Boris and the Crybullies

There is little more gorgeous than the enunciated subtle rage of the middle-class English blonde. Such spectacle is well worth the very occasional stoke.

After spilling red wine upon his girlfriend’s sofa, Boris Johnson’s bid to become our next prime minister lay almost in ruins. The two briefly flounced into raised voices. She called Boris “spoilt.”

You would think such a kerfuffle unworthy of top billing on every front page for an entire week. This country has other, far more serious matters to attend to.

But two neighborly good Samaritans decided to record that lover’s squabble. And, in what they called the “public interest” swiftly sent the recording to the left-wing and reliably hilarious Guardian.

This was despite visiting police officers having assured them that no crime had taken place. And that both occupants were fine.

Of course, the staunch Remainers Eve Leigh, 34, and Tom Penn, 30, claimed they called the police because they were “frightened and concerned.”

They were so concerned they knocked on the door three times to no answer. And then scurried into their apartment, and recorded through the walls, the verbal skirmish.

This act of benevolence then pumped through that familiar ventricle of “compassion” that left-wing crybullies employ so often. What renders their account inconceivable is Leigh’s now-deleted Twitter account, which teems with anti-Brexit diatribes and her puerile boast of having recently given her neighbor, Boris, “the finger.” So brave! Stunning.

One can assume this pair could not quite believe their luck—their “concern” centering upon stitching-up the next prime minister as a woman-beater and thwarting his commitment to leave their beloved EU.

That same apartment is now besieged by aging, unduly tragic anarchists who terrify Boris’ girlfriend so much she refuses to go back there. Outside, they ramble on, having peppered the locality with anti-Boris posters.

You’d think such anarchists were of the bootstrap mentality, given their fantasies of no government.

Not this rabble. Although “Class War” advocates a total withering of the state, their members, strangely, seem wholly reliant upon it. They proudly refuse the injustice of working for a living. They’re all about fighting “the rich parasites who ruin our lives,” according to their website.

Perhaps tattooing one’s face and lounging around in a noisome air of self-cultured grievance is what actually ruins one’s life? Just a suggestion.

Some of them seemingly spend their days agitating for dissolution of a state that feeds, houses, and enlivens them with enough of other people’s money to drink gut-rot cider and beseech the apparent “fascists” with whom their adolescent keening disagrees.

The desperation creeps like a fine gas. Progressives, from the anarchists to the metropolitan woke, must stop Boris.

They know we leave the European Union on October 31, “come what may,” according to the man they have driven from their pissing ground.

At least with Jeremy Hunt, the other candidate for the job, they’d enjoy another measureless bout of delay and denial akin to the last three years of Theresa May.

What the nosy neighbors hoped was that their amateur sleuthing would convince Conservative Party members to bunk Boris and shunt Hunt.

They haven’t fallen for it. Like President Trump’s voters, most see past their man’s personal indiscretions. They are keen to elect someone of whom the progressive crybullies are terrified.

Like Trump, Boris hasn’t bowed to their demands for explanation. There has been no struggle session—the progressives’ ritualistic shaming of the victim.

Three years of delay, guilt-tripping, and political Munchausen Syndrome means we want our own Trump. Yes, his mouth invites trouble and he shags around. But Boris, like Trump, will move fast and break things.

But the fight doesn’t end when Boris is elected. As we see in America, the progressive employment of such venal tactics only thickens in its luridity once they are handed a defeat.

Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez is a case in point. This week revealed her anguished presence at the Mexican border, in what later was shown to be a fence and an empty parking lot, and they were taken 12 months before the crisis she now decries and refuses to soothe with congressional dollars.

As if delivering a masterclass in beclowning oneself, AOC—queen of the crybullies—uses those stage-managed photos to continue her project of manipulating the emotions of Americans.

Much like the harrowing photo of a father and daughter who drowned while crossing the Rio Grande are used for those purposes. Of course, this is all Trump’s fault, and not the tragic human cost of lawlessness stoked by Democratic refusal to plug the border and stymie at once its grand magnetism.

Because it is Democrats who would much rather allow the chaos to continue unabated, in glib disregard for those they claim to care about most.

After all, a border wall, and stringent immigration enforcement would stop all but the most determined in making that often perilous journey.

Democrats won’t stop it. They cannot afford to stop it.

They need the chaos. They’ve lost the Midwest, forfeited the Rust Belt, their victim-farming is eroding in Black America. Their future depends largely upon the votes of those illegally crossing the border: those tacitly promised amnesty in exchange for their voting souls.

The crybullies don’t care. Their compassion, like that of the nosy neighbors, is a blunt instrument aimed at the skulls of those who disagree. That much is obvious.

Photo Credit: Matt Cardy/Getty Images

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