I was relaxing in a multi-tasking manner yesterday evening. I was listening to my music, all stored in presumably concentrically ranked classical digital files on my Macbook with iTunes, and broadcast seamlessly to my sound system; at the same time I was commencing to page through a great book named ‘Conclave’ by Robert Harris. I checked my watch, paused my music, and switched over to the BBC News at Six; but after watching/listening for about four/five minutes; I was suddenly galvanised into switching over to, well, anything, the first programme I found/the first recording which came up on my screen: anything to release my brain from the garbage literally thrown over the airwaves of the State broadcaster. We all know the Beeb has its own levels of favourites; anything anti-Tory, anything pro-Corbyn and his ranked outriders; anything pro-the lying rubbish of climate change, anything which advances the ‘progressive politics’ agenda; I should not need to list everything. You all know what I am writing about. But having accepted that, and still tuning to the Beeb’s news; what was the item which caused intense mental anguish, together with a desire to launch an armed assault upon the BBC headquarters?
Well, the automatic movement towards the ‘remote’ was actually triggered by the sight and sounds of the ‘Liverpool Losers’, as they solemnly gave the ‘freedom of the city’ to a bunch of dead people. I could almost write the ‘Order of Service’ for this crew: even without the trauma of actually watching the heaped scroungers which collectively are known as ‘Scousers’ as they pour out their hate against ‘the Police, the Government, the ground where the ‘fans’ died, other football supporters’ as a target of common grief whilst supposedly honouring those who died during a football match a long time ago. We know those people died, hell’s gates, we are never allowed to forget it; but; standing back as one should, we must examine the motives for all this exaggerated grief. We are British, with certain reserves almost built into our DNA; we don’t do the wailing, crying, gnashing of teeth which is almost standard behaviour in other climates and countries too numerous to collate. As is an accepted practice, British grief is private; grief is allowed, indeed necessary, but a certain measure of stoicism is taken for granted: but when grief is politicised, then that shows up so very, very distinctly as false, sham and totally artificial.
I would respect a statement from any representative of those ‘grieving’ if they had ever stated the magic words, ‘We shall not expect or accept any compensation’; but, since the whole campaign, from the word ‘go’ has been about the Money; and that is all it has ever been about, they get no respect from me!