Visited England for Christmas. TV permanently on.

Seemingly every time I looked up: a negro or Pakistani telling us what is happening and what to think about what is happening.

At other times, it is merely a Sikh.

After enduring thousands of grinning negroes on screen, I glanced up to see a white woman. Thank God, I thought.

Then I noticed.

Only one arm.

Only one arm.

In a job where you have to point at things and look vaguely presentable, and not hideously mutilated. The arm was probably hacked off by Muslims.

During a gangrape.

In Bradford.

On other shows, the “religious affairs correspondent” is called Martin Bashir. He looks like this:

There is also a wholesome show called Countryfile. Lots of quaint 100% white villages where old chaps in tweed smile gently and garden their artichokes. At last, a vestige of England as it was before the Invasion. At last, a place where – oh wait. The presenter is called Anita Rani. She looks like this:

This Pakistani walks around what little is left of the English countryside, talking to old white people about the culture and landscape and genetics people like her are determinedly destroying.

Still, at least she has two arms.

6/10 would bang.

Proust notes, somewhere, that photographs of the dead can bear a dignity & elegiac beauty lacking in the living. So with U2. Now the heart-on-sleevers have become fully-paid New World Order propagandists, their old material has a time-locked and bounded quality to it. Listening to old U2 now is like looking at photos of the young Brigitte Bardot

Say what you like about Trump’s capitalization, it lends his tweets a 17th Century touch. Picture the God Emperor wearing a Samuel Pepys wig as he tweets on his designated Twitter phone.