We’ve all spent our lives under the welcome duvet of democracy and have come to take it for granted – moaned about it being too warm, or too cold, or not big enough or too big or, oh God, enough with the metaphors, but let’s all agree that we fucking love duvets. Sorry, democracy, we love democracy. So, let’s do something to save it.
Firstly, can we please start using fascism as an accurate description of some of the things we are observing. Back in the eighties we used to take sides. You knew where you stood. It didn’t matter that the left wasn’t very, nor the right that much, we bandied slurs and accusations like a never-ending tennis rally. Come the internet, and equating anything to Hitler became a Godwin law and something not to be done and that seemed like a good rule until, well, about a week ago. But now, folks, the game’s a changing. We need to catch up.
The fascists are much better at slagging us off as political perverts than we are they – I’m left of centre but have spent most of my life working for the Financial Man and dealing in the truest of true capitalism that is gambling, and yet even last week someone called me a Trot. Even my own mother can roll “The Guardian” around her mouth like I’m a politically deviant Jimmy Saville. Enough is enough. I’m in. If you aren’t manning the barricades with me, you’re a fascist.
Secondly, I’m with Woody Allen – what fascists understand is baseball bats. If you think we can win this with soft words, cartoons and alternative comedy, God fucking help us. We’ve done this before folks, in my lifetime. Rock Against Racism is portrayed by talking head, social historians as some cuddly moment when we all got together and bonded over a joint and a few tunes from The Clash and Steel Pulse. And it was a little bit, but actually it was about who could kick most accurately with their Doc Marten boots. And I say this as someone who never wore any and had his head kicked in on successive Saturdays by NF cunts in cashmere sweaters and Surrey accents. What I lacked was life experience and a baseball bat. Let’s not make the same mistake this time around. Definitely not this time around. The stakes are way, way higher.
Thirdly, we’ve gone safe and soft. Your Facebook friends are like you, right? You all voted to Remain, or for Clinton, or something similar resembling humanity. Ah, remember humanity, how we loved her. You share things that confirm your worldview, plus rabbits cuddling otters. It’s time to keep the latter but ditch the former. Here’s the deal. Stop swaddling yourself in a blanket of sameness and thinking everything’s gonna be okay like some sad kid with their hands over their eyes at the scariest bits in Doctor Who (The Weeping Angels), or trembling like me throughout this entire sixth series of The Walking Dead. Wake up. Negun is real and he’s walking in our midst. So, stop being an apologist, don’t ever, ever blink, and start sharing what the enemy are saying and thinking. (Not the Daily Mail obviously, they get no clicks – go deeper, nastier, further).
I don't need to know what Aditya Chakraborrty or George Monbiot thinks - I've already flipping read it. I want to know what people like my old school-chum Andrew Sullivan thinks - he's the most sensible right-wing nutter I've ever met and if he says Trump is a proto, neo-fascist then we've reached a global consensus. So, man the barricades peeps.
Humour will not see us through. Satire is dead. This isn’t about liberals dicking about or, if it is, we’re fucked.