“‘ow much further?”
“Not far.”
The first shaven head grunts, loudly.
“Just think. Just think how they’s fucked. How we’ll fuck ‘em up…”
“Yeah.”
Great…
“Fuck ‘em up good. They fuck wiv us…”
“And we fuck wiv them. I know…”
“Get those fascist cunts…”

At this point, I woke up fully. Wouldn’t you?

Recently, I caught a night-bus through South London. This wasn’t a comfortable experience - not least because I’d fallen asleep. I’ve usually no problem with associating with the strange, extreme or downright absurd. But, being trapped in an enclosed space, past midnight, and fast asleep when these fruitcakes could do anything they want to me? That, I’ll admit, does scare me. Witless.

Especially when, as you’re drifting awake, you start hearing that sort of conversation. My eyelids had drooped open a little already. Through them, a fuzzy, slightly blurred image of two grimly shaven heads above two grimly blunt necks on two grimly broad torsos came into a very poor focus. Not the most comforting sight to wake up to, especially not at three in the morning on the night bus.

Especially not when they’re talking so graphically about fucking people up.

Groggily watching them draped across the aisle, I naievely supposed they were just a pair of skinhead thugs. I even toyed - briefly - with the notion that they were BNP, or NF, or ITP, or whichever particular neofascistic acronym it might be.

Of course, I was completely wrong. They weren’t fascists; they were anarchists.

The conversation continued.

“Shit.”
“What?” came the grunt back.
“Forgotten my tool.”
Yes. He really did say that he’d forgotten his tool.
“Don’ worry, I got two.”
Yes. He had two tools too. I restrained a chuckle, thankfully. Immature, I know; but also three in the morning and not entirely sober.
“Thanks, comrade.”
Yes. He said comrade.

Edifying stuff, eh?

That comrade, meanwhile, had taken out his tool and was scratching something - noisily - into the window. I found out what it was when they got off a few stops later; a rough, jaggedy Circle-A - my basis for guessing their anarchist identity.

I’ve heard of these people before - or rather, visited their website. Of course, this pair may have had nothing to do with Antifa as such. But the principles remains the same, and a simple one at that; beating up suspected fascists until they’re all dead.

They may therefore look the polar opposite of the average fascist. And they are - ideologically. But, in practical terms? Let’s have a look at the two:

Historically, grassroots fascists have been seen as young, white men of working class or petit-bourgeois backgrounds deeply angry at society and violently attacking scapegoats.

This pair were young, white men of (apparently) working class or petit-bourgeois backgrounds deeply angry at society and violently attacking scapegoats.

And the same can probably said of many extremist movements. Of course, these two may have been a complete anomaly. The average militant anti-fascist may be a bumbling middle-class bore into knit-couture for all I know - but it seems unlikely. What these two do have in common with what we typically see of extremist grassroots is that they’re discontented, disenfranchised young men living in economically hard circumstances. They’re angry, and they want someone to blame - even if that someone has nothing to do with the real problem.

The fascists and ultra-nationalists have the communists, the foreigners and the Jews. The communists have the fascists, the capitalists and the bourgeois. The anarchists have the fascists, the capitalists and the state. Religious extremists have the non-believers. And so on.

Of course, in general, their problems have nothing to do with these scapegoated groups - and everything to do with global economic forces far beyond the control of any one group or person. The root of extremism is poverty, and the need to blame someone for it. If the government - and antifascist groups - wanted to really stamp out extremism, they’d try to attend to that as well as the war of ideas.

So, about that recession…

*Forgive the very sketchy attempts to render the dialogue and accent.  I was tired and tipsy, and it’s difficult to rend accurately anyway….

Political blogging is coming of age in the UK.  ConservativeHomeis a commercial enterprise in all but profit, many semi-professional independent bloggers now exist, and the print media is waking up to the concept of collaborative blogging.  A company now existsto provide you with all of your political blogging needs, albeit with a price-tag.  Journalists and politicians are reading blogs, and responding to their findings.

But weblogs naturally breed nutters.  They write lengthy posts about nothingness as if anyone could give a rat’s testicle.  Some blog readers ”sock-puppet” to plague blog owners with hateful comments, or just to make themselves look like they have a majority view.  Often very personal attacks are launched with very little trigger.  Tribal camps emerge.  Just look at the childishness of both parties in this particular dispute, for example.  This is natural: just as odd-jobs find their niche in any society, so they encamp in the blogosphere.

It was appalling to see, therefore, the more mainstream websites team with bile in response to the Conway story.  His actions were reprehensible, and it is natural for MPs to distance themselves from the rightly-disgraced conman who swindled the public purse to bolster his sons’ lavish lifestyle.  But the hate poured out towards him from the average guy in the comments section was disturbing.  Take this example from the usually sensibly-moderated ConservativeHome:

[Cameron] MUST withdraw the whip and isolate Conway from his party- it is not as though his vote is worth anything.  I speak as a life long Conservative who for far too long have seen our Party shot in the foot by greeedy, thoughtless backbenchers. I say to Conway as I am sure the whole party does - OUT! OUT OUT!

The editorials from ConHome were also pointedly sour.

Unfortunately the doves around the Tory leader have prevailed…

CCHQ are identifying Labour MPs that have not had the whip withdrawn when they have been suspended by the House.  That leaves us on the same level as Labour then.  Great.  …

Unlike Brown Mr Cameron did not dither.  He needed just a few hours to decide what to do about Mr Conway.  He was decisive but decisively wrong.

It seems that no love was lost in the Tory blogosphere.  ConservativeHome have an interesting role in Cameron’s Tory party: his is far more responsive to the grassroots than leaders of the past, and it is interesting that Iain Dale used his Telegraph column to suggest that ConHome may have claimed its first scalp.  Cameron’s whiplash-inducing U-turn will have undoubtedly been a response, in part, to the lack of a single voice in support of Mr Conway’s retention within the parliamentary party.

One solitary voice was heard on the Internet cables, however.  Iain Dale declared his friendship with Derek Conwayand publicly made clear that he would not “diss” his friend in public.  This was a brave move (provocative, even) which naturally resulted in one-way muck-slugging.

Iain, don’t be such a drama llama. You title it about your friend Derek but your post is all about you.

I hope David Cameron shows more spunk than you and deplores this greed!

Coward. The man is a cheat and you know it. He should be deselected by his local party and have the whip withdrawn. You know it, I know it and lets hope “Dave” knows it too.

Will your loyalty stretch to not applying for his vacant seat in a few weeks?

It’s not loyalty it’s tribalism.

Absolutely incredible. So where do you draw the line? What can people/MPs get away with just so long as they call you a friend?

Blind loyalty is highly dangerous.

Peter Hain is my friend.  You were quite happy to dance on his grave.

Your position is absurd. It may not be hypocritical but it is certainly self-delusional.

When writing and publicising a blog with an open comments policy, you must prepare to give unpopular opinions.  It is up to Mr Dale what he writes on his website, and the commenters should remember that.  The thought of flooding somebody’s inbox because you disagree with a judgement of theirs is rather sad - especially as Dale anticipated the response and told them not to bother.

It is unclear what the rabid mob was fearing in the Conway affair, but their loathing was self-apparent.  To condemn Conway’s offensive behaviour is one thing, but to write so openly in criticism of those who refused to do so is pathetic.  Bloggers write because they enjoy it: people should write comments if they feel they have something to add.  It is saddening that the “blogging community”, if such a thing exists, reacted with such venom to this story.  If the British blogosphere is coming of age, these are its angsty teenage years.  One can only hope that maturity strikes soon.

Flak-Taker-in-Chief Iain Dale deserves the last word on the subject:

The last forty hours have not shown the Conservative Party in its best light. The baying mob is something I hope not to see again for a very long time. Whatever Derek did or did not do he did not deserve some of the comments that have been thrown his way.

I’ve not written much recently. I just can’t bring myself to commentate on national politics at present: it’s just so dire. I prefer direct, ground-level politics at the best of times, and this simply isn’t the best of times. For some reason, I find it difficult to care about which minister has buggered up what anymore. Perhaps that’s because I can recall at least one sex, sleaze or stupidity scandal for every year I’ve been consciously political…

However, allow me to tell you a tale. Recently, as is my habit, I found myself wandering around the dreary dead-end of suburbia that has been my home for some years now. It was a Sunday, and, more than this, a very wet Sunday. The rain was sheeting down uncomfortably hard. So hard, in fact, that I had taken the unusually extreme step of actually picking up my umbrella on the way out. (I say unusual here because I very rarely remember, and so often get soaked. I say extreme, because the item in question is a florid golfing umbrella, and frankly embarrassing.)

My peripatetry that Sunday included an amble through a patch of public woodland not too far from my home. This woodland suffers from many of the same faults that characterise my locality in general. Caught on the borders of London and the Home Counties, it’s somehow managed to inherit the very worst parts of both - while being strangely devoid of the joys of urban life. In the case of the woods, this has…unpleasant consequences. They’re dully ugly, a leering arcade of steadily dying foliage populated only by muted dog-walkers and hooded 13 year olds who haven’t quite worked out yet that drinking WKD Blue in musty woodland reflects terribly on their taste in alcohol. (I’ve no objection to them drinking - I’d be guilty of hypocrisy otherwise - but, really, how can they drink that?). Oh, and there’s a resident junkie somewhere.

Last Sunday, though, I struck gold.

It began oddly enough. Strolling, as I prefer to, quite some distance from the (then oozing) muddy path through the woods, I came upon a small clearing. These are not unusual. What was unusual was the man standing, soaking wet, in the middle of the clearing. A physically unremarkable man clad in tatty, if formerly presentable, clothes, he lacked any protection from the weather.

He was also shouting at the trees.

At this point, I should perhaps have turned around an just walked away. However, curious idiot that I am, something made me stay. As I did, it became increasingly clear to me that he wasn’t just shouting at the trees - he was preaching at them. Not knowing the bible, or any other religious text, I couldn’t tell what it was he was preaching to them. But, it was something to do with God. That much, I worked out.

Then he noticed me. This was an uncomfortable moment, especially given that, by now, I feared he was more than a little unstable. Even if that were the case, talking struck me as a better course than running:

“Hello.”
I took this initial contact as a good sign. Certainly, a civilised hello is better than a roared command to fuck off, sharpish. So:
“Hello.”
At this point, there was a long (seemingly interminable), awkward pause. What was I mean to say? Excuse me, but why are you shouting at trees? struck me as too blunt. Luckily, he spoke for me.
“Would you like to join me in my prayer?”
In keeping with my belief that humouring this man was safer than upsetting him by refusing, I agreed.

His reaction to this was joyful. I suspect his congregation rarely extended beyond the one. In quick succession, I received a crash-course in his theology and its practice. The trees were, I was told, God’s creations. Mankind, meanwhile, had been created to care for God’s creations in Eden. Care included attending to their spiritual needs, especially in the case of plants as they were immobile and so could not receive the blessing of the Lord without help.

There was a certain internal logic to that, I suppose. Of course, I’ve no clue whether the biblical basis of it was at all sound - not that it mattered to me. Praying with him wasn’t doing anyone any harm, and it made him happy. So I did.

But what’s my point? I’ve rambled for entirely too long.

Last Sunday made me wonder: I something based on lies entirely useless? I know several people who claim that, because they believe something is based on a falsehood, it must be bad.  Admittedly, those I have in mind include a closet Marxist on religion and a Protestant on Catholicism…

However,  I can’t help but feel that this supposition is entirely wrong, now.  As an atheist, preaching to trees is, for me, the height of irrationality.  It’s based on more falsehoods than I can count on the fingers of one hand.  And yet, it clearly made the man happy - as did my agreeing to take part.  As far as I can tell, no-one was hurt.  This is an infinitely better outcome than the undoubted upset my trying to tell him he was wrong.  In this case, an irrational lie was more useful than my telling what I believe to be the truth.

If something does more good than harm - or, as in this case, all good and no harm - then it’s generally considered a good thing.  Why should lying be any different?

Is lying always bad?  I think not.

Julius. C. Tucker slumped at his desk, chewing the acrid tip of his cigar pensively. An odd taste, that dried, stringy, rotten tobacco, at least when it was chewed. It was almost as if Tucker had taken a bite out of a Hessian coal sack…or maybe just a lump of coal. It was noxious enough. But then again, cigars never were meant for chewing…

It was not the tip of his cigar – nor, indeed, how awful it tasted when chewed – that interested him, though. Oh, no. Not in the slightest. Julius C. Tucker was above such petty concerns of the body, and always had been. Higher things awaited him.

Higher things, like the yellowing, gently wrinkled sheet of paper on the desk before him. The article. His article. That work of sheer journalistic genius, that boundless flow of clear, unfettered art, that…that PURE SCOOP…that would see him through to the next rent. Yes, this would be the one, the one to make it big…

Except, of course, there was nothing on that yellowing, gently wrinkled sheet of paper. There never had been. How could there be? He wrote for the local Sporting Times, and even that was only because his uncle owned it.

Actually, he was lucky even to have that. He’d had…problems with his uncle in the past – or rather, his aunt. And, inexplicably, his uncle held it against him. He couldn’t see why. It wasn’t as if he’d asked Aunt Alice to…no, it wasn’t his fault. He hadn’t started it. He didn’t want it. He pushed it all away.

And yet his uncle, vengeful bastard that he was, blamed it all on him. Some uncle. Some aunt. That would teach him to let elderly relatives with failing marriages come close to him again…

And good Christ! That cigar was awful now…spit it out, man, spit it out…

The sodden, slick wad of masticated cigar tip hit the grainy planks of the floor with a dull slap. Little, curling worms of shredded tobacco floated around aimlessly in the thick pool of saliva. He’d have to clear it up soon, or it would stick. And then…then, Mrs. Sonderliss would complain.

He’d clean it up now.

Off to find a dustpan and brush then. That should be an adventure…down to the cupboard, down the stairs, back up the stairs…why, it would be the most movement he’d dared all day.

It was more than that, though. Going downstairs…going down those rickety, creaking stairs that hadn’t been fixed in decades…would mean going past Mrs. Sonderliss’ door. That was always and adventure, and usually not a pleasant one.

But, what must be done, must be done. Just…carefully.

Slowly, Julius rose from his painful slump on the desk. His back ached, badly. How long had he been hunched over that desk, trying to find an inspired opening for the article? Too long. Even worse, the murky slat that constituted the apartment’s window had been open all night, inviting in the chill Midwestern breeze. His joints were simply frozen into place…there was no hope. He couldn’t move, even if he wanted to. It would hurt too much. He’d just have to stay here and…

…be pounced upon by a furious landlady for spoiling her lovely floorboards with his devilish cigars.

The brush.

This took quite some time. Julius, though in reality a fairly athletic young man, was nonetheless pained by all this effort. It wasn’t so much the effort of getting up that bothered him. It was the effort of getting up, creeping to the door, edging it open gently, careful not to make a sound, down the creaking steps, one by one…

And then, the biggest test of all. The middle step, standing just outside her door. The middle, broken step that squealed at even the slightest pressure. The middle step that woke up Mrs. Sonderliss.

Yes, it all had to be taken very slowly. He made the first few without trouble. Sweat, cold, clammy, inexplicable, began to well up on his brow. The middle step was coming up shortly, and then it would all be over. He’d put his foot down, lightly, ever so lightly…and yet, it would scream. It always did. He hadn’t yet made his way down that staircase without alerting the irrepressible force that was his landlady to his presence…

Oh Christ, he was there. This wasn’t going to work. It wasn’t going to work. It just wasn’t…no. He should go back upstairs now and…clean it up with his shirt or something. Or, he supposed, his hands if absolutely necessary. It wouldn’t be pleasant but…sacrifices had to be made…

No! He could do this. All he had to do was focus. Focus, yes, focus. If he could just…breathe deeply…in, out, in, out, in…out, in…out…in…

Better.

Around him, the gloomy hall had stilled to nothing again. The thin motes of swirling dust had settled back on the (again, bare) floorboards. Mrs. Sonderliss didn’t approve of carpets. She liked her floors clear and open, ready for the mop. Every morning, every night…even tables were interdit, away from the wall, at least…

No. He must drive Mrs. Sonderliss from his mind. How was he supposed to make this step without nervousness if she was still there? That woman, that…menace…was the source of all his nervousness. Not even a meeting with the dreaded Aunt Alice could inspire so much base fear in such a usually fearless man…

So, she must go. Breathe…in…and out. In….and out. In…

Hold it. Hold that breath, or…

There. Now, one foot…up….gently, gently…over…down. There. That wasn’t so hard. Except that now, Tucker was perched, precariously, one foot in front of the other, trembling, on a loose step.

Not so good…

But, still, there was no sense in panicking. That would only make him fall down, or trip, or make a noise, and then…

No, best not to panic. Just…lift the other foot…gently…gently…bring it past without brushing…don’t touch, don’t touch, don’t touch…down. Safe. Silent.

That one step took ten minutes. After that they were easy. Just quick, quiet steps down the deserted hallway, to the cupboard. He could probably afford to behave normally here. It wasn’t as if she’d hear the door opening, all the way up there, through her own door, was it?

No, it would be fine. Just pull the dull wood of the door open and…find that there was no dustpan and brush. Great. Now what was he going to do? Use his hands…

Disgusted, Tucker let the cupboard door fall in with a slam. And froze.

Shit. Had he…

Shit. Somewhere above him, something thumped. Something getting out of bed…an armchair maybe, he’d never worked out quite when Mrs. Sonderliss woke up, only that she could emerge to harass him at any time of the day…

Yes, there it was, the door. Opening with such a light click that it barely echoed around the hall, it achieved all that Tucker had not with the cupboard. Her footsteps, though, were less silent. Why wouldn’t they be? She had no reason to be silent. She wasn’t trying to hide, after all…

Could he get away? The front door was only a few yards away, the key sitting in the latch, just waiting for him to lunge…

Yes, all he had to do was lunge and…

“Well, good morning Mr. Tucker!” There. Too late now. There was the voice, loud, cheerful, drawling. And there was Mrs. Sonderliss, her podgy, wrinkled form wrapped around in a hideous robe that only served to look Julius’ landlady look even more dowdy than usual. Where did she buy those vile things? There’d been a different one every time he’d seen her, red, green, garishly florid as today…and all completely tasteless. It was as if she’d based her wardrobe on a wallpaper-seller’s pattern book. Actually, knowing her…

There was a distinct malevolence in her drawn-out vowels today, a malicious joy not unlike that of some great lion(ess?) about to pounce upon its cornered prey…

That prey being, of course, him. He’d been trying to avoid this confrontation all week, but…too late now…

“Well, Mr. Tucker? I trust you’re well?”

Tucker started violently, as if shocked again. His jaw started flapping uncontrollably, spewing vapid idiocy which only made his predicament all the worse.

“Yes…yes, quite well. In fact, I was just…”

Just what, you idiot? Talk about landing yourself in it, Julius…

“Yes?”

Julius C. Tucker quailed.

“Just…just…” The tongue stopped, leaving his mouth to hang open ingloriously. Air rushed in, and air rushed out. But no sound, or noise, or even movement, until: “Milk!”

Mrs. Sonderliss’ eyebrow went up, wrinkling her flabby forehead.

“Milk, Mr. Tucker?”

Goddamn it, Mr. Tucker! What were you thinking?

“Uh…no! Yes! I mean yes! I was just…popping down to get some milk…yes, that’s it…”

Relief flooded through his sweat choked body. There was an excuse! She could leave him alone now, and not, under any circumstances, mention the…

“You were…popping down to get some milk? That’s it?”

Wait a minute…

“Yes.” Tucker desperately searched for a hole in his excuse. Why wouldn’t he be looking for milk? He took it in his drinks, she knew that. No, it was fine, he was sure of that. “Yes, that’s it.”

Except…

“You were looking for milk in the broom-cupboard?”

Ah.

Ah, yes, there was that.

Shit.

“I…I…I…”

“Are you feeling quite alright, Mr. Tucker? Your jaw is flapping vigorously…”

How could he have forgotten? It wasn’t Mrs. Sonderliss’ habit to keep milk in the broom-cupboard. No. She kept brooms there. Although, she’d never explicitly ruled out dairy products…

“Yes!” By now, his tongue had taken on a life of its own, fully detached from the abject panic of Tucker’s poor tortured mind. “Yes, yes, I am.”

“Good.” Sonderliss’ voice purred. That malevolence was back in her drawl again, which was, in itself, not what Tucker wanted to hear…

“Yes, good.”

“You’ll…be happy to talk about the rent then?”

No, actually, he wouldn’t. He’d been avoiding her for the past few days over that. He’d been taking half an hour to go downstairs because of that. He…

“Yes, of course I would Mrs. Sonderliss. Let’s talk about…the rent.”

“It’s a week overdue, Mr. Tucker.”

Yes, he knew that. Very well.

“Oh, really? Gee, I’m sorry, you should have told me…”

“I just did.”

Why did this have to be so awkward?

“Ah, well, yes. You did. Yes. Well, I can pay you…”

No, he couldn’t.

“Really?”

“Yes!”

No.

“In cash?”

“Ah. There’s the rub you see, because I don’t have any now, but…”

“When?”

The playfulness always dropped from Mrs. Sonderliss’ voice when they were discussing the rent. It was really very distressing.

“Tonight. I’m writing an article now, and I’ll have the money for it this evening.”

And no food, now.

“Mr. Tucker, you’ve been late with your rent several times now. How do I know…”

“The draft’s just upstairs on the table.”

“Oh, really? Can I see?”

Except…

“No! No…” He needed an excuse…fast. Think, think…”It’s special! Uh…an exclusive!”

Because, of course, the Hocksville Sporting Times got a lot of those.

“Oh?”

“Yes!” His voice had become quite wild by now. “Yes! I can’t show it to anyone until it’s out on the front-page!”

And now he had to get something on the front-page….

“Oh. I see. Very well.” The weary resignation of an oft-cheated landlady came into her voice. “You may pop out for your milk.”

Thank God.

“Thank you, Mrs. Sunderland! I won’t let you down, not this time…”

Except, of course, he would. He always did.

And with that, he completed his lunge for the front door, his fingers flying for the keys. By now, Mrs. Sonderliss has turned back to slowly, painfully make the (as ever) empty handed journey back up to her room, but that wasn’t enough. He needed to be out of there

Grab the keys.

Flip them round, sharply. Hear the click of the lock, bright, loud, solid. That click was the sound of freedom, the sound of a day away from Mrs. Sonderliss, the sound of another few hours without having to worry about the rent….

Julius C. Tucker stepped out of the door, bold, puff-chested. Ready for a new day.

Behind him, the door slammed noisily, shaking dried paint dust down onto his thrown-back shoulders. He didn’t care. It was an old shirt anyway…

There was a bright new day ahead of him.

More importantly, there was a nagging landlady behind him.

He ran.

Funniest Moment: Tony Blair appointed Peace Envoy to the Middle East.
Saddest Moment: The knives go in for Ming Campbell.

Best Political Decision: Miliband’s spineless refusal to run for Labour leadership.
Worst Political Decision: The phantom election.

The Stephen Fry Award for Unbounded Eloquence: Michelle Obama.
The Prescott Award for Gobbledegook: David Davis.

Best Photograph: Ming Campbell and the toilet.
Worst Photograph: Ming Campbell and the toilet.

Best Video: Serj Tankian – Empty Walls.
Worst Video: Can America trust the BBC?

Best Newcomer: Emily Benn.
The George McGovern Memorial Award for Political Flops: Respect Renewal.

Best Album: Nine Inch Nails – Year Zero.
Worst Album: The Spice Girls Reform (Not an album, but the musical disaster of 2007 nonetheless).

The Hunter S Thompson Award for Journalism: Ben Goldacre.
The Daily Mail Award for Tedious Media Populism: The Times editorial team.

The Robin Cook Award for Most Principled Action: None this year.
The John Redwood Award for Political Spinelessness: The CPS for not pressing charges on Cash for Honours.

Event of the Year: Tony Blair’s resignation.
Catastrophe of the Year: The phantom election.

Scribo Ergo Sum Person of the Year: Gary Kasparov (Screw you, Time).

Unfortunately, nothing happens on Boxing Day - or at least nothing in the news domestically. Everyone is either hungover, on holiday or shopping. That is, if they aren’t in the unlucky third or so of the population that has to cater to the other, more idle two-thirds.

Fortunately, and of course unfairly, I’m comfortably within the idle two-thirds. I’m also distinctly hungover. This, of course, is entirely my own fault, as is the traffic cone (and no, I don’t know where that came from). It’s also left me lamentably stranded in an anonymous London friend’s flat while I recover. Seeing as that’s probably not going to be for a few hours, and they’re out, I might as well do something productive - and seeing as how this blog needs posts, it might as well be writing.

I’m therefore going to continue with a Christmas special in my filler series for when there’s no news, Fear and Loathing on the Internet. We begin with The Christmas Conspiracy, a festive mix of conspiracy theory, religious fanaticism and bad web-design.

As is usual with websites designed by lunatics, the most striking thing about the Christmas Conspiracy site is almost just how badly designed it is. Conspiracy theorists seem to have a thing for long, scroll-down sites with no formatting and lots of bright colours. I’m not sure why. Maybe they think they have more important matters on their mind?

Perhaps they do. But even so, you’d think that some of them might realise that even fewer people will listen to them if they can’t actually read the bloody website, wouldn’t you? It’s just not rational. Then again, given the rationality of the average conspiracy theorist (or rather, the lack thereof), I suppose that’s not a real surprise. Could the lack of legible web-design simply be another facet of their total lack of logical thought?

With most extremist websites, once you’ve got past the awful layout, you’ll reach the awful views. The Christmas Conspiracy is no exception. Beginning with the warning that viewing their site is, “potentially illegal,” and may (heavens!) end up with you getting a tax audit, they then move onto the serious business of their website: the Christmas King.

You see, Christmas, “is neither an escape from society nor is it violent or evil.” Oh no. Christmas is the festival of, “the Christmas King,” a personage who is never explicitly identified. I suspect they mean Jesus, but they certainly don’t seem to say so.

They’re certainly Christian, or perceive themselves to be. But they’re not your traditional brand of Christian - and not even your traditional brand of fundamentalist Christian lunatic. They don’t want to stop the commericalisation of Christmas. They want it to carry on to its full extent. They want the, “Christmasisation of all commerce” - where Christmas is, quite literally, every day.

Great, I hear you say. Christmas every day would be wonderful, a utopia - one endless holiday. Never mind the impending economic collapse it would cause, or the services that don’t have that holiday anyway, or the starvation as the farms empty. It would be Christmas! Everyone would be happy (if, admittedly, dead)!

But their support for total Christmas has nothing to do with an eternal, if unlikely, utopia of eternal idleness. No. In their eyes, Christmas is the festival of Christ. If Christmas is the festival of Christ, and it is celebrated every day, then every day would be a festival of Christ. Christ could rule over mankind once more! It would be the, “Christocracy,” where, “Every facet of Law, Economics, Politics, Education, the Market, the Arts, and the Sciences will be Christmasized, brought under the jurisdiction of Christ the king.” The Book of Micah says so, as extensively quoted on the site.

The Christmas Conspiracy is, therefore, the prelude to a Christian Revolution - which is, “the greatest threat to “the government,” “the New World Order,” or “the establishment.” As is very common with religious extremists, the Christmas Conspirators aren’t very good at counting. Certainly, that’s the only explanation I can think of for their massively, “hopeful,” verdicts on their own threat to the establishment.

Oh, just so you know, the Conspirators’ view of the Establishment is as: “Secularism, Humanism, Anti-Family Sex, Hedonism, Autonomy, Totalitarianism, and Mass Death.” Translated, that’s actually a fairly standard list of neoconservative hate-figures: “Non-Christians, Nice People, Fun, Fun, Liberalism, Taxes, and Abortion.” That they haven’t worked out that autonomy, an anarcho-individualist buzzword, and totalitarianism, a fascist buzzword, are polar opposites probably speaks for itself.

So, that’s their view on Christmas, Christ and the Christmas Conspiracy. To be entirely fair, you can’t fault the Conspirators for their internal logic. If you accept their basic views on Christmas, commercialism, religious dictatorship, the Bible, Micah, the Nativity, government, sex, taxes, freedom, Christianity, and ultimately the world as the basis of your views, then what they’re saying flows perfectly well.

Unfortunately, as a basis for a worldview, theirs wouldn’t have made sense in the Seventeenth Century, let alone now. The conflation of capitalism with biblical literalism, theocratic dictatorship with economic liberalism and conservatism with revolution makes virtually no sense at all.

Except, perhaps, as a very extreme form of neo-conservatism. There’s a lot going for this assessment at the website, starting with their view of the, “Establishment.” Even early on in the website, it’s apparent: along with bible studies, a co-conspirator commits to, “study the economic and political superiority of laissez-faire capitalism over socialism.”

It gets more obvious, though. Not only do they view socialism as inherently tyrannical, they view taxes themselves as inherently tyrannical. All state-provision of service is tyrannical - even the postal service, which should be handed over to the control of, “volunteer capitalists.”

The 1776 Revolution was, they say, a revolt against taxes and tyranny, the spirit of which is betrayed by modern America. (Of course, the slogan, “No Taxation Without Representation,” meant nothing, and certainly didn’t refer to taxation being tyranny where there was no democratic contract between state and citizen). Taxation is, to them, socialism and a betrayal of the constitution.

At the same time, they are biblical literalists. They believe in, “biblical patriarchy,” and the religiously excused oppression of women, who should not, “work outside the home.” They defend, “traditional values.” And, perhaps most tellingly of all, “Jesus told us to.”

So, to recap: “traditional” Christians, intolerant, laissez-faire capitalists who think socialism always means Stalinism, and loathe all forms of humanism, atheism and secularism. That’s really not too far from some neocons.

Unfortunately, the theory has a number of holes. Quite a lot, actually. The Conspirators are pacifists, and think that the aggressive neocon foreign policy amount to, “mass murder.” They (rather contradictingly, given their indictment of taxation as a betrayal of it) condemn the 1776 Revolution, the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution.

They also claim to be anarchists, opposing all forms of statism as Christ, in their view, opposed, “Empires.” It’s the old, “God made me do it,” excuse again. There is no rational or humanitarian reason for their opposition to oppression - only religious fanaticism.

Of course, they’re not anarchists, at all. They reject the concept of autonomy, atheism (or at least, the refusal to bow down to any god), equality of the sexes (biblical patriarchy, remember?) and both the withdrawal of the individual from the state and collective struggle. As such, they reject the basic building blocks of virtually all forms of developed anarchism. They may oppose a man-made state, but they aren’t anarchists.

Even beyond that, they can’t be anarchists. Some very prominent thinkers - Tolstoy is a famous example - have considered themselves religious anarchists. I don’t think such a thing can truly exist, certainly not in conventional Christianity, and certainly not in the sort practised by the Conspirators.

It’s all in a few phrases they use extensively: “the Sovereignty of God,” the, “Christmas King,” the, “Lord.” (Emphasis universally mine). Those aren’t anarchist slogans, are they? They’re all about the submission of the individual conscience to God. That’s what their form of Christianity is all about. Anarchism is all about the submission of the individual conscience to no-one.

The, “Sovereignty of God,” and the, “Sovereignty of the Individual,” aren’t compatible.

So, they look like neocons, but aren’t. They say they’re anarchists, but aren’t. What are they?

A bunch of self-contradicting twats reading the Bible upside-down?

Yes, that sounds about right.

Earlier this year I wrote about my encounter with an elderly bigot and used it as an opportunity to ruminate upon the nature of nationalism in contemporary Britain. Since then there have been two events that caused me to cast my mind back to that article. Firstly Gordon Brown, showing his usual capacity to evoke the cringingly unfortunate, announced that he was in favour of “British jobs for British workers”. Exactly what my bellowing bigot friend suggested when I met her.

I am not suggesting that Brown is of anything like the low intellect of that woman but this seems to suggest that he too is aware of the presence of nationalistic sentiment in our country, and is also interested in tapping into it. Perhaps this is unwise.

Secondly, and more hearteningly, the actual BNP has managed to survive Gordon’s courting of their vote only to tear itself to shreds, seemingly for no apparent reason.

The division runs between a group, judging by their title with a rather poor grasp of history, calling themselves the “Real BNP” and the party itself. Their website can be found here: (they have a more official one but at the moment it seems to be offline) while the response by the original racists can be found here. Meanwhile what a certain colleague of mine (or two) would probably consider the “Bastard bourgeois” view of events can be read here.

To summarise the BNP has seen 50 members defect and resign the whip to another outfit named the Real BNP (yes, this could get confusing) that, for some reason, seems to have a leadership mostly consisting of pregnant women. One of these, Sadie Graham, alleges that the BNP stole her computer and tapped her phone while they say that the computer was theirs and the lengthy transcript of a Real BNP conversation they posted on the official BNP website was recorded after she rang them accidentally and didn’t realise.

Which is still illegal, actually.

Enough is Enough also contains a lengthy account of the police staging a thorough search of one of its writers houses after a dodgy tip-off concerning a firearm. Perhaps it is natural for these fascists to wish the authorities to do their dirty-work for them in this way: until the BNP gives Britain an actual police state it is the closest they will get. Its author suggests that the person who made the claim should be charged with wasting police time while the same argument was made by the official BNP website about Sadie’s allegations concerning the stolen computer.

All in all rather like some twisted version of Eastenders where everyone is far-right, except without the Asians. Indeed the BNP’s website has perhaps best described events as a “Real life nationalist soap opera script” and, really, I doubt that that can be topped.

This is easily the largest feud that the BNP has ever faced and despite blasé claims from the party loyalists that it will all be over by Christmas (for a bunch who constantly hark back to a lost Britain they have a terrible grasp of history, don’t they?) the row shows no sign of dying down. Enough is Enough has a highly vocal community and I doubt that they will shut up and get into line simply because for a party hoping to make a break-through in the London elections next May it would be convenient.

Much though I admire this spirit it is important to bear in mind that this is still one set of venemous racists against another, a fact I seemed to find it easy to forget when researching this matter. All the same, this seems to be the political fringe equivalent of the Iran-Iraq war and as such I wish the Real BNP all the best in their efforts to damage and drain support from the Originals. Or rather, not all the best, but enough success that they receive precisely 50% support and split the nationalist vote neatly in two.

In 2008 I hope that this disunity does not end, that harmony does not ring out and that they end the year in at least as much of a mess as Respect started it. Actually, I suspect it won’t end. Extremist movements have a tendency to split like this every couple of decades. The opinions are just too strongly held, just too unusual (read: bizarre), and in this case, just too intolerant for even slight variations to survive together. If you believe racist bullshit, it might as well be your own particular brand of racist bullshit.

Although it will do nothing to rid our country of the prejudice that lingers within our country the longer the bigots spend aiming their caustic loathing at each other rather than entire races of British residents, the better. The worse state that their “Organisations” end up in the worse they will be for transmitting, promoting, advocating and pursuing their foul agenda and the further their divisive nonsense will be kept from the mainstream, which is quite reactionary, baffling and bizarre enough as it is.

On a more grounded note I have been informed that there is an inquiry into the legal status of cannabis being held by the government, which will report at some point in the next year. May I take this opportunity to say that I long for the shock finding that cannabis has not been downgraded enough and that it should be legalised immediately, along with all other drugs.

Less chance of it than a messy BNP schism, I’ll give you that, but a man can hope.