Now, as you might have guessed, I am implacably opposed to the death penalty, but I must say that I am probably for the death penalty for those who are for the death penalty for homosexuals.
Speaking of which, over in the Land of the Free there is, as some of you will undoubtedly have heard, the Westboro Baptist Church (God hates fags dot com [I am not linking to the fucking site]) - the straight-up, clean-living, mighty wholesome folks famous for picketing Matthew Shepherd's funeral. Well, they've moved on, and they're to picket, with their day-glo 'God Hates Fags' placards, Swedish tsunami survivors on the Thai island of Phuket and the Swedish Embassy in Bangkok next week. God hates Sweden now too, apparently.
Why Sweden? The country's anti-hate speech laws have resulted in [hallelujah] the arrest of a Swedish clergyman for preaching homophobic hate from his pulpit. For calling dirty, dirty bum sex between men 'abnormal, a horrible cancerous tumour in the body of society,' and calling gays 'perverts, whose sexual drive the Devil has used as his strongest weapon against God,' Pastor Ake Green was sentenced to a month in prison for his trespasses, and thus, according to that freaky fascist, Reverend Fred Phelps of Westboro Baptist Church, the Asian tsunami was God's revenge for Sweden's degeneracy.
Whatever one's opinion of how much more accurate God could have been (Sweden being quite a long way from Thailand, but, like Finland, not so far from Japan [extra points to those catching the gratuitous pop-cult reference there]), I am with the blond, blue-eyed Sverige authorities on this one, not the Almighty, and, as Paul, of the annoyingly superbly-well-designed australiohomo blog, Buggery.org - who alerted me to Rev. Phelps' latest vile hate pantomime - deftly puts it: 'You don't get exempted from [anti-hate-speech] laws just because you wear a funny collar and deliver your incitement from a church pulpit.'
You know, sometimes, just sometimes, I am with Hitchens and his whole mad thesis that the battle in this world is no longer between capital and labour, but between the enlightenment and the international forces of Talibanism (although, really, as we all should know, that's just vulgar idealism and a lucre-induced rejection of his previously devoutly affirmed materialism).
On a related note, I am very, very disappointed in Prince Harry. I had always hoped he would turn out to be gay. Not because I am remotely interested in the ginger tosser, but for all the republican fun it would cause. Let's hope this latest Nazi-and-a-ciggy brou-ha-ha brews up some fresh republican-with-a-small-R feeling within the Commonwealth. I mean, 'Natives and Colonials'? Please. -- Which should actually be the embarrassing part. A couple of years ago, I turned up to a Hallowe'en party, not knowing it was supposed to be fancy dress, and the hostess opened the door and said I had better come up with a cozzy quick. Well, I was already half-cut, so I asked her for two cardboard boxes, a black marker, two pieces of paper and some sticky tape. Appallingly, five minutes later I was two World Trade Centre towers, with crashing paper airplanes cellotaped to the sides and felt-tipped stick men drawn falling down the sides. People at first didn't know what I was supposed to be, so I would fall over, go 'ahhhhhhh', and then they'd get it. Surprisingly, it went down rather well, although I imagine there are photographs of it somewhere that will quickly extinguish any electoral ambitions should I ever acquire them at some point in the future. Interestingly, a few years earlier, at a Hallowe'en party just weeks after the much-revered Canadian Prime Minister, Pierre Trudeau, had died, I went as the undead late PM, complete with peeling cadaver skin and a dead rose in the lapel, and, despite the fact that the crowd that evening were all to a man Trotskyists and left-wing social democrats, and Trudeau had been a wage-fixing, tanks-into-Montreal-sending, War-Measures-Act-invoking, civil-liberties-suspending fucking Liberal*, all I got the whole night were seriously po-faced variations on the theme of, 'Really, (my real name), no really, that's just not funny.' So having a DIY laugh at the worst act of non-American terrorism in the history of the Western Hemisphere is A-OK, but dressing up as a zombified recently dead Liberal former head of state is a no-no?
Where am I going with this one?
(Too many 8.5% Belgian beers tonight, methinks)
Hmm. Something about how we all get dressed up as embarrassing things in our twenties. However - and this is the key point - we most certainly are not all members of the royal family who go to 'Natives and Colonials' parties. Har har - the colonies. Ooga wooga. Blecks. Rhodesia. What, what, Jeremy, look at my authentic Zulu spear, what, what. Har har.
Reportedly, HRH Gingerfuckwit also said, when questioned about his current girlfriend's father's dodgy connections to Robert Mugabe, 'It's not as if she's black or anything, you know.'
Off with their fucking heads.
There was this great sticker done up by Class War years back. It read 'Queen Mum: Hurry up and die!' Fairly simple, but, in their simple lumpen-anarchist way, fucking brilliant little slogan. Stuck it up in an Exeter University washroom. Should have kept it. Of course, it can't really be used now, as the racist bionic gin-fiend did kick it finally. Could do with something like that again though, regarding the current fracas. Suggestions (from the five of you who read this blog) in the comments box. Winner (picked by me) gets a bottle in the post of this lovely Belgian stuff that's making me feel very squiffy right now. And maybe a mix tape of Kate Bush too, just for shits and giggles.
*Sorry. Just thought - for any Yanks who might be reading this, and I know this may be confusing, but in Canada, the Liberals are conservative - sort of like in Australia, and then we have a Conservative party as well, and they're really fucking conservative. (Although, to be fair, Trudeau was not quite as conservative as the rest, and, it must be said, legalised homosexuality and abortion in Canada in the sixties, and did twirl in front of the cameras and wear capes, hence the bloody mushy-minded reverence the wetter of the lefties have for him back home. My mum just adores him.)