There is close association between the American atheist and skeptic movements. Tensions between progressives and everyone else, especially atheist economic Libertarians, have exploded over the last three years, after a number of high profile incidents at conventions involving thoughtless casual misogyny, harrassment, and even rape. An alarming, very ugly, anti-feminist backlash has emerged centred around a handful of well known figures on either side of the rift and two websites. The only person you will probably know is the blithely privileged and ever more reactionary Richard Dawkins.
As for the web, Freethoughtblogs.com is an illuminating site. Slymepit.com not so much. Here you will find links, human and hyper-, to Breitbart, Donald Trump’s favourite news source. I’ll leave it to you to work out where SJW gained popularity.
There is further overlap between anti-feminist gamers and anti-feminist atheists. Gamergate, which was a non-scandal aimed at silencing and shaming females in the gaming world, further popularised the use of “SJW”.
A little glimpse into the online festering of American middle class prejudice that has exploded into public consciousness via Trump.
I miss the good old days. The glory of the sea, when men were fish and women were lady fish. Not Angler Fish. The female is a huge predator and the male is a tiny parasite whose testicles are absorbed into her body as he becomes a lifelong sperm factory. She can accommodate several males in this way, in ostentatious mockery of the sanctity of Western marriage.
Not Sea Horses either. Manly, normal fish, like Bass and Trout and the magnificent Salmon. I regularly swim several feet the wrong way up the white water rapids in Lea Valley, because that is what women want. Stamina. Admittedly, I don’t literally do this, but if you have ever been forced to send thousands of online messages complimenting a woman on her breasts before one bites, you’ll understand the principle remains intact.
Men these days are expected to be completely unnatural. When we lived in caves, all a man had to do was catch bison with his teeth, ignore the kids, and complement the women folk on their crocheted Peter Rabbit nose warmers. I for one am sick of pretending I care about crocheted Peter Rabbit nose warmers. How did I end up with this simpering doormat? I’m expected to show an interest in Sebastian’s awful finger paintings too. What happened to real women who would agree to leave their kids in the forest to fend for themselves in true Spartan fashion?
It was much simpler when I was head boy at St Edna’s*. The women would cook all our meals and no-one told us we couldn’t play rugby. In fact, we weren’t allowed not to. I was not the biggest child, but thanks to boys being allowed to be boys, I spent many happy hours in the infirmary as Nurse Lovett, a female doing natural female work, read me Enid Blyton stories.
My mother only let me read those silly stories of animals in waistcoats until I was eleven. Then she gave my entire collection to a charity shop in the village. It was time to be a man.
All of this serves to illustrate my central point. Women are whores who should never be in any position of authority.
*Miles was never head boy at his boarding school – Ed.
So how do you go through hundreds of thousands of social media accounts with a handful of staff? Answer: You don’t. You pay SEOs/Social media companies for the information.
On facebook, members have expressed fear, anxiety, and have even been suicidal. People under the most pressure from the Tories already. Junior doctors, nurses, the disabled, Union leaders. The anguished thought, taking many forms, is ‘How can our comrades do this to us?’
Sitting with their spreadsheets in Labour HQ, no doubt depressed by columns of invective and swearing without context, our comrades see only the back end of the elephant.
The Owen Smith team are right in a way. Almost everyone is an entryist. There are few “pure” Socialists, if any, because our code is inherently compromised. The solutions are radical: Firstly we must reach out to Johanna Baxter and co. Be part of their Social Media. Show them what is happening, and how it is impacting most greatly on the most vulnerable of us. Secondly, we must not be afraid of a building and a name. “Compliance” is branding, a label that hides the doubts and fears of the individuals. Pull back the curtain and…
The third prong is all embracing: The ends cannot justify the means. There is only the present moment. Mindfulness and ethical compassion must be our reality. Kindness in the here and now. I fail, they fail, you fail too. We have aims and values as a collective. The only way to get closer to our goals is to forgive.
Yet without the punishing stick how can we learn to avoid straying into our grievances and stratagems? That too must be, in fact, a kindness. In a political party dedicated to Socialism, what takes us from our goal is desire to accumulate wealth and possessions. We see others as objects, as “Other”. We want to possess and exploit others. This is the Kool-Aid in our system.
There is nothing more radical than compassion, love, the revolution in the head.
The only basis then for exclusion should be inability to show compassion on the basis of psychological testing by the qualified, and perhaps only where Dark traits have been identified as greatly compromising the party’s goal of Socialism. To get back on the road to Socialism, we cannot seek to be an exclusionary party. The culture must change.
Paternalism and deference in the Party must be addressed. The caring professions are where we tend to find our most empathic souls. In music, art, beauty, nursing, teaching, therapy, and charity. Right now (I am writing this in the hour before the dawn), if compassion grows anywhere you will find it for sure in the beds of carers, doctors, and many of those amongst us with mental health problems. If we can sleep at all.
Love is natural to us and so there is, always, hope.
Warning. Contains trolls, misogyny, death threats, verbal abuse, spiders, Morrissey.
When I was a kid I watched a lot of B movies. One scene from one movie stuck in my mind.
“Why don’t you show yourselves?” is the challenge from a human.
A spider scuttles by. Instinctively, the human squashes it with his foot.
“Why did you kill that creature?” asks the disembodied voice of the alien.
They engage in a thoughtful dialogue about disgust and otherness. Hell is the other.
“You would find us just as strange. You would fear our form. That is why we remain hidden.”
There is a moral duty some may recognise. It is the duty to investigate, not to reject. To understand, not to revile. To take on our superficial instincts. It is a collective moral duty. The only punishment for failure falls upon the human race.
A socially inept 25 year old white male, effectively a recluse. I think it is uncontroversial to say that such a person requires help. What is his personality disorder? Is he on the autism spectrum?
The isolated 25 year old sends out vile abuse and death threats to a campaigning feminist and a female MP using the only power he has. He has the internet and he has his maleness.
The feminist campaigner suffers especially greatly. The pressure of the verbal abuse and threats she receives is traumatic.
The troll goes to jail. Socially inept, reclusive. What “friends” does he make?
He comes out of prison. He now feels he belongs, he has friends… those friends are neo-nazis. Are you surprised? Was it his duty to resist? Is it not our duty to make sure he wasn’t put there to begin with? Are we going to throw him back?
He is now 28. He sends out more vile abuse. Again to a female MP. He is arrested and many are glad.
I am not glad. No-one has been helped here. There is no efficiency in any respect in the process. All that happens is that the status quo is preserved. The materially powerful have their power reinforced. The whole thing not only perpetuates but drives inequality.
His name is John Nimmo. Who cares about this bug?
“White males have all the power”. A million times no. Some white males have most of the power. Being white and male are privileges, great social advantages, but it is only the superficial, the prejudiced, would think those traits outweigh the disadvantages of being a bug, squashable, an “example”, maladjusted, unloveable.
Imagine division to a new order meant you were a protest singer. I can laugh about antichrist now, relax and let your mind float on down the stream… It is not dying. Get out of the new one if you can’t lend a hanD – in the beginning. Don’t ask for mine. GOT TO GET YOU INTO MY LIFE…
“Think tanks should take drugs”.Fixing a hole. What have we learned? Consent. Feminism. The rest is beyond your command.
And as the old road rapidly fades, peel back the woodchip, Idiot Wind. Don’t ask for mine. I’d Love To Turn You On.
Broken bicycle and abandoned station. In the beginning…
Please help me. I’m trapped in a cult. It’s an amusing and horrifying experience. Will you let me tell you about it?
I am no-one and vulnerable. The lowest bug. I want to open up my wings and fly away but the cult won’t allow that to happen. I see boots. Many boots. Everyone wants to wear the boots. Marching, marching, safety in numbers, organised rows and columns, profit and prophet, up and down the Mall, up Whitehall, turning left as one great creature to salute Mickey Mouse, our glorious leader, eyes forward, forward march into Picadilly Circus. And that’s where it really gets scary.
I try to talk to people about the cult. They shrink away from me. In truth I am monstrous. In truth I am tiny. My eyes are set in purplish blotches, dark in the dark. My stare is intense. Male gaze.
I am dissent. Put on the boots. I am six foot two, a large leer of a man. I totter and weave through the columns and rows, I skittle chairs in the bar, trying to squeeze by, pushing through the mass of covered flesh and sharp bones, a breathing bony slug, chattering, two hundred fanlike attachments, chitin hard they rise from the slimy dermis, the creature bristling, then clatter against each other, clackaclack, harsh wave of annoyance, as a succession of lines descends the wooden staircase all-at-once and the mass settle, out of time.
The bell. A Pavlovian device. Does it stimulate thirst? The first bell? The second? No need to think about it. Twenty minutes and glasses please. Clinkaclink, all-at-once.
The stragglers disperse. No-one hears boots. I hear boots. Tottering, weaving. Tomorrow they take up their places. There is nothing to be frightened of. Man is a farce. And any woman who would aspire to be like us. I don’t mean the organs, the appearance, I mean the essence of the cult. The cult has no essence. Oh a powerful woman must take on the trappings, as Solomon Perel wore the garments of the Hitler Youth. Yet if women who wear the uniform would replicate Mankind, they will fail miserably. It is not that women are or must be the gentler sex. It is simply that there are many millions, all along the gender spectrum, who can threaten, use violence, rise tall, toss a grenade. But to dismantle the patriarchy? Create anew.
What is the cult? Oh yes, the cult of fear. I’m going to make a cup of tea.