.
Maybe it's the audio frequency of her voice, sparking pain and panic in my obviously compromised central nervous system, maybe it's just the intolerable tone, of know-it-allism, the unfaltering self-confidence, the refusal to countenance another's point of view and the dreadful, dreadful weegirlishness of the fucking rubbish she spouts. Th'SNP govament is committed tae buildin' five million new hoosies an' creatin' ten million wellpaid joabsies, somethin' Labour wiz never able tae do, despite all their promisies....
Harsh, strident, monomaniacal, convinced of her own deity, the Gnasher, too, has surrounded herself with incompetent, beholden lickspittles, banging patriotism's noisy drum to drown-out the sounds of their own troughing.
 |
| Mrs Gnasher and her Cabinet celebrate |
 |
| Mr and Mrs Gnasher |
 |
| Mrs. Gnasher distances herself from a former colleague |
 |
| The Fatman of Scotland has farted |
I don't quite
understand the electro-chemistry of it but I have the symptoms of what
is known as fybromyalgia, some people say there is no such thing, others
that there is, all are agreed that there is a very painful condition
which is difficult to diagnose accurately and which causes pain in at
least six areas of the body, it can be confused with MS and arthritis
and testing is difficult. There is now, however, a Fibromyalgia
Association UK, like Cancer UK, Diabetes UK, Nutscape UK and all the
other consciousness-raising charities, so as far as those people, the
members and definitely the salaried officials are concerned,
Fibromyalgia is real, with a capital F. It's a bit like the Flat Earth
Society, as long as there is a formal association of people then
whatever shit they believe must be taken a bit seriously, even if its
bollocks, like most things are.
I don't know if it is real or not, fybromyalgia, and my symptoms could be caused by diabetic neuropathy. I was hoping that recent neurosurgery would relieve pressure on the spinal cord which, in turn, would ease the pain but although the offending disc was removed and a titanium scaffolding inserted in the back of my neck, the pain is still there and worsens. It's not the end of the world, it is tiring and a bit disabling but I don't take anything for it and I still tackle everything that I used to.
I don't know if it is real or not, fybromyalgia, and my symptoms could be caused by diabetic neuropathy. I was hoping that recent neurosurgery would relieve pressure on the spinal cord which, in turn, would ease the pain but although the offending disc was removed and a titanium scaffolding inserted in the back of my neck, the pain is still there and worsens. It's not the end of the world, it is tiring and a bit disabling but I don't take anything for it and I still tackle everything that I used to.
Intolerance
of noise is a symptom. I love to hear Harris barking, the louder the
better, as long as it is expected. When we return from a trip he runs
around the garden barking his head off at all the night creatures,
Harris is Back, Motherfuckers, making me LOL out loud, and if we are
playing ball or he's killing one of his toys, spreading its stuffing all
over the floor and tearing its limbs off, just like it was a real
creature, that's fine, too, the more he barks the more warmly I laugh
but if he barks unexpectedly it actually hurts me to the point that I
shrink, contract into myself and yell-out in pain. Any sudden, loud
noise distresses me; we have no carpets and something like a remote
control device falling off the chair and hitting the boards makes me
wince in pain; I think it's what they used to describe as Him being bad
with his Nerves, which is not fair, really, because in that sense I have
nerves of steel, the Devil will shit when he meets me, I'm not scared
of anything. Apart from dying, obviously. And being dead. Who's gonna
polish the fucking furniture when I'm dead? More accurately it's not nerves-of-steel at all, or what we used to call Nerve, it's just my
Zen-Marxist-Presbyterianism telling me that the worst thing that can
happen is that I die. I suppose I could be tortured to death and that
would be worse, by David Miliband's, Tony Blair's and Jack Straw's
employers in the United States; broadly speaking, however, there is a
limit to suffering, my thankfully distant Presbyterian relations arguing
that the Lord doesn't send us more than we can bear, as the dreadful
Debbie Purdy and Terry Pratchett proved, despite themselves.
Take off your hat, son. In My presence, baldness doesn't matter a fuck. It won't matter to you, not where you're going, son. And as for you, Ms DeathBitch, well, you just died when it was your time, didn't you, that is to say when I, moving in My mysterious way, decided. Was never any need for you to be heckling decent people about the right to die, about diverting the entirety of civilised human thought to your own whining, celebrity-hungry purpose. Because, here you are, dead, Debbie, like you always wanted to be. Dead and forgotten. And going straight to Hell. Like people always said you would. Killing people is wrong, even if they want you to kill them; that's why I gave those commandments to that mad old Jew, Charlton Heston.
Thou shalt not kill, it's fucking simple. Who the fuck did you think you were, arguing with Me? Anyway, babe, where you're going, there is no death, assisted or otherwise, which I am sure you will come to consider a bit of a shame; see, you got what you wanted but you lost what you had. I think King David said that, back in the day.
Anyway, the fibromyalgia or whatever it is has made me hypersensitive to noise, all noise and, I am not making this up, I simply cannot bear the sound of Nicola Sturgeon. I'm not just saying that, it's true. She was on the box a couple of weeks back and after just a few seconds, I started to develop a pain from the back of my neck outwards and very quickly I was beseeching mrs ishmael, Turn it off. Please. Now. PLEASE TURN IT OFF. It's hurting me so much I can't believe it. It seemed to take forever and when it was turned off I felt shocked and drained, lay down with my blanky over me, well, Harris thinks it's his blanky but it was bought for me. It's a really good one, expensive, soft and warm and posh, or it was until Harris arrived.
BBC Headlines
29/12/14: Debbie Purdy: Right-to-die campaigner dies
12/03/15: Sir Terry Pratchett, renowned fantasy author, dies
Take off your hat, son. In My presence, baldness doesn't matter a fuck. It won't matter to you, not where you're going, son. And as for you, Ms DeathBitch, well, you just died when it was your time, didn't you, that is to say when I, moving in My mysterious way, decided. Was never any need for you to be heckling decent people about the right to die, about diverting the entirety of civilised human thought to your own whining, celebrity-hungry purpose. Because, here you are, dead, Debbie, like you always wanted to be. Dead and forgotten. And going straight to Hell. Like people always said you would. Killing people is wrong, even if they want you to kill them; that's why I gave those commandments to that mad old Jew, Charlton Heston.
Thou shalt not kill, it's fucking simple. Who the fuck did you think you were, arguing with Me? Anyway, babe, where you're going, there is no death, assisted or otherwise, which I am sure you will come to consider a bit of a shame; see, you got what you wanted but you lost what you had. I think King David said that, back in the day.
Anyway, the fibromyalgia or whatever it is has made me hypersensitive to noise, all noise and, I am not making this up, I simply cannot bear the sound of Nicola Sturgeon. I'm not just saying that, it's true. She was on the box a couple of weeks back and after just a few seconds, I started to develop a pain from the back of my neck outwards and very quickly I was beseeching mrs ishmael, Turn it off. Please. Now. PLEASE TURN IT OFF. It's hurting me so much I can't believe it. It seemed to take forever and when it was turned off I felt shocked and drained, lay down with my blanky over me, well, Harris thinks it's his blanky but it was bought for me. It's a really good one, expensive, soft and warm and posh, or it was until Harris arrived.
Maybe it's the audio frequency of her voice, sparking pain and panic in my obviously compromised central nervous system, maybe it's just the intolerable tone, of know-it-allism, the unfaltering self-confidence, the refusal to countenance another's point of view and the dreadful, dreadful weegirlishness of the fucking rubbish she spouts. Th'SNP govament is committed tae buildin' five million new hoosies an' creatin' ten million wellpaid joabsies, somethin' Labour wiz never able tae do, despite all their promisies....
The half-billion pounds Scottish Holyrood Assembly building, David Steel's Folly - and wasn't it lovely to see the filthy old nonce-protector, hissing and spitting about the boy, Clegg?
is not as arch, crusty and courtly as is MediaMinster, none of the bastards therein troughing, poncing and pimping, address each other as honourable or right honourable, nor as the member for WhiskyToon or ShortbreadCity; it's not quite SeeYouJimmy but it is not far from that. There is an old buzzard of a Presiding Officer
is not as arch, crusty and courtly as is MediaMinster, none of the bastards therein troughing, poncing and pimping, address each other as honourable or right honourable, nor as the member for WhiskyToon or ShortbreadCity; it's not quite SeeYouJimmy but it is not far from that. There is an old buzzard of a Presiding Officer
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| Tricia Marwick, MSP, Presiding Officer |
whose
role is similar to that of Mr Tiny Speaker, except that she is a
tribeswoman and thus an unapologetic stranger from Truth and Decency;
insult and evasion are the currency of Holyrood, no more venal than in
MediaMinster, just more blatant.
Anyway,
in the House of Jocks, they all slag each other off, taking their lead
from former first minister and Donald Trump employee, Alec FatMan,
who appeared to be having an oily orgasm every time he heard the sound of his own voice; it really was shocking to watch FMQs, he knew what questions were coming and had rehearsed, in front of the mirror, some leaden, fourth-form witticism, which, translated, meant
Anyone who says the price of oil will fall is scaremongering and anti-Scottish.
And aren't I a clever fat fuck?
Even though Fatso himself learned his filthy trade in the bars and knocking shops of MediaMinster his performance at FMQs was so shallow as to make Cameron and Miliband look like Wittgenstein and Bertrand Russell debating the meaning of Life.
MediaRood is, if anything, worse than MediaMinster, drunken sots falling all over themselves for an interview with some jumped-up, thieving bastard councillor now a legislator.
A First Class refugee ship has been chartered by Scottish LiberalDemocrats to help them, their wives, mistresses, rentboys, callgirls, bondage experts, copraphilia tutors and gimpwear stylists flee Scotland in the wake of their electoral defeat.
who appeared to be having an oily orgasm every time he heard the sound of his own voice; it really was shocking to watch FMQs, he knew what questions were coming and had rehearsed, in front of the mirror, some leaden, fourth-form witticism, which, translated, meant
And aren't I a clever fat fuck?
Even though Fatso himself learned his filthy trade in the bars and knocking shops of MediaMinster his performance at FMQs was so shallow as to make Cameron and Miliband look like Wittgenstein and Bertrand Russell debating the meaning of Life.
MediaRood is, if anything, worse than MediaMinster, drunken sots falling all over themselves for an interview with some jumped-up, thieving bastard councillor now a legislator.
A First Class refugee ship has been chartered by Scottish LiberalDemocrats to help them, their wives, mistresses, rentboys, callgirls, bondage experts, copraphilia tutors and gimpwear stylists flee Scotland in the wake of their electoral defeat.
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| Scottish LibDems heading for the harbour |
who spearheaded the rout of his groundtroops.
................................................................
Old News from Ruritania
HALT! WHO GOES THERE?
THE TITS.
WHOSE TITS?
QUEEN CATHERINE'S TITS
OH, NO, NOT AGAIN.
OK, ADVANCE QUEEN'S TITS AND BE RECOGNISED.
PASS QUEEN'S TITS.
You'd
think that Prince Gormless would have something better to do, wouldn't
you, than mopping up all this spilt milk? Still, a fool and our money
are easily parted.
I
mean, if HRH Biggles wants to be a litigious Royal Highness, why not
set the Inland Revenue on his sticky-fingered old man, Brian, for one
thing, or sue him and Queen Horseface for the extreme and unrelenting
mental cruelty caused to his mother, the late Queen of Tarts. Seems to
me that one cannot honour one's mother and these two pampered selfish
bastards at the same time, not even one as gormless as he is. Still, at
least he's defending the honour of his Princess, like a good Prince should, and not briefing against her, like his father did against his Mum.
But maybe there's some other royal agenda here. The rest of the pictures are as unerotic as the one here, nobody's going to get excited by them, or envious of he and her, a scrawny, topless woman, sunning herself. So what?
But maybe there's some other royal agenda here. The rest of the pictures are as unerotic as the one here, nobody's going to get excited by them, or envious of he and her, a scrawny, topless woman, sunning herself. So what?
I mean that dismissively, of course, and not in a priestly sense. How did this happen, that the perfectly ordinary, unremarkable fruit of our loins and wombs is transformed into a stick with which to beat ourselves? It's narcissism, of course but worse than that it is the most deranged consumerism, I don't know anyone who can put their hand on their heart and say they really and truly, to'ally approve of, never mind admire or love or feel protective towards the parents - or, often common-law step-parents - of those with whom our children mate and yet we would beggar ourselves for spawn which are half-them. Well, some of us would.
...............................................................................................
Exodus drafted 15th May 2015
Fuck the Grandchildren - a fragment drafted 2/2/2011
Halt - Who Goes there? The Tits drafted 7/10/12
21 comments:
Love that "Harris is back, MFs" - does he still put it about like that?
And "the Devil will shit when he meets me" - never heard that one before. Every day a schoolday. I wonder if it's another Belfast turn of phrase?
v./
He surely does, mr verge - lets them know that he's in charge. Force of nature, our Harris. You remember how he routed the cow invasion from the garden? Beasts so heavy their feet sank inches into the lawn, and Harris had them on the hop back over the garden wall, barking at their ankles. 7.8 kilos of pure aggressive hatred for all things bovine and feline.
Personally, I don't speak Belfast, but one of the ishmaelites will help us out, no doubt.
I can understand why the noble Duchess tried to have that picture banned.
Indeed, mr mike - with fame and fortune comes the violation of privacy, as the Duchess' never-to-have-been mother-in-law discovered, and then exploited, to her great cost and the sorrow of a grieving nation. I was in central Birmingham at the time of Princess Di's death, and drawn by the scent of flowers, walked over to Birmingham Cathedral, where the lawns around the Cathedral were thickly covered in masses of flowers, all in their cellophane wrappings and sparkling in the sunshine.
It is astounding that, with all the knowledge they have of the resourcefulness of the paparazzi; the wife of the future King of Great Britain and the mother of his heirs, should choose to strip off outside where it might be expected that a photographer would capture the moment to his own great delight and certain profit.
I’ve often wondered that myself Mrs Ishmael. The fact that our betters have the means to secure their privacy then hell mend them if they see their tits in the paper.
Must have been a right FFS moment for all concerned though.
Although with technology these days; a simple free software off the interweb and bobs your uncle. I believe they used to call it airbrushing.
I wonder if the editor of whatever paper bought these photos had the guarantee that they weren’t touched up…so to speak.
The piccie was taken with a v long lens, as I recall, that is, your honour. Wasn't it couple of fields over and having shinned up an apple tree or similar?
I see that Boris has come up trumps for us:
'But as your Prime Minister, I must do what is necessary to stop the spread of the virus and to save lives. And of course we will keep the rule of six under constant review and only keep it in place as long as is necessary.'
One more time...
So spake the fiend, and with necessity,
The tyrants plea, excused his devilish deeds.
I see also that they are making the argument that the rise in cases is not an artefact of the number of tests being undertaken. We shall see about that.
You heard about this, mr mongoose? "Mr Johnson said marshals would be sent out to ensure people are keeping a distance of at least 2metres from those outside their household and are not meeting in groups larger than six. He said: “We will boost the enforcement capacity of local authorities by introducing COVID-secure marshals to help ensure social distancing in town and city centres and by setting up a register of environmental health officers that local authorities can draw upon for support.”
I had seen it indeed, mrs i. I am sure that it is necessary that this militia is set in place to ensure the security of the people against, err, against, err, against themselves!
Are they going to wear black shirts, do you think?
Riot Shields, helmets with face visors and side arms, mr mongoose. No point in waging war on the citizenry unless you take all proper precautions.
Ce chien est très méchant. Quand on l'attaque il se défend!
In the space of 9 months this country has descended into totalitarianism, akin to mid- twentieth century Europe and USSR.
Indeed Mrs I, and the ratchet only works one way. As for the dog fighting back, if I have understood correctly, well that bird has flown. Too fat, too lazy, too stupid, too dependent on the state.
Indeed, Mr Mike, and now too poor to argue.
This is interesting:
"If your chances of having coronavirus are already quite high – say because you have a new continuous cough or fever – then a test comes back positive you can be confident you have the virus.
But currently only about one in 2,000 people chosen at random have the virus. The Scientific Advisory Group for Emergencies says that assuming a test picks up 80 per cent of true infections and gives the all clear 96 per cent of the time this would mean of the 4,152 people who test positive out of every 100,000 only 160 people of them would actually have coronavirus.
The other 3,992 face being told to isolate needlessly for two weeks. Scaled up nationally, this is millions of people a day."
from https://www.thetimes.co.uk/edition/news/statistics-teach-us-to-be-sceptical-about-operation-moonshot-fx3xtgqdh
Is it called a feedback loop ? The government panicked in March with blunderlock and have since blundered from one panic to another, blundering, flapping; moribund quacks like Whitty covering their arses, Johnson comatose with post viral fatigue and trembling with fear, knowing his time in office will be forever cursed, worthless prats like Hancock, unspeakable in his uselessness, most people I know flapping like headless chickens, shitting themselves with imaginery terrors. Fear reinforcing fear.
The fact that most councils are skint might prevent them from hiring covid marshals, useless fucking noddies.
Indeed, mr yardarm. The only way out of RNA coronavirii, coronaviruses (?) is to wait for them to mutate to a lower lethality - as mrs i talked about the other day. The government, all governments, are hip-deep in doom-saying loons. "Something must be done!" It does look as if the 1% mortality error was true. Not 1% of folk who get the virus - becasue most of them won't know - but 1% of those who get it seriously. All these governments must know now and are just trying to con us that the economic disaster was "necessary".
I suggested above that it was getting beyond a joke, but nothing does that. Let's laugh at little Handjob and his sweaty, twitching desperation; let's laugh at our deranged Pennywise PM. Let us, above all, laugh at our moronic, hanky-chewing compatriots, aching to submit.
Fuck them all and may they drown in their absurdity. We only need to keep pointing it out.
An interesting read for you Mrs Ishmael
https://analyseeconomique.files.wordpress.com/2012/12/richard-d-fuerle-erectus-walks-amongst-us.pdf
Thank you for the link, mr benjmin - I had a glance, but it seems a mighty work and I'm not sure I can commit to it.
Last Night of the Proms tonight, and a very strange one it is. God bless them for doing their best to recreate the Proms experience despite the Covid restrictions, but it simply doesn't work without the rabid Promenaders, their routines, fun and jingoism. As I type this, Jerusalem is being slaughtered. Yet another casualty of whateveritis that has seized the nation.
We must laugh, mr bungalow bill. I hope it is the remedy that may turn the tide. I don't recall it working so far, however, other than in the wave of ridicule occasioned by Gordon and his nappy-shambles.
You know, messrs mongoose and yardarm, it is the misunderstood pseudo-scientific bollox and accompanying "guidance" updated daily, that is the truly depressing element of the national paranoia.
Mrs Ishmael the mighty work is well worth a read if only for the article on genes, I didnt know that people from hot countries have a gene for the retention of salt and when they move to cold countries it works against them ie cardio problems, I think the chairman of Smith Glaxo Klein said universal drug for everyone
there,s no
Perhaps theres a gene for homosexuality, transgenderism etc, I remember two families when i was growing the males where effeminate and the females where masculine
Hi, mr benjamin, I will have another look on your recommendation. The Human Genme Project put paid to much speculation - both academic and bar-room, on the causes of human behaviour. Whilst we were happy to accept - since Gregor Mendel's work in the mid nineteenth century, that physical characteristics were transmitted from the parents; behavioural characteristics were subjected to the Nature v Nurture debate and it was usually concluded that poor maternal parenting was responsible for societally-undesirable behaviours. (That Freud -what was he like! Best avoided.)
The unravelling of the genome conclusively consigned to the trash-compactor much theorising that had formerly had academic respectability. Turns out we are not blank slates, waiting for our future destiny to be written thereon. Nope, the future person is in the genes. Popular wisdom had it taped, as usual - "look at the mother if you want to know what your gorgeous girlfriend will be like in 30 years' time".
The Jesuit saying - "give me the child until he is 7 and I will give you the man" -originally one of Aristotle's - refers not to those practices for which the Curch is infamous, but to the efficacy of the Jesuitical brain-washing programme. Again, it's theoretical position is that of the child as empty vessel, just waiting to be poured full of knowledge and ideology, to have its character and sexuality shaped. But NO! It's in the genes.
And the truly interesting, break-through corollary is that, because each individual human (and every other mammalian species)has their own genetic programme which is now understood, the precise type and dosage of medication for that individual can be fairly simply developed. You quoted the chairman of Smith Glaxo Klein, mr benjamin, as saying that there is no universal drug for everyone. That's right - but it is possible to have an individually-tailored drug for everyone. First, though, it would be some achievement to give every brown child a drink of clean water and stop bombing their asses off, as mr ishmael would have said.
Be careful Mrs Ishmael its not politically correct!
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