Tag Archives: muslims


On Wednesday night, in a feeble, man-in-a-room-by-himself type of solidarity, I drew a cartoon. I say ‘drew’ – it was on the computer of course. Every time I actually try to draw something with a writing implement I seem to end up playing hangman, and losing on purpose just so I get to draw a stick man being hanged. I never said I was issue-free.

The cartoon of course involved a man named ‘Muhammad’. It couldn’t not, given what prompted it was the shooting dead of a group of people, many of them elderly, who had drawn or supported the drawing of cartoons of a man named Muhammad. Nobody need see what I drew, mainly because it’s shite, but it’s enough to know I did it and will happily accept the consequences of it when nutters appear in front of me screeching religious slogans and letting loose the dogs of lunacy.

This website should provide a fairly clear example of how little interest I and the others who write for it have in censorship or holding back in any way. If we want to write something that people find insulting or offensive we will do exactly that, and then we’ll pepper it with a cheeky ‘cunt’ or two to make even those who agree with the sentiment wince.

There are, though, things that are banned even here. Racism, homophobia, sexism; these don’t belong here. Cards on the table: I wondered whether to allow even this type of thing simply to help better reveal the bigots among us, but the internet generally hears the sound of the gun as it shoots the old dog rather than the farmer’s claims of compassion when pitchfork-carrying animal lovers come for him, and if there’s one thing I enjoy it’s as easy a life as possible. Am I the farmer? Stop saying that, of course I’m the fucking farmer.

It seems there are some among us who would like to add ‘religious commentary’ to that list of generally disallowed notions, words and images. They’re so angry about it they shoot cartoonists. Dead, no less. I mean, I’ve seen some of their cartoons and their level of ‘humour’ might deserve a knee or two blown out, but assassination is going a bit too far.

There are competing reasons to deny these people the right to tell us we can’t say what we want about religion. Chief among them, certainly for the French who have a justified pride in their various freedoms, is that nobody should be able to tell us what we can and can’t say about anything at all. Another is less about tradition and more about brains.

Religion: it’s all bollocks.

I can’t be bothered to go into why religion in all its forms is cataclysmically disastrous for 21st century humanity. It’s enough to say that it’s all wrong: there are no gods, there’s no afterlife, you’ve no evidence for any of it and just because I don’t have any evidence either doesn’t make it a 50/50 shot that just after I die the next words I use will be ‘Oh, er…I apologise?’

The issue here is one of favouritism. I can call a radio phone-in with the Archbishop of Canterbury and call him a ‘mitred tit’ live on air and not expect much beyond the tutting of grandparents across the land. I can walk down the street wearing a t-shirt that reads ‘Vishnu is a silly blue-faced twat’ and the worst I can expect is someone stopping me to ask who Vishnu is. I can draw a picture of the second-most powerful character in Islam and all of a sudden mild displeasure and frowning is replaced by men running about in black – always in black because it’s nice to look cool while you’re murdering people – shouting and shooting and generally making life terrifying for everyone nearby. And all because Islam wants to be a special case.

Obviously Judaism wants to be another special case; anti-Semitism is in the news a lot at the moment. I’ve attempted to provoke argument in the past by claiming to be anti-Semitic, before of course underlining that I’m also an Islamophobe, fantastically anti-Christian and I think Ghandi was a backwards-looking bastard. Jews have had a horrible time of it in countless ways but it’s been nothing to do with me; if I want to insult Jews along with the rest I will. And nearly all Jews will probably understand the point I’m making and let me.

But Islam wants to be even more special. They don’t care that we can call the Pope a dickhead and suffer few repercussions – do the same about Allah and expect a treasured part of your body to be irreparably damaged. Well, no, we won’t be allowing that. I don’t want equality for lesbians but not gays. I don’t want a Zambian visitor to my country treated differently from a Chinese, Spanish or Fijian one. I like equality to be equal, and if I want to treat every religion equally badly then I goddamn well will.

It’s time Islam grew up. As is made repetitively clear following incidents like the Paris shootings it’s a tiny minority of Muslims causing the trouble – but it’s another tiny minority of Muslims condemning it, marching against it, kicking these fuckers out of mosques, denouncing them publicly rather than believing they can prove they’re decent people solely by not actively supporting maniacs. There’s a reason the English Defence League come across as demented – they don’t represent normal English people and we want to make sure the rest of the world realise that as vocally as we can, hence every rally they organise being outnumbered by decent people shouting back.

Freedom of speech and of the press bump up against some understandable boundaries beyond which only those with vindictive bigotry in their hearts will tread. Superstitious god-fearing nonsense cannot be claimed as one of those boundaries, because next on the list is the licencing of pet unicorns and giving elves the right to vote.

Instinctively I want to end with something brutal, something which diabolically insults one of Islam’s principal flights of fancy, to see whether I’m worthy of the wrath of people like the imminently dead brothers in northern France. I have the freedom to call our long-deceased pal Muhammad whatever I want, but also the freedom not to. Je suis Charlie indeed.

Medical assistance and a witness statement

I do not delude myself that I am a writer. I am a writer only inasmuch as I am a marine biologist on the grounds that I keep a few guppies. Writing does not make me. It does not sustain me. I write only in the vain hope that I might one day earn enough from it to lock myself away forever on a small, forgotten peninsula and there be left alone until my time comes to descend into the great black nothingness of death.

Some people just want to go out and travel, some people want to leave and pretend they’re doing something worthwhile with their lives. They want to go to Africa and there strut nobly like a great white god, amongst the smiling brown natives running beside them with wide smiles and happy laughter.

“But we built a school, dontchaknow?”

Never mind that two weeks later the iron faced jihadists rolled in with their tanks, dragged the girls out of the building, forced them into burkas and underage marriages, then used that same educational establishment to promote a doctrine the harshness of which hasn’t been seen since the dark ages.
“I’m making a difference!”

Don’t get me wrong, I hate England. We English are, to paraphrase Jonathan Swift; “The most pernicious race of little odious vermin that nature ever suffered to crawl upon the surface of the earth.” The World Cup sums us up. They should put a statue of Rooney up in every school and we should exalt him as the symbol of our nation just as years ago the downtrodden of this land used to look up with doe eyes at Kitchener, who was at that moment sending millions of them into the mincing machines of the trenches.

Summed up in Rooney is the very essence of what’s wrong with us as a nation; the moderate ability dressed up as genius which inevitably fails to produce even the smallest spark of talent when up against those who actually know what they’re doing. When faced with a real challenge, a real opportunity to make a difference, Rooney, like everyone else in England, bottled it. The relentless excuses, the self-pity, the twin obsessions of obscene wealth and then afterwards squandering that wealth on destroying yourself and your family, the few good things that actually meant something in your life. Above all the laughable false positives.

“At least we’ve got some hope for the youth of the future.”

And yet everywhere you go the rights of the isolationists are being eroded. Nowadays it isn’t even possible to go and drink yourself into oblivion alone in the pub without some cunt coming up and asking if you’re okay. I go to the public urinals and there are signs staring down at my dick warning me not to engage in non-consensual sex (Well, it’s been a lovely evening. We went out to dinner at the Crown, to the wine bar afterwards and then back to hers for coffee. However for some reason I get the feeling there’s something amiss. Of course! I’m raping the ever-loving shit out of her!)

Let us briefly recap on these public information adverts. We warn people not to drink and drive because a lot of people might be tempted to do it and not see the harm. We all drive whilst tired, right? The adverts make us aware of a danger we may not see. Rapists don’t read signs, they don’t respond to adverts. Why? Because they’re fucking rapists, that’s why. You don’t go appealing to their sense of common decency.

Meanwhile the grass and the snitch are lauded like never before. The other day I witnessed a minor car crash between a young chap and a rotund, balding executive. The youngster wasn’t looking where he was going and hit the exec on a roundabout. Not content with the youth facing higher insurance premiums the fat cunt decided to give the youth a piece of his mind. The youth broke his nose and left him puking in his own blood, smashed his windscreen for good measure then drove away. Afterwards I walked past, laughing heartily whilst ignoring the fatster’s pleas for medical assistance and a witness statement. Previously this was my God-given right as an Englishman as defined by Magna Carta and the countless wars we fought for freedom. Now, by definition of the law, I’m the cunt.

I really hope Scotland votes for independence in September. When that happens I think I shall move to the Highlands in the hope that the independent government is a damned sight more fuck-off friendly than Westminster. It is fitting that the final, stubborn rebels retreat to the mountains to continue their cause. Soon I fear I shall be forced to make my final stand.

Judean People’s Front

Am I the only one who finds what’s happening in Iraq entertaining?

I’m a horrible man in many ways but I neither condone nor enjoy indiscriminate violence and the maiming and killing of people by the desert-load. I am an unlikely supporter of human rights, and one of those people who will bore everyone sideways with how I probably got kettled in the (pointless, even then) march in London against the Iraq war in 2003.

But now we’re no longer simply dropping munitions absent-mindedly from above on innocent brown people – or rather we are, but that’s not what gets the headlines. The news now blares tales of a selection of people who think their shared religion, SHARED religion, should be run by the descendants of a bloke who lived a millennium and a half ago, and others who think he bequeathed the company assets to his mates for the rest of time.

That, to me, doesn’t sound like something that matters quite as much as clean pants and a view of the sea. They blow each other to smithereens and declare this bit of land or that bit of land to be theirs or ‘His’, as the rest of the world steps slowly backwards and thanks their own imaginary deity that while they’re at each others throats they’re too busy to realise we spend all day finding ever more intriguing ways to insert ourselves into each other, outside of marriage.

I admit I’m biased against Muslims. Not in that I subscribe to some other religion, you understand – I’m against Muslims because their furious god is the one most in my mind today. Last week it was Jehovah, yesterday it was some fucking thing called Waheguru and tomorrow it could be ‘God’, or whatever my simple-minded Christian ancestors called it. I wake up each morning and decide which of these laughable inventions I find funniest that day. Today it’s Allah, peace be upon him.

Sunni versus Shia inevitably reminds people in my part of the world of Protestant versus Catholic. The chief difference here seems to be that one believes the church wine is only symbolically the blood of Christ while the other likes to mix theirs with the cream of some young boy.

Absurd discrepancies from centuries ago, played out in the present day for our amusement. It’s as though they’ve never seen Life of Brian and have never heard of the People’s Front of Judea. They probably haven’t, come to think of it, which only makes it funnier.

Yes it’s fucking horrible, yes people are dying and yes I’m writing about how it makes me laugh. To complainants I say it’s not me fucking doing it though is it? They’re doing it to each other. I am as entitled to laugh at this as I am to laugh at two drunk, red-eared men in a pub beating seven shades of shit out of each other and leaving those of us there for a pint alone. Occasionally a barman will be on the end of a stray haymaker, and that’s a shame, but if you choose to work in a Yates’s you take your bloody chances I’m afraid.

Eventually there’ll be a winner, and the next time he’s in the pub he’ll be looking at all of us for someone else to fight. At that point, I’ll stop laughing and start priming my own version of a suicide vest involving a hot-air balloon filled with syringes of supermarket cider.

Until then, it’s not my fight and I don’t even understand the rules, like a punch-up in an ice hockey match. I glance, chuckle, shake my head and go on about my immoral business unmolested.