Pissed-off Toff

Diary, mid-August 2019

in Diary

Pissed-off Toff offers up the second instalment of his diary … in which the reader is treated to a spoonful or two of sexism and racism, a pinch of homophobia, a healthy dose of snobbery, and a bucketful of climate-change denial.

I recently drew my readers’ attention to the new TV advert for Lloyds Bank, in which we see half-a-dozen ‘typical’ couples and family groups, two of which are mixed-race, and one of which is gay. This was followed by an advert for a company called Pandora, featuring what appeared to be a lesbian couple (white, this time; not mixed-race).

Two adverts in a row, then, ramming the ‘diversity’ message down our throats. I thought that was bad enough. But I was wrong; because in a short space of time last Saturday evening there were no fewer than four TV adverts waterboarding us with the same PC agenda.

First, there was an ad for an estate agency called Purple Bricks, featuring two animated characters who are clearly a couple. And yes, they are of course mixed-race: the dull little man is white, and the boring younger woman is black.

Then came an ad for Just Eat, in which a young white man and a decidedly sexy half-black girl are on the sofa in front of the television. “Shall we order a take-away?” says the girl, her voice steeped in erotic inuendo. The white man readily agrees, and the idea is planted in the mind of the viewer that Just Eat is good not just for takeaway meals, but for much else besides.

Then an advert for Aldi, featuring two women. “Lesbian couple?” say my scribbled notes. Or perhaps they are just a couple of housewives out shopping. But the fact that I assumed that this was a lesbian couple shows quite how ubiquitous the ‘diversity’ propaganda of the advertising industry is.

Lastly, there was an advert for Olde Pase; something to do with food; and yes, once again we have a happy mixed-race family with a smiling half-black boy.

Oh, and then on Monday there was a TV ad for MacDonald’s, featuring a black man and his black daughter. This time, you note, the nasty white people have been edited out entirely. Not one of us, anywhere. And quite right, too. Banish them all, says I, and hats off to the advertising industry for bravely paving the way towards a world in which there will be no white people at all.

Which leaves one wondering how diverse ‘diversity’ really is. But hey, let’s not waste time worrying about the glaring logical inconsistencies of the PC agenda. Let’s just abolish white people; although it might be an idea to keep a few white gays and lesbians, for form’s sake, and perhaps just one wimpish white heterosexual male, strictly on condition that it must always be made clear that he is utterly in thrall to his stronger, sexy black ‘partner’.

* * * * *

Hannah Betts, one of my favourite journalists, calls our attention to the message, broadcast I think on social media, from the actress Kathy Burke, common as muck and severely aesthetically-challenged, to her fellow-thespian Helena Bonham Carter, more favoured by the gods in every way. Burke’s message goes thus: “I would like to say to Helena Bonham Carter (wholly pledged member of the very pretty upper-middle classes): shut up, you stupid cunt.”

If I were Bonham Carter … in fact I met her once, in France, at a house-party at the Abbaye de Royaumont, which has not one grand piano in the music room, but two; my sort of place, in other words … if I were Helena, I’d be furious about this insult from a foul-mouthed tricoteuse. Helena Bonham Carter is not ‘upper-middle class’, for God’s sake. She’s upper class.

Which brings us to ‘Dave’ Cameron and his claim that he is middle class. I never had any particular opinion about Cameron the politician; but this claim of his annoyed me for two reasons. Firstly, who did he think he was kidding? And secondly, I dislike privileged people who claim to be ashamed of being privileged. Thus, my top hate of the moment is that frightful twerp Rory Stewart, who says he’s ashamed of having been educated at Eton. Plus, I can’t bear that mummified look of his, with the creepy dead-man’s teeth. Throw the spindly-legged little runt into the river and drown him, says I.

Anyway, the Cameron story has a good ending which I now reveal for the first time. Famously (in certain circles at any rate), ‘Dave’ resigned from White’s, the grandest club in London, because his membership of it didn’t quite fit in with his silly pretence that he is ‘middle class’. Later, after he left the political arena, he intimated to the club that he wanted to be readmitted. And here’s the really funny bit, which I have on the best authority. They wouldn’t let him back in. Why, after all, would any club want a cowardly turncoat in its midst?

* * * * *

I have a glamourous new friend, with whom I bonded after she confessed that she is acutely sensitive to amost all forms of noise. “So am I! So am I!!” I said. And we compared notes enthusiastically, each of us listing our top hates.

We can’t bear music in restaurants, we agreed; and we bemoaned the fact that there are now fewer and fewer places where one can go to enjoy good food and conversation in peaceful surroundings. Even the bar at the Goring, which used to be my favourite little-known venue for a decent cocktail, now has music blaring away. (But my new friend did say I should check out a place called Fenwick’s on Bond Street.)

Very near the top of the hate-lists of both of us were leaf-blowers; and we agreed that when I become ruler of the universe, every single leaf-blower will be destroyed; as will every single police and ambulance siren. I thought it was just me, but my friend said that countless times she too has jumped out of her skin when a police car turned on its ear-splitting siren just as it was passing. We agreed that sooner or later someone is going to die of a heart-attack because of this. 

Then coffee-grinders in bars and restaurants. There you are, trying to relax with a friend, and just about succeeding, perhaps, in ignoring the music … and with a fearful roar, the coffee-grinder starts up. It drives her mad. Me too.

Hovering helicopters; air-conditioners; the infuriating beeping noise that vans and lorries make when they reverse … we went on and on, cheering ourselves up immensely in the process. We then came to a pet hate of mine, noise-wise, to which I was a little reluctant to confess. Namely, that I cannot bear coughing and sneezing. 

I have not the smallest jot of sympathy for people who are unhealthy, since bad health is, in my view, a matter of choice. I do not of course mean cruel diseases like cancer and Parkinson’s; I mean bad health resulting from an unwise lifestyle with not enough exercise and fresh air. Bascially … let’s be frank … only proles get colds.

Anyhow, warming to my theme, I confessed that when someone starts coughing and sniffing and spluttering anywhere near me, my one and only thought is: “Do shut up, would you!!” Perhaps, I thought, this was a confession too far. But luckily not. “Ohmygod!” said my new friend, “I so-so agree with you.”

* * * * *

Whenever the weather heats up a little, we can be sure that the BBC will chime in with dire warnings of global warming and ‘man-made climate change’. So on Wednesday, when here in London it was freezing cold and it poured with rain all day long, I wondered where this left the ‘climate emergency’ narrative. I shouldn’t have. Any evidence, however specious, that the world will shortly burn to a frazzle because of our evil ways, is gleefully pounced on by the media; whereas the ample evidence to the contrary is ignored.

My second reading of The Real Global Warming Disaster by the recently deceased Christopher Booker leaves no doubt in my mind about something that I have long suspected. Namely, that there is no correlation between man-made carbon emissions and ‘climate change’; that the whole thing is a gigantic scare story foisted on the Puritan countries of the western world by misguided researchers, propagated by the credulous and lazy media constantly in search of easy sensationalism, and lapped up by craven politicians like that grandstanding fool Barak Obama. 

There is just no evidence for it. It’s a crazy dogma, a mad delusion that has us well on the way, already, to dismantling our entire industrial base. Booker views the thing as essentially a manifestation of mass hysteria. Nor is he alone. Countless experts – including the entire Russian scientific establishment – reject the ‘man-made global warming’ thesis. 

(Oh, and if Putin signed up to Kyoto in 2004, it was only to get better terms from the World Trade Organisation. He couldn’t care a fig about the ‘global warming’ scare, and views it with the scepticism that it deserves. I do not imagine for a moment that he will respect the silly promises he made on that valueless bit of paper which bears his signature. And good for him.)

Booker’s full-length tract is among the most frightening things I have ever read, in that it sees us in the West in the process of carrying out mass economic suicide, while India and China look on in amazement at our idiocy. It is also pretty dense, with every single chapter followed by dozens of notes and references in small print. I intend to write a review of it for my readers before the next UN ‘climate change’ jamboree in September. 

In the meantime, I repeat: the ‘man-made climate emergency’ is bunkum. However, we are bewitched, and unless the spell is broken, we’ve had it. As Booker says in the concluding sentence of his long and formidably well-researched tome, we are already embarked on (quote) a “headlong rush towards chaos and self-destruction” … we are, in other words (mine, now) committed to a course of lunacy which we will bitterly regret, when, in the not-so-far future, we wake up to find ourselves scratching about in rubbish heaps for what few scraps of food are left to fend off starvation.

The Puritan countries of the West are in the grip of a mad quasi-religious delusion which threatens to take us straight back to the Dark Ages. Unless we come to our senses pretty soon, we are doomed.

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