[It is with great pleasure that Paisley's Pants opens up it's pages to other commentators, hopefully to provide a more broad range to you, our dear readers. The first, is Captain Sir Arthur T. Fortesque (ret.), who will comment sporadically on these pages for the coming few months at least.]
Not a week ago, I was in Mr Smith’s, in my humble opinion the finest butcher in Lower Oldhamhall. I do enjoy a once weekly trip into the village, the walk is most pleasant in the morning, and one can work up quite an appetite for Mrs King’s mid-morning tea. After purchasing my usual meats, I saw that Mr Smith had liver for sale. I, being naturally light-hearted in nature, made a comment that I hadn’t had a good faggot for a while. Mr Smith replied that it was hard to come by a good faggot these days, what with all these queers about! Oh how we laughed! But then, to my astonishment, another customer in the shop took umbrage at Mr Smith’s remark, and told him, no less, that the correct term was a homosexual, and that he found the term ‘Queer’ offensive! I was taken aback on two counts here: firstly, that the parish council are so lax as to let these nancy, Guardian reading types into the village; and secondly at the sheer audacity of the aforementioned nancy Guardian reader to challenge Mr Smith on his choice of word to describe these degenerates! It is, as the title of this piece suggests, ‘Political Correctness Gone Mad’. I subtitled this piece ‘An Opinion’ cautiously. I’m sure in Blair’s Britain that it’s actually rather frowned upon to hold one.
But where does this culture of political correctness come from? It stems from three things: women, children, and homosexuals.
In the 1960s, I was an officer in Her Majesty’s Army, posted away from England for long periods, and unaware of changes afoot in dear old Blighty. Perhaps if I had been aware of what was going on, maybe I would have been more anxious to come home, rather than defend Her Majesty’s Empire. Obviously the real threat came not from those damned Indian’s wanting independence, but from our very own women. No longer were they sweet, doe eyed dears, waiting back home for their husband’s return; having dinner prepared on the table for when he walks in through the door after a hard day in the city, doing a job far too complex for her fragile little mind, which is more suited to flower arranging. No, suddenly, British women were cutting their hair short, burning their bras and demanding equal rights. The damned cheek of it! After all men had done for them, earning money, keeping them in the style they had become accustomed to – the latest kitchen utensils, needlecraft kits, flower arranging periodicals – after all this, women were just throwing back in our faces! They wanted the opportunity to apply for top jobs, they wanted equal pay, they wanted maternity leave! Surely this last point highlights the difference between men and women the most – women are designed for childbearing, men are designed for hunting. And women, having smaller brains, simply cannot cope with the demands of high-powered jobs. Men gave these concessions. But were women happy? Oh no, now they wanted to change men’s attitudes towards them – they were no longer ‘birds’; one could no longer touch their bottoms in the workplace, no matter how pert; one had to include them in meetings, and at least pretend to note down ideas that they had. But, were women happy? No! They still expected men to give up their seats on a bus or train. It was a disgrace to the good name of this country.
My second point – children. I had a happy, wholesome childhood. Nanny suckled me until I was three, at which point I was sent to prep school in Weston-Super-Mare, and then onto Eton. I remained at boarding school until I was eighteen, at which point I entered the army, training as an officer. My childhood was one of conkers and cricket, of caning and Cartwright, the sadistic Latin Master. I knew not the evils of pop music, of drugs, of sexual intercourse. The children of today are a mess. I know not of one child who is not drugged up to her eyeballs on heroin while she is made pregnant by some oik called Wayne, who more than likely is the product of his own sister. What is more, institutions such as manners and grammar seem to have been lost to an incessant wave of sex and violence on television. Children can no longer amuse themselves without getting pregnant, high or arrested. What happened to the good old conker? And marbles? I know not of one child who has been arrested playing marbles (Stinker came close when a master caught him playing after lights out – gosh he really got such a thrashing. Couldn’t sit down for a week). What is needed with today’s youth is corporal punishment! A good thrashing with the cane never hurt anyone! But what do we have instead? A society which mollycoddles, and nurses children. Take it from me, the Empire was not built by Social Services workers, but by the cricket, caning and good honest buggery of a boarding school education.
Finally, homosexuals. Some have the audacity to suggest that the Empire itself was built by homosexuals, it being inbred in anyone who received a boarding school education. Well let me reply to them that there is a world of difference between the friendly buggery between prefect and boy at school and the debauched world of disease and sleaze that degenerates inhabit. Am I the only one in this green and pleasant land that is shocked at the increase in homosexuals on television, and the subsequent increase of retardation in the young? Look at the television schedules for tonight (which is a Saturday). There are ‘Ant’ and ‘Dec’ presenting some dross where a member of the working class could win a dishwasher; countless footballers poncing around on Match of the Day; and finally a talent show where the winner is openly gay. Now tell me that all this degeneracy is not having an effect on our young population. I myself witnessed a single mother (I shall not pass comment) dressing her son in a pair of pink sports trousers. I confronted the lady, who informed me that her daughter in fact liked the colour pink. I replied that if that was a girl, why was she wearing trousers, and not a pretty pleated skirt like girls were supposed to. I did not understand the reply that I received, as the lady quite failed to enunciate properly, but needless to say, it was not pleasant.
So, here we have the three root causes of political correctness. But why must we do something about them? Well my dear readers, we must act now to maintain decency and standards in this glorious land of ours. It is a sad day when I can no longer go to my local butcher and use the word ‘queer’. It is a sad day when, after being attacked by a terrorist organisation, we cannot say 'Death to all rag-head scum’, and instead must settle for the ineffective ‘Unpleasantness to anyone who had something to do with this, but only after they have been given a fair and honest trial by a foreigner’.
It is a sad day, readers, when I cannot touch the bottom of a lady who catches my eye without being reprimanded. Unfortunately for us, readers, we may have to endure this for some while longer: while Tony Blair’s Labour government is in power, we will continue to have homosexuals (Peter Mandelson) and women (Charles Clarke) thrust upon us in politics, and we will have a government which will continue to fail to ban the working classes from having children. It is time for change, and I urge you all to join me in calling for it.