Pissed-off Toff fanices black girls rotten, but he is fed up with advertisements telling us that the blacks are great and that the whites are a guilty minority in our own country.
As my countless readers know, I not long ago moved from a large flat in the centre of London to a church in Sunderland. As they also know, this move ripped my stomach out. And soon I must move again.
It is not easy to explain to those who say ‘oh just get on with it’ (now my most-hated expression), but the prospect of any sort of change now fills me with horror. Unless it were the last move ever … unless it were to retreat to some mountain-top village in France or Italy, there never to hear about ‘man-made climate change’ or the ‘trans’ movement or the ‘pandemic’ or ‘equality and diversity’ ever again … or to read about how my country is drowning in useless debt that increases by the day under the leadership of the Johnson criminal.
For the last weeks I have somehow managed to put these concerns out of my mind, this because I am involved in doing the memoirs of an excellent man whom we will call Lord R. Born shortly before the beginning of World War II, Lord R went to Eton, of course, and was brought up in a world where you were allowed to smoke and drink if you wished, where you were allowed to tell a girl she was beautiful, where you could get into a throaty sports car without being lectured about ‘man-made climate change’ induced by carbon emissions, where you could crack a silly joke about Scotsmen and Irishmen without being accused of ‘racism’, where you could leave your house without the written permission of the police, where you could buy a train ticket without too much difficulty, where you could fly to another country without filling in a thousand forms, where you could go to the shops without wearing a mask … (you might think it’s all over, but I’m not so sure; they’ve got all too used to locking us up and are longing to do it again, as so many puritan masochists indeed wish) … so I have retreated into this world of Lord R’s youth, in which it was still possible to move one yard without being lectured and nagged, from left, right and centre, about eveything under the sun, including ‘racism’ and ‘equality and diversity’.
Yes, this lost world in which I too was brought up looks more attractive by the minute. The past, indeed, is almost the only thing that gives me solace, nowadays. I never watch the news, nor have I for at least two years. I have now stopped reading newspapers. I read fiction set in the eighteenth century. I cry a great deal, because I cannot bear contemplating the wilful destruction of all that I love. And in order to comtemplate the past, I watch old films on the television.
This, necessarily, means watching TV advertisements. Which brings me at last to today’s topic. Namely: why, in a country which remains very largely white, in which ethnic minorities are still in the minority, and in which black people make up approximately 4% of the population … why, in these circumstances, must blacks and mixed-race children, often sexy half-black-half-white girls … why must these people make up more than half the people we see in TV ads? Oh, and also in the newspapers and in magazines too. And on billboards. Everywhere.
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It’s all in storage now, but before I did my last house-move, I spent months collecting adverts from the main newspapers, and I established a few rules. Black people must predominate, at all times. They must be favoured and preferred. In every advert there must be a black person in pride of place … with perhaps a wimpy white man in the background. And the bigger the company placing the advert, the more true this is. Thus almost every advertisement you will ever see placed by the NHS to tell you how marvellous they are and how they have saved us from Covid and how we must give them more and more and more of our money … almost every ad placed by this accursed and most wasteful of institutions will feature, principally, a lovely caring black person. I’ve collected these ads. What I say is factually observable.
Similarly, most of the ads placed by large corporations will tend to feature black faces. (From memory: NatWest and most of the big banks. Inter alia.) Or if not black males and females, then Asians or some ethnic minority of which we are meant to approve. With, again, a white man skulking guiltily in the background … in what he was foolish enough to think was his own country.
And the same is true in every medium. Take, for example, a workaday flyer from Tesco that arrived in the post for me only yesterday, containing the welcome news that I had accumulated £8.50 in clubcard vouchers, to be spent as I pleased (see the main photo above this piece). Divided into three fold-out parts, the flyer has a photo on every page. But what is on the front page, the one you see immediately on opening the envelope, the most prominent one by far? Yes, you’ve guessed. It’s a black man giving a shoulder-ride to his lovely black son. Who, now I come to think of it, isn’t quite as black as the father is. So perhaps this nice black man has married a white woman … or perhaps more likely, a half-white woman.
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Since I have not bought a newspaper for two months, and quite possibly never intend to buy one again, I have been spared this onslaught of political and racial indoctrination from this particular source. But there remains the TV, which I watch with the sole purpose of avoiding the unbearable present and taking refuge in the past. And on the TV, I see these ads which drive me to distraction.
Let us take, entirely at random, the ads that featured in the course of two programmes, both on Channel 4, which – wishing to take time off from doing Lord R’s memoir – I watched consecutively on the evening of 17 October. The first of these, entitled Billionaire Cruise Ship, was a panegyric of the obscene levels of self-indulgence and consumerism seen onboard the seagoing behemoths which ferry legions of doddery sybarites around the world. The next programme, called Celebrety Trash Matters, was a messainic condemnation of almost any form of consumption and urged us all to give up eating steaks, because they are causing the world to burn up.
Leaving aside the fact that these two programmes almost perfectly encapsulated the schizophrenia of the mad world we live in: untrammelled consumerism on the one hand, and crazed self-flagellation on the other … leaving this aside, let us turn to the adverts, concerning which I started to make rough notes, scribbled down between one gulp of G&T and another.
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In one of the earlier commercial breaks we first saw an advertisement for Weetabix which featured a white man with his black wife and mixed-race family. Oh how happy they were in their utopia free of all ‘racism’! The very next advertisement, this time for P&O cruises, featured, once again, a white man with his black wife.
Which would lead us to believe that everyone, in this fictional country which we apparently inhabit, was married to someone of a different colour. Because to marry someone of your own colour is obviously racist and to marry someone of a different colour is obviously the right and virtuous thing to do. And yet what proportion of marriages, in modern Britain, are black-white, or even mixed-colour of various hues? Almost none. So here, we are being lectured at, we are being nagged and bullied, Soviet style.
In the next commercial break, the first ad was for something called Smart Val. One person only appeared in the whole ad. He was a black man. Then there was an ad for something called Clairol, featuring white girls. Then for Bold, the washing-machine detergent; again with white people. Then an ad for the National Trust, urging us to plant more trees (with the preachy subtext that it would be best, really, if we rid the earth of our awful presence). For a short moment, therefore, we had a break from ad breaks lecturing us about ‘racism’ … only to be lectured to about ‘man-made global warming’ and how we must atone for the sin of our very existence.
But not to worry! Soon we were back on track, because the next ad break – each one of these commercial breaks being made up of at least half a dozen advertisements – featured black people almost without exception. In the first three adverts in this particular break, black people were the most prominent, and whites were marginal. The fourth advert featured an Asian girl. What country I was living in, I wondered. Nigeria, perhaps? Or some fictional land between Africa and Asia, in which the nasty whites have been largely eliminated?
And so it went on, relentlessly … endless images of black people and so-called ‘ethnic minorities’, with the superior virtue of blackness or at any rate non-whiteness shoved down our throats. The implication, constantly, is that you, the white viewer, are a nasty ‘racist’ and that you must be taught to be less ‘racist’. This regardless of the fact that on the whole I could hardly care less what the colour of someone’s skin is. If he is a man, I think: do I trust you? (Pakistanis, no longer. The rest, let’s see.) If it’s a girl, I think: do I fancy you? These thoughts, or something similar, are hard-wired into my Cro-Magnon brain. As they are, I would argue, into the brain of every male. Nothing will change them, ever. Only death.
Nevertheless, we are going to besiege you, non-stop, with entirely false images of an imagined multi-racial society … in which, now that we come to think of it, there will in fact be no white people at all. Because although we are entirely ‘non-racist’ and ‘anti-racist’, actually all whites are horrible and nasty and guilty and all deserve to die … if not for the ‘colonialism’ which ended well before any of us were born, then because of ‘global warming’. Plus, anyone who happens to possess a black face is lovely and will go to heaven, having first pursued a virtuous career in that most saintly of organisations, the NHS.
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Oh I am so utterly fed up with it, so sick to the back teeth. Oh how I loathe this non-stop onslaught of nagging and lecturing about my assumed ‘racism’. Oh how I long for my hill-top village far, far away from this mad country … and with a lovely black girlfriend to console me, in possession of one of those glorious round bums that only they have.