If you are going to use a burner account, to send me very visual and vivid death threats, such as an account did on Instagram saying they wanted to shoot me in the head, because I’m a woman working in the oilfield. Make sure you’re really good at hiding your identity, Brent Thompson. Because you look like thumb, a beta cuck who licks and kisses the tip of a hot dog before taking a bite. Now you know I found your address and phone number because I called you. You seemed really scared when I found out who you were yet you had so much to say on my Instagram. Tell me why you deleted all your accounts? Brent Thompson
In the last two days a couple of men have slid into my DMs and one wrote to me via letter to my home address to tell me to stop talking about Islam.
Neither man is Muslim.
They both think it’s a waste of time, not that serious and think it ruins my credibility as a women’s rights campaigner.
To those men, and any others who think it wise to attempt to tell me how to woman, do fuck off.
If you claim to care about women’s rights and are not talking about Islam you’re a fraud. Fighting for women’s rights isn’t a popularity contest, it’s not about making friends, it’s not a way of telling oneself that one is full of virtue and it’s rarely easy.
Highlighting the danger of Islam is my duty as a women’s rights activist.
And finally, I do and say what I want, when I want.
Cheers.
I’m in awe of No. 3 Commando veteran Stan Scott’s calmness as he demonstrates the Fairbairn–Sykes fighting knife. This was a man who landed on Sword Beach on D-Day.
Scott recalled that only 17 of 75 men finished his six-week Achnacarry course (that figure stops me cold). I cannot get over what it demanded of them.
The National Army Museum filmed this in 2011 and holds Scott’s own third-pattern knife from Normandy. Its shape is still worn on 3 Commando Brigade’s patch.
I find it deeply moving that Scott later led the Commando Veterans Association. After his death in 2014, his ashes were scattered at Achnacarry.
Which Commando veteran should we honour next?
A tale of two countries: London and England. I’ve had the most perfect week on my little sailing boat in England. Mooring up in Woodbridge, Suffolk and others along the River Deben, then visiting Constable country around Dedham. Every village was beautiful. Every place was clean and tidy. Free of litter and graffiti. Every place was all white people. British people. People who spoke English. Villages with little honesty boxes to leave your money and take the home grown produce. The National Trust at Flatford Mill where Constable painted the haywain didn’t have books on how all white people are terrible. It had books on Constable, the beauty of his work and the beauty of the countryside. It had people enjoying tea and sandwiches sitting in the gardens in the sunshine enjoying their surroundings. It took a few days to realise the complete and utter difference between these places and London. This was England, full of the English. Then, as I came back into London, I left England and arrived back in the third world. The people weren’t English. They weren’t British. They had zero affinity with England. I was a foreigner. This is now their land, given to them by successive governments. Given to them along with the free houses and healthcare and money for life. Not in exchange for any added contribution to this country, but just for being here. Given to them with money from the sweat and toil and stress of making ends meet of the British people over hundreds of years. Walking around most of London, you would be hard pressed to know which third world country you were in. There are still some white ghettos remaining: Chelsea, Highgate, Hampstead, Kensington and Chiswick. All predominantly white areas. All the areas that given enough money, you’d choose to live. That’s not a coincidence. It’s not a coincidence that you’d choose to live in Kensington rather than Shepherd’s Bush. The English living in the villages and towns I visited are loving life. They have no idea that very soon the government will dump thousands from the third world onto them and every town like them. They will call me racist right now because to them, they have nothing to worry about. They can’t see the imminent destruction of their way of life. In the 1930s, Churchill warned that Germany was gearing up for war and people said, oh don’t be silly, it’s lovely that Germany is building so many roads and ships and planes. Once people realised why they’d built them, it was too late. Once the beautiful people in the villages of England realise they’ve been taken over and they live in the third world suddenly, it will be too late. I loved visiting England. I’m back in London now and please don’t tell me that London is in England. They’re two very different countries.
I studied in the academic department at Cambridge that later employed Jason Arday. Here's just some of the crap I learnt: For one module, I wrote a lengthy essay about how cultural products like kids’ cartoons and jazz songs serve as instruments of capitalist oppression. I got a top mark on that paper (despite knowing at the time that I was essentially regurgitating complete crap).
While studying for another paper I had a debate with the professor, an eminent anthropologist, because she insisted that native tribes could fly through the trees - not metaphorically, but that they could literally fly because they believed they could fly. After all, who are we to question ‘indigenous ways of knowing’...
For a different course, I read long ‘research papers’ which argued that the fact that black kids are excluded from schools more than white kids proves systemic racism exists in education. Crucially, they ignored the fact that white kids are excluded more than, e.g., Japanese kids, a statistic which, applying the exact same logic, would suggest that the education system is systemically biased in favour of, erm, Japanese kids (which obviously it isn’t).
Something that was held up as proof of the existence of this largely imaginary racism was that teachers tell kids not to use booming voices in the classroom, and not to put up their hoods or wear their trousers down below their pants.
On another occasion, my supervisor casually praised some students agitators who were trying to shut down a talk by someone they disagreed with. I said that I didn’t think this was something to celebrate, because I believed in freedom of speech. He got visibly angry, and proceeded to tell me that free speech was not worth protecting in a capitalist system (or something along those lines).
In my all-important final year, a lecturer let me know that I shouldn’t worry too much about my exam results, because as someone who was not from an upper class background I should be more focussed on using my grasp of leftist revolutionary theory to further the interests of the proletariat. Writing this down, it strikes me that it’s so hilariously mental that some of you will presumably assume I’m lying. But there’s no way I’m leaving it out, because it happened.
Unlike the academics who make a living from this stuff, I couldn’t bring myself to build a career pumping out whiney, divisive, intellectually incoherent rubbish. But others, as we’ve seen exposed in recent days, do so with gusto. And are lauded for it.
Please read the full piece this is taken from, and give it a share. I've linked it in the tweet below.
Exactly one year ago today greater Manchester police sent 10 riot police to my house for an allegation of burglary. The alleged burgled item was a plate of free chicken pasta that was being served in a migrant hotel.
I was on bail for 6 months where I was not able to leave the country, had to sleep at my home address every night, wasn’t allowed within 200 metres of any protest (planned or unplanned) and was not allowed within 100 metres of a migrant hotel or HMO. All my electronic devices were seized for 8 months and there is damage to my door and handle where they applied excessive force to it.
1 year later the case has not been dropped and is classed as RUI (released under investigation.) because of this greater Manchester Police refused to release the body cam footage of them entering my house where they searched everything from my loft and garden to my terminally ill mothers underwear drawer.
I was held in a cell for 8 hours whilst 2 CID detectives travelled from another police station to interview me who asked about my politics and my view on migrants.
Every time I now leave the country I am now greeted by customs or border force on return who ask where I have been and search my belongings/car.
If anyone says 2 tier policing does not exist show them this.
I am still fighting to get this charge dropped but I am dealing with one of the most corrupt police forces in the country!
This guy built over 1,000 homes for squirrels and fitted some of them with cameras so he could see how they live
Welcome to the cutest reality TV show out there
Writer: Ian
🚨NEWS: The release of the transcripts around Henry Nowak's murder have revealed that Police Officers went back 6 years in his phone messages to when he was just 12 years old in an attempt to find anything they could use to describe him as a racist
Sickening
The only Fighter Command pilot awarded the Victoria Cross during the entire Second World War told his pregnant wife: “Shot down. Very slightly hurt.” I am stunned by what James Nicolson hid inside those words.
On 16 August 1940, his Hurricane was hit by four cannon shells and caught fire over Southampton. Wounded and about to bail out, he saw a German fighter. He sat back down in the flames and attacked it. He did not jump until it was shot down.
His hands, face, neck and legs were badly burned. (The understatement almost hurts to read.)
I am in awe of that choice. He could have escaped seconds earlier.
Nicolson recovered and returned to war. Five years later, an RAF Liberator carrying him crashed into the Bay of Bengal. His body was never found.
His wife received the news on VE Day.
I am heartbroken by that ending. Britain was celebrating while Muriel learned the war had taken her husband.
This week marks 86 years since his act of courage. James Nicolson deserves to be remembered by name.