The risible
notion that Britain is actually regarded as a global super power by any other
nation than itself was again exposed as a scarcely credible arcane fantasy by
the events of the last week. As yet,
responsibility for the poisoning of Sergei and Yuri Skripal, not to mention
some unfortunate and hitherto anonymous flatfoot, has neither been claimed nor
apportioned with any semblance of proof. Aside from being a particularly poor
advert for landfill pasta chain Zizzi’s
Sunday dining options, the incident has been taken as an excuse by the shambolic
circus allegedly in charge of the country to engage in a pitiful chorus of
bellicose sabre-rattling that would have seemed anachronistic in an Ealing
comedy back in the days when we still had rationing.
Here is a
fact. Boris Johnson is incompetent. Here is another. He is also mad and,
without doubt, a significant danger to public safety. If he dares to imagine
that, with or without the blessing or indeed comprehension of Maidenhead’s
answer to Cruella De Ville, the plucky Brits can face down Kung Fu Bonaparte’s
empire in any kind of conflict from a stare out contest to full scale thermonuclear
war, he is even more deranged than I had feared. Although it should be
recognised that, in his rampantly delusional state, he’s among likeminded souls
in the Tory cabinet. I have racked my
brains, but in all honesty I struggle to find a more compelling example of the
pathetic Little Englander mind-set of Brexit Britain than the vacuous pomposity
of Gavin Williamson’s attempted calling out of the world’s largest nation. Not
since The Times ran the apocryphal
headline Fog in Channel; Continent
isolated has there been a more fatuous public pronouncement of wrongheaded
Anglocentrism. Mind, Johnson’s demand that the World Cup be postponed runs
Williamson’s cretinous utterances a close second.
Here’s my
prediction; within 10 days or a fortnight at most, the Skripal situation will have
been forgotten, as the Government controlled media in both countries downplays
the significance of recent events to that of a historical adjunct to the annals
of modern diplomacy; a barely remembered footnote in the chronicles of
state-sponsored espionage. Of course the whole affair will become murkier and
derailed by internecine obfuscatory tactics, resulting in game, set and match
to the tiny Beast from the East while Johnson and May are still arranging their
towels at the side of the court. Never mind any potential involvement by the
United Nations, a far more puissant body, namely FIFA, will ensure that Russia
emerges unscathed from this whole fiasco, allowing gas to still be piped
westwards and the World Cup to take place.
The lasting
legacy for the British public will be the timorous fallout from the BBC’s
scandalous photoshopped hatchet job on Jeremy Corbyn, whereby a Breton
fisherman’s cap morphed into a Cossack hat for the purpose of spreading the
insidious, subliminal lie of treachery, when all Corbyn has sought is that
rarest of political commodities; the truth. The justifiable, if naïve, tsunami
of indignant outrage from the enlightened wing of the political spectrum has
had the welcome effect of uniting the left, especially on social media. This
comes as a blessed relief after what has seemed to be months of unremitting
enmity regarding the vexed subject of Trans rights, both in society as a whole
and the Labour Party specifically, following the clarification of party rules
in February, paving the way to allow the presence of self-certifying transgender
women on all-female shortlists for parliamentary seats, without the need for a
gender recognition certificate.
As an
educated, professional, middle class, white, cisgendered, heterosexual male, I
am fully aware of the privileged position in capitalist society that my sex,
gender, ethnicity and social class has provided me with. Furthermore, as a
Socialist I feel I have both ideological insight and socially aware empathy to
bring to any debate about Trans rights, as well as an instinctive opinion that
Dawn Butler’s communication to constituency branches on the subject of Trans
rights was a progressive, inclusive and responsible step forward. However, I
was somewhat astonished, not to say aghast, at the vitriolic response from an
amalgamation of second and fourth wave feminists to Butler’s document. Not only
were there threats of mass resignations from the party, which was enough to
stay the hand of the NEC and force consultation before a policy review on this
issue, but a fetid plague of poisonous transphobic comments on social media
from an ideological alliance that rejected the Socialist principles inherent to
those who recognise the importance of intersectionality. In contrast to the
holistic, dialectical analysis of the nature of female repression being caused
by capitalism rather than reproductive organs by third wave feminists, TERFs
(Trans Exclusionary Radical Feminists) placed sex, not gender, at the centre of
all debate, denigrating the importance of class, race and all other
recognisable measures of conscious and unconscious prejudice when discussing
women’s rights.
I found the
attitudes of TERFs to be abhorrent, but for the sake of impartiality, I sought
to inform myself by further reading. The
complexity of the subject was a shock to me, as I’d had neither exposure to nor
knowledge of crucial concepts in the Trans debate such as: genderfluidity,
intersexuality, as well as MIAF and non-binary orientations. That said, the conclusion I was repeatedly
drawn towards involved embracing the inclusive philosophy of third wave
feminism and its interpretation of the importance of intersectionality to
debate. For all the reasons listed above, I can never fully appreciate women’s struggles,
but in all conscience I reject completely the vindictive isolationism of the
voluble, unapologetic TERF minority. The intolerant absolutism reminds me so
much of the Leninist Vanguardista tendency, as well as bringing to mind the
similar ideological fission which can be seen among the supporters of Newcastle
United, between the tolerant, inclusive majority and a tiny cabal of affectedly
masculine authoritarian populists.
While we
have made enormous strides since I was informed in the 1980s by a particularly
servile adherent of the institutionally homophobic workerist tendency who still
worship at the feet of Kim-il Taaffe that being gay was a Bourgeois
affectation, we must recognise the huge distance we still have to go in society
and among certain sections on the Left. As regards football, I had thought that
the Rainbow flag on display in the Gallowgate from the start of this season was
a massive step forward. Even better news has been the formation of United with Pride, NUFC’s official LGBT+
fans’ group. The very best of luck to them, especially those members in the
NE32, NE33 and NE34 areas, as the most vicious homophobia I’ve encountered by
Newcastle supporters has come from such parts. One would almost fear for the
safety and very existence of genderfluid, intersex, MIAF, non-binary and Trans
NUFC followers in such areas.
Unfortunately,
there remains an inherent and deeply repugnant strain of Alpha male
heterosexism among the more lumpen elements of Newcastle United’s fanbase.
Whether this is occasioned by ignorance, emotional retardation or a gross
misconception of what it means to be a man, I am not sure, but it needs to be
removed from the gene pool forthwith. A particularly sickening example recently
was the dog whistle response to Kieron Dyer’s brave revelations that he had
been a victim of childhood sexual abuse. Whatever one thought of Dyer as a
player, a person or both (and it’s undeniable that the failure to achieve his
potential in the former role grew in proportion to the ostentatious, vulgar
arrogance of the latter), as decent human beings we ought to express compassion
and support for any victim of abuse, not engage in the kind of snide sniping
more befitting a slaphead Richard Littlejohn than any (self-appointed) arbiter
of fan opinion. As a survivor of childhood sexual abuse myself, I view any
attack on another victim as a slight on us all, whether it was said in all
honesty or merely as an attempt to antagonise a specific individual (presumably
me). Thankfully the unremittingly angry response to such intolerant baloney
caused discomfort for the perpetrator in a way Gerald Ratner would have
recognised. It is proof that the boors fetishizing the dinosaur ideology,
enshrined in the deeply distasteful scripts of Oz and Auf Weidersehen Pet, are dying out among Newcastle’s support. They
may be found in the betting shops, estate pubs and chip shops of South
Tyneside, muttering away to themselves, but they aren’t in St James Park any
longer. It also shows the positive way social media can allow football fans to
correct inaccurate slurs about their club.
Witness also
the Jermaine Jenas incident, whereby another player who achieved only a
fraction of his potential, was allowed to spout unchallenged gibberish on BT Sport, while in the company of the cerebrally
deficient Steven Gerrard and Steve McManaman, as well as some unknown talking
head of a presenter. Jenas, despite initially accepting responsibility for
failing to reach his true potential, then blamed Newcastle United. Despite
arriving at a club that boasted the creative instincts of Shearer, Speed,
Bellamy, Dyer, Robert and Solano, as a raw 19 year old and subsequently
finishing 4th, 3rd and 5th in his first three
seasons with the club, as well as playing in the Champions’ League twice and
reaching semi-finals of the FA Cup and UEFA Cup, which enabled him personally
to benefit from playing with such stellar talents that he gained 15 of his 17
England caps while based on Tyneside, Jenas claimed that Newcastle United blighted
his progress in the game. The fact he gained his sole medal as a player,
winning the 2008 League Cup at Spurs, following his unmourned departure does
not really prove his point in any meaningful way.
While I’ve
no real issue with Gerard or McManaman not pulling Jenas up over his outlandish
lies, as they presumably don’t have any detailed knowledge of Newcastle’s
performances between 2002 and 2005 at their fingertips, the inability of the presenter,
who should know such things, to do so was a disgrace and symptomatic of the
default position of sycophantic toadying to fabulously wealthy, sombre and
shallow youngish men in distasteful designer suits the media has adopted.
However, in an era when the likes of Matt Elliott and Ian Dowie are employed
for expressing opinions that sound like the results of a computer programme
intended to generate random, unconnected words like the bastard love children
of Stanley Unwin and Max Headroom, why should we be surprised? Thankfully, Twitter came to the rescue and the
storied ranks of NUFC fans successfully disproved the nonsense Jenas had
claimed, to the extent the petulant millionaire withdrew from the platform for
a good 10 days, which is an age in social media terms.
Everything
seems to age so quickly these days. I’ve not written about Newcastle United in
over 2 months and issues that seemed so important in mid-January have less
relevance during this latest 3 week interregnum. Indeed, the whole landscape is
disturbingly serene. There are 8 games to go, the club are 13th and
lie 4 points above the bottom 3 with the best goal difference in the bottom
dozen. We have reason to be cautiously optimistic about avoiding relegation,
partly because our old pal Pards has
effectively ruined the Baggies, while Stoke seem doomed. The final drop spot
may yet go to the Moyes Boys, especially as they can’t seem to keep the ICF’s
Craft Ale division off the pitch. However it was nice to see their reward for a
3-0 home tanking by Burnley was a trip to Florida.
Realistically,
Newcastle surely only need victories against Huddersfield and West Brom to be
completely safe. The frustration of points squandered against Swansea, Burnley
and Bournemouth has been offset by the positive vibes engendered by controlled
victories over Manchester United and Southampton, just when the intemperate
hotheads at SJP were denouncing Kenedy as “shit;” the latter win was so
emphatic Pellegrini lost his job after it. Surely a corner has been turned? If
you compare the situation in mid-January, I’d like to think so, even if the
governance of the club on a daily basis is the sole responsibility of Charnley,
following Bobby Moncur’s resignation.
I know
Southampton were dismal, but it would be superb to think that finally Benitez
has cajoled the squad into playing in such a compelling way, which must be a
positive sign. Of course, the complex Cassandras among us point to the fact the
corresponding 8 games earlier in the season harvested a single measly point at
The Hawthorns.
Remember the
anxiety associated with the end of the transfer window? The bitter tears of the
stupid at Mitrovic’s departure. Well, he’s certainly found his level in the
Championship; scoring goals and leading with his elbow, accumulating as many
yellow cards as Man of the Match awards. The acclamation that greeted Islam
Slimani’s arrival. He’s still not been on the pitch, though I suppose if his
career trajectory follows those of the similarly invisible Ferraya and Doumbia,
he’ll be top scorer in the Champions’ League in 2020/2021. The banner at the
Burnley game, offering undying devotion to Benitez. The irony of an anti-Ashley
protest happening inside the ground dovetailing superbly with Darlow’s comical
own goal. Being serious, the signing of Dubravka is a major step forward for
the club and credit must be given to Benitez for his insistence on improving
options surrounding that position. Woodman may be doing the business at
Aberdeen, but he’s too young. Rob Elliott is a decent keeper, but the Slovak is
a wholly different beast. Darlow may have the edge on Elliott in terms of
reflexes, but is found severely at a disadvantage when it comes to temperament.
Top level keepers do not panic the way he does. Get the lad some beta blockers
or say goodbye.
One final
thing to recall is the Press Summit the night after the transfer window closed;
a mass whinge in a social club lounge,
involving some local football journalists and Luke Edwards, talked up by some
as if it had the import of the Congress of Vienna. The wise ones opted for
Mogwai that night instead. Finally; Amanda Staveley? Anyone remember her?
Precisely…
No comments:
Post a Comment