THE UNQUEERING OF BRITAIN.

I always kinda liked queers, before gay came, screeching and demanding and preaching and correcting.
 It was most unfashionable so to do but they were outsiders, queers, like me. And anyone whom Sergeant Filth entrapped and beat-up was a friend of mine. 

 I always shrank, still do, from acts of homosexuality and in that I include the activities of the Premiership gangrapers - this revolting,  spit-roasting stuff, isn't it just two men fucking each other via a drunken young woman? Turns my stomach, I'm afraid, the thought of it.  But there are also practices, hobbies, customs and vices deemed heterosexual which also revolt me. Hard, being a Zen-Presbyterian-Marxist, a non-judgemental, judgemental dialecticist.

I was always able to distance  queer men from what they did amongst themselves,  to be rightly indifferent to it, it was none of my business but that is no longer possible.  I am compelled, now,  to consider normal  and applaud arse-fisting, butt-plugging, sperm-swapping,  anal penetration, gang-banging and God alone knows what else,  I hate to think what bizarre orgiastic humiliations are now normal amongst the NewPeople - normal, even though many such diversions are only now possible as a result of massive, massive investment  in and research into pharmaceuticals; heterosexuality never needed such retro-viral enabling.

 Now, unless I cheer each and every doomed and preposterous same-sex wedding, prostrate myself before bogus Progress, I am outcast, unclean, cleaving to  an anachronistic world view, enmeshed in those taboos which have brought us here.


But I am a creature of reason, too, considerate of the Other, the malcontent, without whom we would still be swimming in the sea and I remember being perversely cheered, in the 'eighties, hearing a young New York gay man spluttering that he hadn't come-out just to become a sexually cautious WASP, settle down and pretend to have children;  clubbing and bath-housing, fisting and fucking strangers,  he was going to do it 'til he dropped.  Freddie Mercury, too, was one of those,

fucking and sucking  anything in leather, darling, with gay abandon nouvelle.  I sort of admired him for his recklessness, if not for his noisy, bombastic music.  I used to be God's own brinkman, myself - if there was a railway platform I would stand right up close  on the edge; if there was a speed limit I would break it; if there was a drug I would overdose it, a drink and I would mix it with another, the more dangerous the cocktail, the better; if there was a crash helmet, I would discard it,  a safety belt and I would not wear it;  if there was a dangerous situation, I would stride into the middle of it; it ill-behoves me to damn homosexual promiscuity. What I object to is its normalisation, what I object to is gays demanding the right to be straight. Fuck that.

Steven Fry, anyway, and this poor, stupid, little  wretch,

one is quite lost for words.

 It is not the sexual activity, if there is any, which distresses me, it is the age and wealth discordance, which I find so shocking. Is this Woody Allenism, Jeffrey Epsteinism, George Clooneyism  or is homosexual abuse of power different, beautiful and OK?  Is an old, bloated,  gay man, vampiring on hapless youth something we must now treasure and celebrate, for fear of offeding those who once insisted that multi-culturalism was the one, true faith but  who now re-target their vengeful, I-Know-Best stupidity and defy us to so much as query homosexual marriage?

 Steve, shopping with an ex.

I don't know about the current  boy or his gobby, overjoyed, soon-to-be father-in-law Dad, who, crowing his delight,  seriously needs a quick rub-down with a housebrick but Fry is repulsive, cowardly, smutty, his meagre talents vastly over-estimated by his handlers; he can't sing, dance, paint or write; his artistry is confined to trading wordy arse, knob and sperm jokes with the cleverfolk of showbusiness;

Fry, with a quartet of knob-jokers.

an older, fatter, better-spoken version of Jonafun Woss,  Stevie  is a creature of the Gay-Lesbian-Zionist-Fascists  at the Paedophiles Broadcasting Corporation. Like so many Oxbridge boys Stevie wandered into the PBC at exactly the right time, as Gay-lib and -pride barged their way centre-stage, where they have remained.

mr sg, earlier, is mistaken, therefore, to complain of a current PBC gay agenda, that battle is long won. Showbusiness is run by and largely for gay people and their chums.  

The pop managers of our youth were all gay, their boys happy to be groomed and dressed for stardom;  Epstein with the Beatles, 

gays were good for business, 
boasted Sir Paul, foot-in-mouth, they booked us; 

Larry Parnes with a whole posse of working class,  starstruck, narcissistic, young fairies, 

 

all happy to be re-named by him - Billy Fury, Vince Eager, Dickie Pride;  

Kit Lambert and the perpetually adolescent Pete Townshend,

 

 of the 'Oo,  
singing, in his seventies,

 

 songs of boys, I'm a Boy, Pictures of Lily, My Generation,  songs of a deaf, dumb and blind boy, quadrophenic songs of a Mod scooterboy; serious art, he calls it, Pete, all his angry boy songs. Bless.

 There was Andrew Loog Oldham who managed the Rolling Stones and inspired Mick Jagger's androgynous, hand-fluttering camping; 

 Simon Napier-Bell and 

 

Wham! 

 

 Young parent, Reg Dwight and John Reid.

 And lest we forget, the greatest Svengali of them all....

  

 That boy, ooh-ooh-ooh, 

Isn't good for you-ooh ....

 

 Mick an' Keef an' Brian an' Jimmy

Sympathy, for the Devil.

 

 Bachelor boys.

In his excellent book, Black Vinyl and White Powders, Napier-Bell reveals the  extent of gay influence over decades of pop music; he knows absolutely nothing about music but is a uniquely insightful gossip and a more than capable writer. It is the dark symbiosis - between unwordly working class boys and sophisticated,  queenly hustlers - which is so revealing. And if Napier-Bell were to compile an equally hissy book spanning the whole of the arty BBC it would, I am sure, be dynamite.

One would expect, after all these years of showbusiness, that complete Indifference would be the proper,  the ideal, the correct position among those who are not homosexual but one could not be more wrong. One is required to  prove, by public proclamation, a negative - that one is not a gaybasher, even if, as in my case, one opposed gaybashing when even gay people supported it.  

The revolting Straight Simon Hughes's infamous queerbashing of Peter Tatchell. Liberal Democrats, a byword for filth and hypocrisy, bullying,  cheating and pederasty. Who the fuck votes for them?

There is nothing new under the Sun and with homosexuality it has always been the common, the ordinary man who gets jailed, beaten, blackmailed and imprisoned. There is less of that, now, and what there is does not require, for its remedy, the dismantling of Decency, of Modesty and the corruption of children in the name of Freedom.

It is Fry's world; his idol, the repulsive Steve Jobs, together with Microsoft and the rest, have delivered into the hands of children and infants a swampy cornucopia of not just erotica, not just pornography but bestial perversion, their unformed image-inations  colonised by Filth, landscaped with gaping arseholes, beatings, humiliations, rape, paedophilia, gerontophilia, necrophilia and animal sex. A Fry Universe of witty knobs and scrumptious sperm and riveting rectums and vigourous violence is now available to children, on demand. 

Fry, with his obsessions, licensed by the PBC, is  a big player in mrs woman on a raft's Grooming of the Nation. The fat cunt. 

It would have been better had homosexuals, instead of becoming stridently, viciously, vengefully  gay had remained a little bit queer; what, otherwise, is the point of them?