Nothing is more appetizing than watching the limbs of progressive icons mulch between the jaws of the Woke. With a giddy regularity, the picadors of piffle lower themselves to those over which they loft. A glorious sight—like savannah lions ripping through their prey. There’s something deeply primal about it. And something deserved about it. The
This new year lavishes us Brits with a laugh-riot. The Labour Party’s leadership election offers more exotic fruits than a Los Angeles farmers’ market. It is most comforting viewing. If one enjoys that kind of thing. Jeremy Corbyn remains medically alive. Yet he more resembles a cadaver milling around Parliament muttering progressive pieties—the same pieties
I’ve worn my thumbs down to spiky bone. To be a good sport, over the last week I have given traumatized progressives exactly what they want. I’ve dutifully succumbed to the commands of the mad, the demands of the jilted. “If you voted for Boris Johnson, delete me as a friend!” Because of X and
It appears that social media is not the real world. Indeed, contrary to the predictions I read there, the most seismic election in British history was not even close. Boris Johnson on Friday morning returned as Great Britain’s prime minister atop a landslide of voters whom the progressive Left abandoned long ago. The results are
The most edifying feature of our reluctant election here in the United Kingdom is the welcome tempering of that modern scourge—the three-month Christmas. There is no time for gaudy festive jingles or silly hats. Instead, we British have engorged on an all-you-can-eat buffet of political crazies, weirdos, strangelings, and madpeople. In an orgy so lurid,
Just one week has passed during the most substantial election perhaps ever. And, already a confirmed fatality. Not a real one. Nor a significant one. But, a fatality nonetheless. That fatality is me. Apparently. The cause of my untimely death? A meme. A fairly innocuous one at that. Yes, modern life is digital. Unreal, in
In a world in which men crown themselves champions in women’s sports, an exciting cultural mutation churns. Turkeys, long considered to harbor a grave and considerate suspicion of the festive season, last week voted for Christmas. A modish progression. After twice blocking an election, and refusing to help pass Boris Johnson’s Brexit deal, Labour last
In a world in which men crown themselves champions in women’s sports, an exciting cultural mutation churns. Turkeys, long considered to harbor a grave and considerate suspicion of the festive season, last week voted for Christmas. A modish progression. After twice blocking an election, and refusing to help pass Boris Johnson’s Brexit deal, Labour last
Boris Johnson made history last week. That history didn’t last long—15 minutes to be precise. After taking over as prime minister just 93 days ago, Boris, like President Trump, was written off by our betters as an idiot, a chancer—he even has a predilection for dewy, tautly-compressed women. The horror! Like Trump, Boris came through.
It is almost a moral imperative to read any book Salem-ed by the types that shamble across the pages and pixels of The Guardian. You just have to. French novelist Michel Houellebecq, l'enfant terrible, returns with a treatise which The Guardian describes as the last cry of the pitiful white male. He has form. Houellebecq’s
