GOOD old Boris, getting the BBC and the rest of the soft-headed virtue signallers frothing at the mouth with faux outrage over Muslim women and their Zorro outfits.
Rent-a-gob Sayeeda Warsi was hot out of the blocks after Boris Johnson said full face niqabs look like letter-boxes, with Batley & Spen MP Tracy Brabin hot on her heels.
Warsi’s trying to make a living out of insisting the Conservative party is to Muslims what Labour are to Jews, while R Trace actually is making a living out of pandering to men who treat women like domestic slaves.
They clearly don’t do irony, those two.
I wouldn’t mind but this summer of all summers, if the niqab caught on amongst young white women, Public Health England would be warning that it’s a health hazard because of a risk of heatstroke (and it’s a health hazard anyway, because of the vitamin D deficiencies it causes, but that’s not the point).
A question first – Sayeeda, when did you last wear head-to-toe black including the full bank robber’s headgear? Have you ever?
I’ve seen you in a skimpy top at your house (we didn’t have a chaperone!) that would send your imam into a wild frenzy of one sort or another, and which might get you publicly stoned back in the Punjab, but never the full Zorro.
Meanwhile we’ve seen Ms Brabin wearing a hijab – head-covering – while canvassing Mount Pleasant, which is nothing short of pandering. It’s not as though you were in a mosque, Tracy.
Do you feel compelled to down pints of Guinness and fart for comic effect if you go in the Irish Nash taproom?
If either of them try selling the script that it’s completely “a matter of choice” for the women who wear this hideous slave-garb – and I’m sure it is for some – then they are being completely disingenuous.
Sayeeda’s parents, Mr and Mrs Hussain, brought their five daughters up as modern, civilised members of a forward-looking British society, where Muslim women are empowered, not subjugated. And more power to their elbows for that, by the way.
Had her first arranged-husband and cousin Naeem, fresh from his village in Pakistan, told Sayeeda to cover up, he’d have lasted even less time than before she dumped him for her old Birkdale High School crush, Iftikhar Azam.
AND WHILE on the subject of Muslim female emancipation, I wonder where Ifty’s first wife is now, given that her four kids are with dad and stepmum in Wakefield?
The first Mrs Azam was of the imported, servile, confined-to-kitchen type, when Ifty invited me to his house during a time when he and Sayeeda were still a secret, but he was busy trying to discredit her political rival Shahid Malik.
The poor woman knew so little English she didn’t even realise she’d been divorced and he’d married Her Ladyship until the Mail on Sunday turned up to tell her. I’ll bet she wondered why she’d been summarily evicted from the family home to stay with her in-laws.
That’s the sisterhood at work right there, eh Sayeeda?
Kirklees leader Shabir Pandor, a bloke I quite like, couldn’t resist hopping on the Boris bandwagon either, disappointingly. More importantly, where are the Pandor women on this, councillor?
I know for sure where his brother’s wife is on it – in the kitchen, unable to have non-Muslim eyes actually see her. How do I know? Because Mufti Mohammed Pandor, Muslim faith adviser at Bradford and Huddersfield universities, told me himself, very matter of factly.
It’s been roundly and conveniently ignored, but Boris Johnson was specifically not calling for the niqab to be outlawed as it is across much of Europe – and I suspect his stock would rise no end if he did.
The fact is there is nothing in Islamic scripture that dictates the niqab must be worn in the presence of the kuffar – we, the unclean that is – yet Deobandi Muslims, who dominate Savile Town and Mount Pleasant, enforce it as a symbol of their separatism.
It insults us, it insults me, and I will not speak to or acknowledge any woman wearing one, whether it’s her choice or the diktat of her owner – sorry, husband.
Warsi for her own ego, and Brabin because she’s of the Palestine-loving Labour left, do womenkind of all faiths a grave disservice by their hypocrisy.
And the feeble pandering of everyone from the pathetic Theresa May on down, shows how spineless our political leadership is. Keep up the good work, Boris.
ALL ABOARD THE GRAVY TRAIN!
THERE’S a public money shortage apparently – or at least there is unless you’re lucky enough to be riding the HS2 Gravy Train. A quarter of its 1,300-plus staff make over £100k. It spent £600 million on ‘consultants’ last year alone – and there’s not a single guarantee its already wasted billions will ever realise a single yard of new track, such is its unsound status. Its last chief finance officer was sacked for handing out £2m of unauthorised redundancy payments. And we call states like Russia and China corrupt? Don’t hold your breath waiting for the Fraud Squad to act.
IT'S JUST NOT CRICKET...
MY HEART sinks these days when the football season starts. When I was a lad, ex-players either went into coaching, drank themselves into an early grave (George Best) or became pub landlords in the fashion of Leeds Utd stars Peter Lorimer and Roy Ellam. Modest expectations.
In these days of billionaire excess, what were honest toilers like Norman ‘bite yer legs’ Hunter are now prancing show-ponies like Brazilian ‘I’ve broken it – a toenail!’ Neymar.
Aha, mention of Leeds United. An opening win on Sunday was heralded by unconfined joy – Wembley and the Premier League, we’re on our way!
Disappointment (and more managers) will surely follow, but for Leeds’s febrile fans the only greater gift the footballing gods could bestow, would be for someone to drop a bomb on Old Trafford, home of Manchester Utd.
Giving Leeds fans a choice between glory for their side or ignominy for Man U, is to torment them endlessly. Tell me that doesn’t symbolise modern society at all.
Up in Glasgow right now, the cream of the continent’s swimmers, cyclists, rowers and gymnasts are gathering for a joint European Championships. It’s a festival atmosphere and everyone’s having a marvellous time. It’s nice to see that our Lottery funding is being put to good use, given that few people will actually pay to watch them individually – yes, I know I’m a cynic.
I’m a Rugby League man, but the modern malaise is catching even us. It used to be that supporters’ abuse of referees was confined to howls from the terrace of “Gerrem Onside!” – quite often before the teams had even kicked off. But humour has sadly been replaced by profane abuse. In Australia, top official Matt Cecchin has quit because of death threats. Really.
On the field, players who once shook off broken noses and jaws now regularly feign injury to buy an advantage – it’s shameful. And when they’ve finished playing instead of becoming a coach or a plumber, they’re just as likely to join the Samaritans.
Nowadays, the end of a professional career that was always brief anyway, and dependent on you being any bloody good, turns half of them into gibbering PTSD wrecks, who need Prozac and another beefy, manly shoulder to cry on. Relegated teams all get put on suicide watch. I despair.
I wouldn’t even mind if the big jessies could hold their beer any more – and that goes across the sporting pantheon.
England cricketer Ben Stokes should be whistling 90mph, head-high inswingers at Virat Kohli and friends instead of dressing up in his best bib and tucker to try convince a jury that his late night drunken, fist-swinging melee was ‘self defence’. What happened to the far better option of a kiss and canoodle after last orders, Ben? Yes, even if it was with teammate Alex Hales. I can cope.
Still, I think I’ve found one sport that perfectly epitomises modern British society in all its colourful and joyous splendour – darts.
No need to work up a sweat by running or jumping. Just one big jamboree of an excuse to get fancy-dressed up, pissed up, and revel amongst crowds of obese soulmates – fans and players alike – all swimming in a sea of tattooists’ ink.