Extended interview with my guest from Episode 13, writer, broadcaster and Guardian columnist, Bibi Lynch.
Guitar/vocal cover of the REM hit, Man On The Moon.
A man suspected of raping underage girls argued last night that he continued his friendship with a man proven in a court of law to have raped underage girls because he was simply too principled to end his association with the aforementioned nonce.
The man, who cannot be named for legal reasons, but who we will refer to as ‘Andy’, said that he stayed at the home of a known sexual predator because it was ‘convenient’, as though he’d simply decided to order a fucking Deliveroo instead of going out to dinner, and not at all as though he was making a conscious decision to continue rubbing shoulders with a known sexual predator.
Commentators on social media responded angrily to Andy’s comments, insisting that people who don’t fuck children themselves are so utterly repulsed by those who do that they couldn’t bare to be in the same fucking postal code as one of them for more than a few seconds without stamping their knackers into a sticky red paste.
Beryl, a South Yorkshire granny possessed of basic morality, said,
“This cunt needs a fucking good shoeing. How he has the brass knackers to sit there and say that he slept under the same roof as a convicted paedophile out of sheer convenience is beyond my simple Northern comprehension. We should find the prick and shoe the absolute bastard out of him.”
Terry, a chartered surveyor who doesn’t think the sexual exploitation of children is a noble endeavour, concurred.
“I thought being a respectable human being involved looking after your family, caring about those less fortunate, respecting minorities and all that sort of shit. It never occurred to me even once that some entitled wankrag would try to make the case that it was in any way creditable to hang out with some scumbag who rapes kids. Unless, of course, they were also a scumbag who rapes kids, in which case a comprehensive fucking shoeing would definitely be in order.”
Andy, though, remained defiant,
“Look, he’s my fucking mate. How would it look if I said I didn’t want to stay with him, then proceeded to book into a hotel two blocks away? That would be such a dick move that it would violate every aspect of my questionable ethical code. When you think about it, that’s actually quite a lot worse than continuing to remain friends with a guy who ruined the lives of some untitled girls who weren’t even rich or anything.
Also, have you ever tried to book a hotel in New York? They’re really fucking expensive, and quite often have limited availability. All these wankers questioning my decision seem to think I’m some kind of royal motherfucker with access to unlimited wealth and influence who could book into the finest suite of any hotel in the world at a moment’s notice.”
Andy’s ex-wife, who wished to be identified as ‘Sarah’, backed her husband unequivocally in a tweet posted the following morning, thereby proving conclusively once again that there’s no depths these repellent dogfuckers are unwilling to plumb to protect their own.
Jeremy Corbyn sparked fury today as it emerged that he was vanishingly unlikely to have any kind of statement supporting Our Brave Lads And Lasses indelibly marked into the north-facing portion of his old chap.
According to an exclusive report by the Daily Express, the words ‘lest we forget’ do not appear anywhere along the leader of the opposition’s sexmeat, and he almost certainly hasn’t scratched all three verses of ‘In Flanders Fields’ into his liver-spotted torso with a kitchen knife.
Following yesterday’s Remembrance Sunday service, at which Mr Corbyn was dressed appropriately, fully poppied up and not apparently nursing a massive fucking hangover, attention turned to any other way he might conceivably have been betraying his naked contempt for our Courageous Troops.
Initial anger was directed at the flagrantly disrespectful angle of the soldier-hating commie’s head during the two minutes’ silence that traditionally follows the Prime Minister’s laying of the upside down wreath. Enraged onlookers reported seeing a disgusting two inches of available space between Mr Corbyn’s chin and chest, clearly indicating an obvious desire to back out an allotment veg-rich turd directly onto the steps of the cenotaph.
Wayne Pratt, an enthusiastic devourer of right wing diarrhoea from Ipswich, said,
“I’m fucking sick of this. It’s every year. First he wore a coat like he was some kind of 70-year-old man who needs to keep warm, then he wasn’t wearing the poppy he was definitely wearing, and now he shows up bowing his head at a perfectly normal angle like he’s thinking about defiling the corpses of servicemen. I’m definitely voting for the Brexit Party now.”
Sheila Sweals, who buys the Express for the TV guide and not the frequent outbursts of unconcealed racism, concurred,
“The cock thing was the final straw for me, to be honest,” she lied. “If he’s got nothing to hide, why doesn’t he just show us? The very fucking least the marrow-scoffing twat needs to do now is have a six-inch wide poppy leaf branded onto each arsecheek, and even then, I’d still find a way to hate him for it.”
We approached Mr Corbyn’s office for comment, but his spokesperson said they did not wish to ‘dignify the allegations with a response’.
Which is almost certainly some kind of Marxist code for, “He’s in Normandy pissing on graves.”
The news that women have finally achieved true equality could hardly be more welcome. Who could fail to be uplifted by the realisation that fifty percent of the world’s population are now, without exception, paid what they are worth, able to express ideas without being shouted down by the other fifty percent, and free to go about their business without the threat of being leered at, groped or physically assaulted by some grubby, entitled piece of shit who devotes an unfathomable proportion of his depressingly limited brainpower to remaining stubbornly unaware of the very basic concept of sexual consent?
The exhilarating joy women must now experience as a result of their new-found freedom to safely go for a run in the park at dusk is matched only by the liberation conferred by the knowledge that they may decide for themselves whether or not they wish to bear children, without interference from people whose business it is fucking none of.
But has anyone actually stopped to think about the devastating human costs incurred as a result of this most gratifying of developments? Sure, it’s great that you’re now able to wear whatever clothes you feel comfortable in without being told you should show more cleavage, or less cleavage, or that you are now entitled to be a normal, regular face-owner without hearing that you should smile more, or smile less, but have any of you paused, even for a minute, to consider the victims in this selfish insistence that your abilities, your character and your right to make it through one fucking day without fending off the unwelcome advances of some pocket-wanking creep should be given greater consideration than the prominence of your tits?
The fact is, the collateral damage of the Me Too movement now lies scattered across the world like so many fractured and inutile penises. Men, who were previously able to enjoy a guilt-free squeeze of their secretary’s arse without such disproportionate interventions as ‘industrial tribunals’ and ‘the sack’, are now being forced to adhere to arbitrary and, frankly, unreasonable standards of behaviour, all so you can make it through to bedtime without the familiar exhaustion that inevitably arises as a result of perpetual fear for your own personal wellbeing.
The plaintive cries of these poor, broken beasts echo across the internet like the post-midnight reverberations of a haunted orphanage.
“We can’t compliment women.”
“We can’t flirt with women.”
“We can’t even SPEAK to women.”
Yes, you’ve finally done it, ladies. The entire male population will henceforth reside cowering in damp, badly-lit corners lest the glare of your torch of intolerance illuminates their inability to behave like reasonable human beings.
It was surprising, then, to hear that only last week, prolific and unrepentant sex offender, Harvey Weinstein, was seen enjoying cocktails at an exclusive members’ club, while fellow patrons complimented him on his professional achievements and clapped him on the back.
Equally surprising was the news this week that the Welsh Secretary was having to step down following the revelation that he was aware of the actions of an aide in sabotaging a rape trial in 2018 by making lurid claims about the victim’s previous sexual conduct.
And it was utterly fucking astonishing that a man who had previously suggested that women should ‘keep their knickers on’ to avoid rape, and that they were at least partially responsible for sexual violence perpetrated against them, was to be parachuted into one of the Conservative Party’s safest seats for the forthcoming election.
The surprises kept coming, though, as we were regaled with the charming tale of US rapper, TI, taking his daughter to visit a gynaecologist once a year that he may check her hymen is still intact. This quite nauseating level of coercive bullying was compounded by the knowledge that he forces her to sign a waiver allowing the doctor to discuss the results of the totally unnecessary and ultimately useless examination with him. And we did not learn that this fucking subhuman shitstain of a man violates his daughter’s body and her privacy in this most egregious way as the result of some elaborate sting operation, or by the woman in question speaking out, but by way of him openly and proudly bragging about it on a podcast recording.
Now, I know what you’re thinking. These men are all in positions of power. They’re rich or famous or influential, and as such are not cowed or emasculated in the same way as normal men, who live in terror that their perfectly innocent comments and actions will be taken out of context and twisted by rabid feminists intent on grinding them into the dirt just so they can enjoy an evening out with their friends without being drugged and raped by some abject bastard who should be de-cocked and fired into the fucking chromosphere. And you’re perfectly right, of course.
Which is why it came as a complete shock this morning that BBC Breakfast presenter, Naga Munchetty, should face a barrage of inappropriate sexual comments about her appearance during an interview with a World War Two veteran, and that such comments should have come from these perfectly normal and not at all famous men. Even the one who stated that he would ‘pay a fortune to see her slam dunked into that coffee table’ did not, to the best of my knowledge, have a recording contract, movie deal or television show of any description.
I’m at a loss to explain how any of these completely unexpected and entirely unusual developments might have occurred at all in this febrile and punitive post-Me-Too environment, much less how they could all have occurred within a single fucking week.
I suppose one possible explanation is that women are still not widely regarded as anything more than objects, placed upon this Earth by the gods of toxic masculinity for men to use as they see fit, before being cast aside like an empty Pot Noodle carton on the DNA-rich carpet of an incel’s bedsit. We might deduce that men still act largely with impunity when it comes to violating a woman’s right to simply fucking exist without being harassed, intimidated or belittled, and that such abstract concepts as ‘consequences’ and ‘accountability’ are only applicable in a dispiritingly low percentage of cases. I guess it’s even feasible that the Me Too movement was a tiny and important baby step forward, but that gigantic fucking olympic-triple-jump-sized steps have yet to be made before we can say that anything like true equality has been achieved.
It’s probably not that, though. Maybe it was just a bad week.
Max talks about Brexit, general elections, Number 10 sources and the LGB Alliance. Contains frequent strong language.
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Financial contributions: Gratefully received here
Privilege is a weird thing. Most of us have a certain level of privilege, and some of us even recognise it and try to use it to effect change. Some of us deny it exists at all, labouring under the self-imposed misapprehension that everything we’ve achieved has occurred as a direct result of our own unfiltered brilliance, and not because we live in a society in which more or less everything is heavily skewed in favour of straight, rich, white dudes. Others, of course, are so blinded by their own privilege that they see fit to stand up on national television and lecture those who are considerably less privileged about how they ought to respond to people who are, by any reasonable interpretation, objectively fucking awful.
“When I say be kind to one another, I don’t mean only the people that think the same way that you do. I mean be kind to everyone.”
This was a statement made by US comedian and chat show host, Ellen DeGeneres, earlier this week, which, on the face of it, you might think seems quite laudable. Who could reasonably object to a world where people were kinder to one another, right? This video was widely shared on social media, with lots of other quite privileged people responding with comments like, “Well said, Ellen! What a great message!”
It’s only when you realise that Ms DeGeneres made this somewhat smug, self-satisfied statement to justify her friendship with a guy who was responsible for the deaths of hundreds of thousands of Iraqi civilians, and who predicated his entire political career on denying rights to LGBTQ people, that you begin to see how fundamentally repugnant it is.
In terms of moral cowardice, this argument ranks alongside, “I know that Bundy guy was a little bit murdery, but he did make a lovely lamb casserole, and I just think you have to look for the good in people. We can’t only be kind to those who don’t think it’s acceptable to slaughter dozens of people in cold blood.”
There are, give or take, 7.7 billion people on Earth. Accordingly, there are 7.7 billion differing sets of opinions. It goes without saying that, if we were only ever friends with people whose opinions were aligned completely with our own, we’d exist in the same tragic state of isolation that Toby Young experienced on the night of his stag do.
I have a friend who thinks Star Wars is superior to Star Trek. I have a friend who fancies Chris Pratt more than Chris Hemsworth. I have another friend who thinks putting peanut butter directly onto unbuttered, barely toasted bread (like, it hasn’t even changed colour) is acceptable behaviour. They’re all disgusting people who should be shot at fucking dawn and I love them dearly.
I don’t, I’m proud to say, have a single friend who has overseen the destruction of a Middle Eastern country for their own political ends, or who has sought to deny people like me the right to marry, the right to access goods and services, the right to be housed, or the right to not be fired from my job because of who I’m attracted to. I don’t have friends like that because people like that are fucking abhorrent.
I’m just a little bit really fucking tired of hearing how it’s somehow ‘childish’ or ‘shallow’ to refuse to befriend a person with different political opinions, as though it’s some minor, inconsequential thing like a disgusting peanut butter/toast habit or the mistaken belief that C3PO is in any way more impressive than Commander Data. The fact is, our politics are a fundamental part of who we are. They define us. They are us.
For example, I could never form any kind of meaningful relationship, platonic or otherwise, with a Conservative voter. It’s not just that I disagree with them, it’s that I think they’re intrinsically unpleasant.
People are dying on the streets. Foodbank use is at an all-time high. Welfare spending has been slashed again and again. Mental health funding has been cut to the bone. People seeking to make this country their home are subjected to an environment that the government proudly describes as ‘hostile’. Queer asylum seekers are deported to countries in which they may be imprisoned, tortured or killed for being who they are and told to ‘act less gay’. On top of all that, we’re on the verge of the biggest self-imposed catastrophe ever to befall us, and the Tories are 100% committed to delivering something that will disproportionately affect the lives of the poorest and most vulnerable people in the country.
If you voted for any of that, you’re an appalling cunt, and there is no place in my life for you.
Similarly, I don’t care how well-received your sitcom was in the 1990s if you now spend every day of your life mocking, misgendering and directing hate at vulnerable and marginalised people. If I tolerated that kind of behaviour, I’d be as much of an arsehole as you are.
It’s so easy (and a bit fucking selfish) to say, “We should respect everyone’s beliefs,” if their beliefs will never impact you in any meaningful way. But if you’re a rich, white lesbian working in the arts, you don’t get to pontificate to black trans women on low incomes about who they should be nice to. They might just consider that the fact that they’re dying and being killed on an almost industrial scale matters quite a bit, and that offering kindness to those who would eradicate them completely is, in itself, an act of violence.
Views matter. Opinions matter. They are the essence of who we are. Of course it’s up to the individual to decide how much a particular belief matters to them and whether it’s a deal-breaker in any prospective relationship, but let’s not pretend that being nice to everyone makes you a good person. It doesn’t. All it makes you is complicit.
Max talks about Brexit, Trump, Self-ID and Angry Cheese Lady. Contains frequent strong language.
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It has emerged today that a man who is unable to foresee the most obvious shit imaginable has somehow managed not to die, despite his prolific and unrelenting stupidity.
Rod Purley, an irredeemable twat who makes a living running the BBC into the fucking ground, has somehow managed to remain not deceased for a period spanning several decades, even though he presumably uses an electric fire to warm up his bath water.
Purley hit the headlines yesterday after booking known atrocious cunt Brandon O’Kneel to appear on one of the shows for which he has editorial control, before expressing surprise when O’Kneel said all the horrible fucking things he’s been saying for the past twenty years.
Social media erupted with condemnation of the booking, with many commentators convinced that it was grimly inevitable that a person who has predicated his entire career on being a contentious arsehole would, in fact, continue to behave like an absolute fucking prick.
Owners of functioning brains everywhere were steadfast in their insistence that exactly the thing that happened could have been predicted to happen by anyone other than the thickest of shit-thick wankers. Frank Exchange, a person possessed of normal cognitive abilities, said,
“It’s not even a tricky one. It’s like predicting the sunrise, or Boris Johnson being caught knackers-deep in a woman who isn’t his current partner. You’d have to be a fucking moron or a lying piece of shit to suggest with a straight face that you couldn’t have known that this notoriously shitty individual would belch up something objectively fucking awful on live television given even the briefest of opportunities.”
Purley, though, remained unrepentant.
“How was I supposed to know that this bucket of undiluted piss whose entire worthless existence has been characterised by crapping out dangerous and divisive opinions for the gratification of cunts would continue this long, unbroken pattern of behaviour? It’s not like it’s my actual fucking job to be aware of these things. Now, if you’ll excuse me, someone has dropped a grand piano from the top of that building, and I need to go and catch it in this plastic bucket.”