Thursday, October 20, 2016

Globalist Dystopia: A Suicide Note From Culture



Even amongst her supporters, if that epithet be not too strong a word, the chief qualification for Hillary Clinton to become President of the United States appears to be an apathetic sense of inevitability; her very campaign the antithesis of the frothing mantra of unspecified “change” from eight years ago. As Donald Trump’s bombastic delivery and uncertain attitudes towards the fairer sex are fervently and self-righteously denounced by the ruling elite, the decades of corruption and illegality shadowing his rival are impassively dismissed as nothing more than “business as usual” in the governmental sphere. Thus, with a collective sigh from the Left, the bar is lowered, standards are ignored, and nothing unique, let alone better, is demanded of the political class. In the midst of such a demeaning malaise, one cannot help recalling T.S. Eliot’s prognostication as to how the world will end “not with a bang, but a whimper.” And yet perhaps there is a more cogent and populist means than modernist poetry to analyse this current political wasteland.

There is a scene in the film adaptation of Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451, the science fiction classic that sees a fire brigade called upon to incinerate books, in which the fire chief finds a copy of The Ethics of Aristotle and sneers contemptuously to his second-in-command: “The person who reads this must think they’re a cut above the rest.” Before setting fire to the book, the chief then proceeds to echo the refrain commonly heard from power structure representatives in dystopian fiction about a “new and better society” in which everyone is “made equal”.  

The dwarfing of individual achievement by the blindness of an unthinking larger community was also made particularly manifest in the late 60s television masterpiece “The Prisoner”, wherein the opening credits to each episode featured a defiant Patrick McGoohan as “Number 6” thrusting his fist into the air and shouting “I am not a number! I am a free man!” But of course, the seminal work on the political nightmare of a government presuming best how to rule a cowed citizenry, one that gave to the sci-fi lexicon such eerily prophetic terms as “goodthink”, “thoughtcrime”, and the logic-defying equation “2 + 2 = 5”, remains George Orwell’s 1984.

Such presumed dystopian futures have now commingled into an actual dystopian present. One in which the most vocally liberal activists join in ignorant (or not-so-ignorant) collusion with the most power-mad globalist oligarchs the world has ever known. Artists and writers blindly accept the arbitrary filtering of accepted speech from hate speech, atheists and other secularists wilfully gloss over the theocratic endgame of fundamentalist Islam, and institutions of higher learning have waived their status as bastions of intellectual discourse to allow for the proliferation of “safe spaces”. Most recently, moreover, the champions of sexual liberation have joined forces with the ostensibly free press in shrill tones of Victorian prudishness to disgrace an independent nationalist, personally-flawed though he may be, and roll out the red carpet for his corrupted, compromised, and criminal trans-nationalist rival.

On the positive side, this dystopian present, like its fictitious counterparts, comes replete with its own protagonists, either quietly (or not-so-quietly) bucking the system. For every Guy Montag having second thoughts about his career as a government book-burner, there is a disgruntled university student skirting past trigger warnings to read Douglas Murray’s critiques of radical Islam in The Spectator.  For every Number 6 looking to escape a village populated by grinning idiots of the political establishment, there’s a middle-class English woman at a dinner party whispering conspiratorially to a confidant about why she voted for Brexit. And for every Winston Smith hoping to preserve and cherish his individual memories against the grim backdrop of a communist bureaucracy, there is an artist of integrity content to sacrifice work, recognition, and the fellowship of his or her milieu if that’s the price to be paid for consistency, conviction, and truth.

The downside, however, is that, rarely, if at all, do these protagonists ever come away as the victors. Winston Smith is forced through psychological and physical torture to betray not only his lover, but what remains of his inner life as well. Number 6, though occasionally upturning the hierarchy, never succeeds with any permanency and only “escapes” the village once it becomes clear that it’s all been a construct of his mind. And Guy Montag, though reaching relative safety amongst the “book people” at the end of Fahrenheit 451, is nonetheless thwarted in his idealistic desire to demolish the anti-intellectual system from within.

Similarly, the freethinking university student is denounced by his peers as an “Islamophobe”, the woman at the dinner party speaks in hushed tones about the Brexit vote lest she be inflicted to a similar backlash, and the principled artist, aside from facing alienation and poverty, is branded by colleagues a “reactionary” or “contrarian” whenever astute accusations of hypocrisy hit a little too close to the bone. Each of these instances, of course, are mere samplings of the collective din that rises up, as if instinctually, to shout power down to truth whenever a globalist ideology is significantly called into question.

Boosted by both mainstream and social media, the resultant hyperbolic clamour against such rebels is akin to an onslaught of the humanoids in Invasion of the Body Snatchers or the brain-eating reanimated corpses of Night of the Living Dead. In an age of such rabidly emotional defence of the status quo, it’s nothing short of audacious to a rational-minded logician when these unthinking zombies vacillate between foaming at the mouth and demanding that political discourse be kept “civil”. Though such is the cognitive dissonance that earmarks this postmodern dystopia. Consider, for example, the episode of “The Prisoner” in which the ever-defiant Number 6 is forced to undergo corrective psychology after being labelled by the community as “unmutual”. Yet in lieu of the word “unmutual”, apply some of today’s ever-proliferating progressive alternatives: “racist”, “sexist”, “bigot”, “xenophobe”, “Islamophobe”, “homophobe”, or “transphobe”.

The success of this particular political strategy of progressive Newspeak is contingent on three important factors: Numbers, Timing, and Stupidity. Firstly, a brainwashed collective shouts the accusation, say, of sexism, which in turn is given amplification by a complicit media, all with the aim of creating a unidirectional cacophony so deafening that nothing of nuance – such as decades of intricate, Watergate-like scandal – can hope to be heard. As party members scream “traitor” at the telescreen images of Emmanuel Goldstein in 1984, so, too, can today’s progressives be counted on to parrot the epithets of “racist”, “sexist” or “Islamophobe” at the mere visage of Donald Trump. The result being that, just as Big Brother is never questioned, the hidden depths of Hillary Clinton remain safely unplumbed.

Secondly, the accusation must be presented before the opponent has a chance to do likewise. For example, it matters not if an accuser has a track record of defending a philanderer, much less a rapist, by threatening, bribing, slandering, or otherwise silencing the victims. As long as the accuser takes advantage of the constraints of linear time to present the accusation of sexism first, the opponent remains on the back foot and any defence by the accused conveniently becomes a media smokescreen benefiting the accuser. All of this, of course, is evocative of the coerced televised confessions in 1984, which were themselves redolent of the show trials of the late Soviet Union. It should be noted in this regard that no one on the progressive Left actually wanted an apology from Donald Trump for his remarks in a private conversation from eleven years ago. Being on the unfashionable side of the political spectrum means never having to say “sorry” since progressivism is a religion conveniently void of the doctrine of forgiveness. An apology, such as the one that Trump proffered, is nothing more than an excuse to more deeply brand him with the scarlet “S” for “Sexist”.

Lastly, and most importantly, none of the above would be possible were it not for the paradoxical stupidity of today’s intelligentsia, the ideological bedrock upon which this modern dystopia is constructed. Pseudo-academics, entertainers, artists, and their unquestioning acolytes both indulge in and promote a distinctive idiocy comprised of a stealth triad of political correctness, moral equivalence, and cultural relativism. Each of these aspects, it should be mentioned, of separate concern from merely lacking intelligence or even the aspiration towards intelligence – characteristics, it is smugly implied, indicative of the white working classes in America, devoid of the leisure time and financial resources to attend university, constituting a healthy majority of Trump’s political base, and grossly smeared by Clinton as a “basket of deplorables.” Along with the working classes of the Welsh valleys and the north of England – who recently voted to hand the United Kingdom back to itself – they remain perhaps the last demographic for which open contempt from the globalist elites is not only permitted, but encouraged. They are, in essence, the “proles” of 1984 on whom Winston pins his fading hopes of revolution.

No, here the focus is on a more furtive type of stupidity – a stupidity that thinks itself clever. As the fire chief of Fahrenheit 451 diligently rids the world of literature to prevent anyone conceiving of themselves as intellectually superior, as the villagers in “The Prisoner” are shed of their birth names to prevent anyone conceiving of themselves as unique, or as the party members in 1984 are cautioned to avoid thoughtcrime to prevent anyone conceiving of themselves as independent, the endgame of every dystopia, real or imagined, is to strip culture of all remnants of verticality. In place of the natural hierarchies of intelligent over stupid, moral over immoral, better over worse, there remains only a bland horizontality, appropriately suggestive of a once-beating pulse which has now become flat-lined.

Such a deadened landscape provides a progressive globalist the perfect springboard by which to rewrite the standards. As the communists did with private wealth, progressives envision conventional intelligence as inherently suspect. Therefore, intelligence in the sense of knowing more than others in a unique and independent way – i.e., thinking for oneself – is rendered obsolete. In place of what are jeered at as antiquated and oppressive Western standards lies a malleable, one-sided doctrine of politically-correct fairness. Therefore, in order to be “intelligent” in today’s academic climate, one need only refrain from saying or thinking this or that about these or those types of people. In so doing, progressives pride themselves on having an open mind, which they therefore equate with having an enriched mind. In this schemata, intelligence and morality are rendered synonymous. To be intelligent, one must simply be moral. And to be moral, one must simply have an open mind.

Until very recently, these attributes of morality and intelligence, though often evident within the same individual, were generally regarded as separate and distinct qualities. That is, it was not inconceivable for an intelligent person to be immoral or a moral person to be unintelligent. Yet here, these attributes are the convex and concave of the same bowl. One can be both intelligent and moral simply by echoing the party line. There is a parallel here, of course, to the enthusiasm Winston Smith’s co-workers share in 1984 for the latest edition of the Newspeak Dictionary which will make even fewer words necessary to convey ideas in the near-future. Similarly, in this example, the ideas behind intelligence and morality are collapsed into one catch-all term: political correctness.

Thus, political correctness is the first leg of the stealth triad propping up this postmodern academic backwardness. The second leg, meanwhile, is implied in the double-meaning of the term and is one that its disciples are not as unabashed about embracing, which is, of course, moral equivalence. Many practitioners of political correctness, though perfectly content, if not outright proud, at being labelled as such, often shirk at accusations of moral equivalence precisely because this term has not yet been rendered palatable to the extent that political correctness has. However, given that the progenitors of political correctness have succeeded in making fashionable a manner of speaking, thinking, and acting that is, by definition, overt obedience to a political diktat, such rhetorical transformation is only a matter of time. Regardless, as political correctness seeks to encompass both intelligence and morality, moral equivalence is an integral component which cannot be overlooked, since it speaks to the heart of how ethical hypocrisies are justified through the dissonance of this blinkered worldview.

Political correctness is a veritable geyser of unresolved and unresolvable hypocrisies. In order to justify the invariable disconnects and, in so doing, prolong the existence of itself as an ideology, various leaps in logic must needs take place, most of these affecting the realm of ethics. The Islamic terrorism of today, for example, is excused thanks to the Christian Crusades of a thousand years ago; a leap which makes use of the most cursory understanding of history as well as both a convenient ignorance of the passage of linear time and any subsequent enlightenments achieved by Western Civilisation along the way. The past is always present when the narrative is to be maintained. Or, as Orwell succinctly puts it in 1984, "He who controls the past controls the future. He who controls the present controls the past."

Not only time, but space as well, is flexible to such hindered minds. For instance, it has recently been evidenced that, when all police officers in the United States are conflated into one giant killer of black people, any killings of police officers by black people in the United States are deemed understandable at best and acts of revolution at worst. More relevant to the present political situation, though, is the selective discarding of ostensibly core progressive principles whenever political circumstances necessitate. Simply observe how easily the same promiscuousness that glossed over the transgressions of one womaniser morphs into the prudishness that nails another to the cross.

So the first two legs of this dystopian triad, political correctness and moral equivalence, are erected and maintained via ontological manipulations of time, space, and even principles, portending a progressive movement that is neither intellectual nor moral, despite professing to be both. To be clear in this regard, it is just as immoral in 1984 for O’Brien to force Winston to give the answer “5” to “2 + 2 =” as it is anti-intellectual.

Finally, as political correctness necessitates moral equivalence, the third leg of the triad is made manifest from the interplay of the two. In the wake of an ideological movement that coalesces intelligence and morality into one unit and, in so doing, negates the efficacy of both, it is no small effort to imagine a Guy Montag or a Number 6 or a Winston Smith asking, at least inwardly, what, therefore, is to become of culture? For the answer to this, one need only turn to their respective antagonists, the figureheads of these coming dystopias, who speak cryptically of a “new and better society” in which everyone is “made equal”.

To this effect, the goal of any equalising party, fortified by the stupidity of political correctness and the immorality of moral equivalence, is to erode all distinction between varying cultures by engaging in the nihilistic ideology of cultural relativism. As with conventional intelligence and morality, the cultural relativist regards conventional notions of cultures, imbued with inherent traditions and values, as suspect – most especially if such cultures have any track record of success on the global stage. The relativist, it must be understood, can only envision a culture as that culture stands in relation to others. If a successful one, the cynical presumption is that it must have achieved its wealth and status solely through surreptitious means, primarily by exploiting and pillaging the resources of other, less-successful cultures. In this understanding, the Magna Carta and the Bill of Rights play no role in the shaping, respectively, of British and American exceptionalism, for the focus here is myopically and lopsidedly trained only on imperialism and conquest of indigenous populations. Conversely, if a culture is unsuccessful, it is presumed to be a helpless victim, any pre-existing poverty or degradation patently no fault of its own. The best example of this in present times is the ease with which theocratic totalitarianism is discarded as the reason for deprivation across the Islamic world. To rectify any perceived global transgressions, therefore, national characteristics pertaining to the more successful culture, such as traditions, history, or, in some cases, even borders, are misrepresented, ridiculed, and, ultimately, demonised. Such is the eschatology of the religion of progressivism, a mental endgame given corporeal effect through the governmental apparatus of globalism.

By way of stark contrast, consider in this regard that the natural world, in its most primal sense, is a tableau of unalterable inequality despite its status as a borderless entity. Furthermore, let it be argued that this very inequality accounts for the incontrovertible aesthetic pleasure of nature. One tree is taller than another, one river flows faster than the next, one mountain towers above all. The birds have domain of the skies and the fish of the seas, whilst the lion is the undisputed king of the jungle and the lamb the living symbol of unexcitable tranquillity. In theory, the natural universe bespeaks an unstable chaos, and yet, as anyone with eyes can see, adheres to an inexplicably perfect order in practice. It is only the unfortunate lot of postmodern humans, however, to be subjected by their fellow species to the stupefying and demoralising process of an unnatural and enforced equalisation wherein legitimate intellect, morality, and culture are seen as barriers to a sanctimonious and smug New World Order in which the synthetic desires of the community take precedence over the natural rights of the individual. Perhaps it was to highlight this discrepancy of the self-enslavement of the human world in relation to its natural counterpart that compelled Orwell to envision another chilling dystopian allegory in Animal Farm. But even in 1984, it is no literary accident that the freedom of Winston’s dream-world, his radiant antidote to a grey bureaucracy, is symbolised by what the beleaguered protagonist lyrically terms “The Golden Country”.

As in the “new societies” of dystopian fiction, the task of the relativist is to denigrate and therefore eliminate all meaningful distinctions that give colour to life in general and human nature in specific. The fire brigade of Fahrenheit 451 obliterates literature to shield mankind from intellectual advancement, the villagers in “The Prisoner” are given numbers instead of names to prevent uniqueness, and the childhood memories of Winston Smith – his last vestiges of inner individual freedom after resolving himself to outer communal slavery – are irredeemably quashed at the close of 1984. Similarly, political correctness degrades education and the arts, moral equivalence makes a mockery of human ethics, and cultural relativism demolishes the very concept of nationhood, all to pave the way for the globalist monoculture, the political manifestation of a backwards academic ideology. In so doing, they elevate the bad whilst demoting the good, for any equalising dystopia can only be envisioned as utopia by the stupid, immoral, and culturally clueless.

Moreover, it can only be sold to them by a globalist oligarchy that, in terms of intelligence, morality, and patriotism, expects as little from the citizenry they rule as their citizenry expects of them.

And this is the way the world ends. Not with Trump’s bang, but a whimper of Clinton’s voters.

Sunday, September 25, 2016

Freedom: The Reason to See Little Joe (With A Postscript on the Defining the Norm Awards)



A few years ago, following a performance in Edinburgh, someone said of my shows that they were about freedom. Only on rare occasions throughout my nearly twenty-year career (if you can call it that) did I ever flirt with the possibility that any of my shows had a theme. During one run in San Francisco, I told the press that my intent with that particular piece (2007’s Grandpa, It’s Not Fitting) was to systematically slaughter every politically-correct sacred cow, in increasing order of social relevance, from the shallowness of Hollywood to the repression of the Koran in little over an hour. Usually, though, when queried about a theme by an interviewer or a prospective punter, I opt for the convenient catch-all terms of “dreamlike” or “nightmare-esque” or even “LSD trip”.

All monikers which could be applied to my latest opus: Little Joe. (playing 30 September and 1-2 October at the Museum of Comedy in Holborn)



But yet, when this woman revealed to me her analysis of my work, I instantaneously and appreciatively agreed with her. Freedom is exactly what my shows are about. Freedom from political correctness, freedom from industry approval. Freedom to say what I want, think what I want, and be what I want. Freedom to embrace and expose the subconscious in all its truthful beauty and not-so-beautiful truth. And perhaps I have likewise been hoping, all these years, to impart that liberating freedom to others who may suffer from groupthink, peer pressure, political correctness, and fear of cultural stigmatisation and social banishment. To simultaneously reap the rewards and suffer the blows that are part and parcel of steadfastly remaining an individual in the midst of an ever-expanding and increasingly authoritarian larger community. To live the life authentic. Yes, indeed -- my shows, my work, my life, are all precisely about freedom.

And Little Joe may be the freest show I’ve ever written. (playing 30 September and 1-2 October at the Museum of Comedy in Holborn) 


 THE DEFINING THE NORM AWARDS: WHY, WILL FRANKEN? WHY?

Many theories were circulating on social media and throughout Fringe pop-up bars in the wake of my publication of the nominees for the Defining the Norm Awards. Chief among them, undoubtedly, was that I had conceived of the awards as a way to get attention. This theory is promptly debunked if one takes into account two very obvious factors: 1) The nominees were published, in synch with the Lastminute.com Awards, at the end of the festival -- a time precluding any effective public relations coup. But more importantly, 2) Everything about the Fringe is an attempt to get attention. Hypocrisy? Yes, it just follows me around like a lost puppy dog.

Another theory was sugar-coated in the sort of faux compassion that is the hallmark of today’s aesthetic wasteland. There was concern expressed over my mental well-being and even armchair diagnoses that perhaps I was having a bi-polar breakdown of some sort, the awards being a manifestation of psychological illness. The implication here is that the glut of mundane, boring, predictable, overly safe, non-challenging, political-correct comedy must be an hallucination. If we don’t talk it about, it must not exist, right? See no evil, hear no evil, and – most definitely – speak no evil. And besides, with all the sycophantic fawning this year about shows dealing “bravely” with mental health issues, how come I didn’t receive more applause and acclaim for what some were characterising as an act of sheer madness? Or, more to the point, as Craig Campbell graciously reminded me backstage one night at The Stand, artists are supposed to be insane. Yes, indeed, Craig, once upon a time before business sense prevailed over artistic inspiration. Good dog, Hypocrisy, have another bone.

Within a mere ten minutes of the nominees being published, the issue of me being Sarah last year was raised, with a few outraged comedians desperately asserting – despite never having been to one of my shows – that my 2015 performance would itself have been a nominee for various Defining the Norm categories. But it’s near impossible for regular practitioners of hypocrisy to accuse another of the same, for they were, unsurprisingly, wrong – as is anyone who assumes that a comedian wearing a dress will spend an hour talking about wearing a dress, or a black comedian will spend an hour talking about being black, or a female comedian will spend an hour talking about being female. And to think that once, way back in the day, surprise was considered the most important element to comedy writing. Unquestionably, these are the very bigots the real anti-bigots need to confront. They’ve got all their boxes ready and waiting, so either hop inside of your own volition or feel their communal wrath.

In fact, it’s sometimes difficult to determine what flummoxed the comedy community more – this year’s awards or last year’s decision to live as Sarah and then become Will again. To this day, I see and hear comics I’ve never met speak authoritatively about both topics after first cautiously prefacing their diatribes with wishy-washy wording like My suspicion is. . .or I’ve not met the man, but my feeling is. . . “Feeling”, of course, being the vital linchpin term that can transform novice into expert, for anyone may speak in terms of feelings when so few converse in facts. How symptomatic of our diseased culture that people barely clever enough to be comedians deign to fashion themselves psychologists as well. Attaboy, Hypocrisy, come here and let me scratch yer head!

Other knee-jerk assessments of the DTN Awards were a bit more naked with their vitriol. Who is this foreigner to come here and tell us how to do comedy? screamed a self-righteous few. Well, allow me to introduce myself. This foreigner grew up worshipping – and was consequently heavily-influenced by -- what the best of British comedy once offered: Surrealism, absurdism, and satire. Little did I realise those art forms would be shoved aside to accommodate the now-prevalent pattern of comics sucking up to obtuse club owners and media fixtures, month after month, until that one magical time of the year when they’re allowed to go north of the border for three weeks and play at being Oprah Winfrey. We had confessional performances in the States as well and I didn’t like them out there either. Which is, of course, why I moved to Great Britain, my historical comedic home, birthplace of satire and the Sex Pistols.

Right on cue, there were also the inevitable lamentations that I was “punching down”. To this I say, has not our relativistic culture shown us that there are no longer such things as “up” or “down”? That anybody who wants to do comedy should be encouraged to do so? For we are all one happy comedy community and if we absolutely must complain about other comedians, we should either do it late night in a car, with one to three others, returning from a gig, or united as a massive front against a single individual – such as myself – who dares transgress the unwritten law that the illusion of the “happy comedy community” – for an illusion it truly is – must always prevail against the persistent tug of empirical reality. Oh, Hypocrisy, man’s best friend you are.

And besides, these awards were nothing if not egalitarian. I’d be hard-pressed to think of many other show business nomination lists that would unite eager young open-mikers with established mainstream television stars the way the DTN Awards did. Everybody and everything about the Fringe was covered honestly and fairly in one broad, all-encompassing sweep. Not to mention, any accusations of punching down are, by necessity, entirely contingent upon where I happen to be placed within the comedy hierarchy at any given moment. I know all too well how malleable a performer’s position can be when it comes to serving another’s argument. Last year, when I made the statement to The List that I thought Jon Stewart was “one of the least funny people on the planet”, the cries from the comedy community rose up as one: Who is this nobody going after an established guy like Jon Stewart? One year later, and the cry has suddenly transformed into: Who is this established guy going after these nobodies?

I have to admit here relishing at times the sweet irony that the highest levels of hatred for the Defining the Norm Awards emanated from bookers who never dared to put me one of their shows because -- dig this -- I’m not normal enough.  

So standing apart from, or, dare I say, above it all, one thing remains crystal clear. The reason for the proliferation of the disparate and incorrect theories about why I went through with the DTN Awards is because, to the average contemporary comedian whose limited outlook can only think in terms of careerist advantage or disadvantage, the actual explanation, simple though it may be, is one that such business-minded sorts would never (and could never) consider: I did it because I wanted to do it.

Now, that being said, there did appear one accusation that was quite tellingly accurate. Somebody had written in the first few hours following the nominee announcements: Will Franken seems to have a pretty high opinion of himself.

Why yes, I do. And I likewise have pretty high opinions of – in no particular order – The Beatles, Beethoven, James Joyce, Jonathan Swift, Lenny Bruce, William Blake, Peter Cook, and so many more.

Like all of the above, I am a free individual, slave to no community. I use intellect where stupidity is presumed, I use originality where formulaic is expected, I use merit where quotas are dangled, and I use rebellion where correctness is demanded. And it was a busy August indeed for this rebel. With the awards, I said “fuck you” to the comedic status quo. With my show, I said “fuck you” to the nature of reality itself. And I’m doing the latter again for three nights, right here in London town.

Little Joe. (playing 30 September and 1-2 October at the Museum of Comedy in Holborn)