Nothing increases my blood pressure like a good old-fashioned immigration story. That, and the contestants on Paris Hilton's British Best Friend.
This recent 'fray' shall we call it, regarding the muslim extremists' hate parade in Luton when the homecoming troops landed on British soil, has pissed off everyone in the country I think. Well, apart from New Labour fat cats who think the answer to this debaucle is to plough more money into ridiculous "Preventing Violent Extremism" schemes. Not that this corner of society has a problem taking money off Britain.
This story in the Mail details the community behind the protest, where only one white household resides in the entire Bury Park area where the extremist group hails from. Alfred and Doreen Harrop, who are in their eighties, have had bricks thrown through their windows and their car vandalised by extremists who wish Bury Park to be a Muslim-only community. A Muslim-only community! Pardon us for breathing.
Home Office grants have been handed to Luton's main mosque in the sum of £200,000, with £400,000 set aside for the future. Almost all of the fanatic extremists, according to the Muslim leader at the mosque, are on the dole or claiming benefits of some kind.
Is it a coincidence, then, that the muslim extremist party in Luton is only 35-strong? That is little more headcount than that of a group of pubescent chavs lurking in front of Tesco on a Friday night. Amongst the frustration and despair I feel at this issue, I can also sift out what is unmistakedly sympathy at how pathetic they are. Desperately trying to be taken seriously and to intimidate, the irony is that they depend on the state they despise so much. They have no qualms combing their beards, putting on their hijab, and strolling along to the post office to collect their dole.
They will probably defend this as "taking advantage" of gullable, generous Britain. Of getting what they are owed. But in reality it just shows they are lazy. How can they be taken seriously by their peers and respected in muslim society whose name they blacken when they are revelling in the nanny state?
Extremist muslims are like children who spend their days terrorising smaller children and running riot, stamping on insects and stealing from the corner shop, who then go back to their mums for tea.
To avoid sounding like a low-life numpty: if you don't like it here, travel the short distance to Luton airport and get the next plane out. I'm sure taxpayers wouldn't mind too much the Luton looters using their money to leave Britain, if anything.
There is plenty of political unrest in the Northwest frontier of Pakistan they can get involved in. Plenty of girls' schools to burn down and barbers to murder for shaving men's beards. Or is that too scary?
I think the Luton extremists like to be extreme from the safety of their armchairs.
Saturday, 14 March 2009
Friday, 6 March 2009
The Young Victoria
Having a deep-rooted obsession with the Victorian era that bypasses all my other obsessions, such as my extreme disgust and hatred of wooden spoons (because the thought of them being wet and rubbing on my clothes makes me want to be sick), I know that one day I might not hate wooden spoons, but I will always love the Victorian era.
With this in mind, obviously I was going to watch The Young Victoria on the night it came out. The only person who shoulders my obsession wholeheartedly is my mum. She drove me to Derbyshire to see Chatsworth, patiently waited for me to finish trying on the replica costume dresses in the V&A museum, and didn't tell me it might have repercussions on my friendships when I rented Mrs Beeton's book of household remedies from the library for show and tell in primary school, when other people took cool stuff in.
Naturally, she took me to see the film. I'm not going to review it because it wasn't fantastic but wasn't boring, and I don't really know what to comment on apart from the generic Emily and Rupert as Victoria and Albert were good, blah blah. This is just a gesture of my feelings towards Victoria, which are very favourable indeed.
She became Queen at 18. She refused to sign a Regency Order, which basically meant that if the King died before his niece, Victoria, turned 18 she couldn't become Queen until she was 25 and would co-represent the country alongside her mother, the Duchess of Kent. The monarchy would be relatively desolved and men behind the scenes would run the country behind the facade of Victoria and the elderly Victoria. Everyone was pressuring her to sign this order since she was a young teenager; at one point her mother's advisor actually tried to force her signature using her own limp hand when she was ill in bed.
She slept in the same room as her mother until she was 18, and wasn't allowed to walk down the stairs without holding someone's hand until she was Queen.
She took cocaine for her period pains, had nine children because she loved sex so much and didn't know about contraception, (her son Alfred was suspected of being Jack the Ripper), and she and Albert had a gold plaque made for the end of their bed commemerating the date they first slept together.
Because she loved her husband so much, when he died of typhoid aged 42 after 20 years of marriage, she dressed in mourning every single day for the rest of her life, which some might say is emo, but someone who is so revered in public perception has little room to express themselves: it was business as usual as soon as the love of her life died. She had a clay mould made of Albert's hand and was rumoured to sleep clutching it every night, and she insisted the servants lay out his clothes, shaving brush, and flannel every morning after he died.
Victoria was percepted as cold, austere and uninterested in her people or her country. This was very untrue: she was passionate about making life for the working classes better and did a lot of work for the improverished East End, building schools and hospitals for the 'gutter children' of the future.
Her famously coined phrase "we are not amused" was, in fact, a valid comment, and not a snobby remark. She said it at a public event commemerating soldiers in the Civil War, when an ex-soldier who lost his leg in battle was walking up the street hobbling on a stick, and some people in the crowd were sniggering at his misfortune.
Ok, I'm done. Basically, I love Victoria and all things Victorian VERY much. Thank you for humouring me if you've got this far.
With this in mind, obviously I was going to watch The Young Victoria on the night it came out. The only person who shoulders my obsession wholeheartedly is my mum. She drove me to Derbyshire to see Chatsworth, patiently waited for me to finish trying on the replica costume dresses in the V&A museum, and didn't tell me it might have repercussions on my friendships when I rented Mrs Beeton's book of household remedies from the library for show and tell in primary school, when other people took cool stuff in.
Naturally, she took me to see the film. I'm not going to review it because it wasn't fantastic but wasn't boring, and I don't really know what to comment on apart from the generic Emily and Rupert as Victoria and Albert were good, blah blah. This is just a gesture of my feelings towards Victoria, which are very favourable indeed.
She became Queen at 18. She refused to sign a Regency Order, which basically meant that if the King died before his niece, Victoria, turned 18 she couldn't become Queen until she was 25 and would co-represent the country alongside her mother, the Duchess of Kent. The monarchy would be relatively desolved and men behind the scenes would run the country behind the facade of Victoria and the elderly Victoria. Everyone was pressuring her to sign this order since she was a young teenager; at one point her mother's advisor actually tried to force her signature using her own limp hand when she was ill in bed.
She slept in the same room as her mother until she was 18, and wasn't allowed to walk down the stairs without holding someone's hand until she was Queen.
She took cocaine for her period pains, had nine children because she loved sex so much and didn't know about contraception, (her son Alfred was suspected of being Jack the Ripper), and she and Albert had a gold plaque made for the end of their bed commemerating the date they first slept together.
Because she loved her husband so much, when he died of typhoid aged 42 after 20 years of marriage, she dressed in mourning every single day for the rest of her life, which some might say is emo, but someone who is so revered in public perception has little room to express themselves: it was business as usual as soon as the love of her life died. She had a clay mould made of Albert's hand and was rumoured to sleep clutching it every night, and she insisted the servants lay out his clothes, shaving brush, and flannel every morning after he died.
Victoria was percepted as cold, austere and uninterested in her people or her country. This was very untrue: she was passionate about making life for the working classes better and did a lot of work for the improverished East End, building schools and hospitals for the 'gutter children' of the future.
Her famously coined phrase "we are not amused" was, in fact, a valid comment, and not a snobby remark. She said it at a public event commemerating soldiers in the Civil War, when an ex-soldier who lost his leg in battle was walking up the street hobbling on a stick, and some people in the crowd were sniggering at his misfortune.
Ok, I'm done. Basically, I love Victoria and all things Victorian VERY much. Thank you for humouring me if you've got this far.
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