Irritation is the Sincerest Form of Flattery

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Didn’t You Kill My Brother?

As goes the old saying

Big fleas are having little fleas upon their backs which are bite them, and little fleas have even littler fleas, and so on until you get to the littlest.

What I am referencing here to on this occasion by my witty apothegm above is the recent case of plaguerism in the Irish media spotted by Brian Whelan (Hack), who has been uplifting the veil yesterday to show how (allegedly) the Irish Esaminer columnist and ghostwriter Steven King has been publishing articles that are eerily similar to those which are also being written by former atheist communist Brendan O’Neill of Spooked Online, also known as The Dustbin of History. King, who was previously a political adviser to Nobel Peace Loyalist and First Minister of Northern Ireland David Trimble, probly espected that nobody would remark upon the identicalities between his own words and those of O’Neill because what he was saying was esactly what you would espect from someone of their persuasion, whatever it is, and therefore people’s eyes would glaze over before they got to the second paragraph. However, for anyone who could be bothered to look closer, such as the indefatigable Whelan, the resemblance is almost uncanny, as if O’Neill and King were of one, collective hive mind, like the Phoners, which ironically enough appear in King’s book Cell, or also the Borg, or else the Gerulaitis. King also knew that O’Neill was previously belong to the Revolutionary Communist Party, an organization which was notorious for the fact that its members have never had a single original thought in their entire lives-indeed, since that party disbanded all its members have become The Institute of an Idea-and therefore that what O’Neill wrote had already been thought before, only probly more eloquently and more lucidly by fascist writers such as myself.

Which is where I am come in. Because recently O’Neill was write what some people believed was a very witty parody of one of my own past blog posts for the British Empire newspaper the Daily Telegraph. This was an article in which he lament the death of bullfighting in Catalonia. You can read the article here, although you must forgive the typos, such as where it says “Brendan O’Neill is the editor of spiked, an independent online phenomenon dedicated to raising the horizons of humanity by waging a culture war of words against misanthropy, priggishness, prejudice, luddism, illiberalism and irrationalism in all their ancient and modern forms,” where it clearly means to say IN FAVOUR OF.

This is O’Neill in full flight:

To put a bull into a bullfight is to ennoble it. As a participant in a strange, centuries-old ritual, in a violent dance-off between man and beast, a bull acquires a significance far beyond its own natural existence. In fact, the only “purpose” in the life of a bull is that bestowed upon it by picadors and matadors – it is through their efforts, and their efforts alone, that a bull is transformed from being a rather pointless, instinctual beast into a noble creature worthy of being watched by an audience of thousands. In this sense, bullfighting is humane rather than cruel, since through the endeavour and labour of the bullfighting brigade a bull is given a use and purpose nature could never have designed for it.

What is a bull but a grunting creature destined to live a rather sad and short life of munching grass and impregnating cows? Through the humanity of the matadors, bulls selected for a bullfight are spared this terrible fate and are given something they could have never, in a million years, discovered for themselves: a purpose in life.

and here is me, writing in June of last year:

If history is teach us anything, it is that the majority of the world’s species alive today would not be alive were it not for the fact that they serve some purpose to humanity. The Dodo, for instance, is a prime esample. Once it had serve its purpose to mankind, in providing food, then it become estinct. Ecologists, sociologists, theologists, and macrobiotics are all unanimal on this: There would be no cows or pigs or sheeps on this planet, were it not for mankind husbanding them, wifing them, then killing and eating them. Is because mankind have a vested interest in their perpetuance that they are still around, whereas other animals that are not so tasty, such as the unicorn, are long gone. Why are you think Noah did not bother putting it in the ark? Because they are taste like shit! (And also because their horn could make significant damage beneath the water line if they broke loose and went on an escapade). Imagine what the world would be like with no cows, pigs and sheeps. It would be less smelly, certainly, and we could have a much better road and rail infrastructure once we had concrete over all those fields, but on the other hand, you would not have no hat. Nor sandals. Both of which are made from cow. You would have no bacon sarnies, no electricity, no pork scratching, and girls would have no pigtails, because they are all made from pig. And there would be no sheeps.

In similar, if you are to ban the corrida, you will be in ultimate saying goodbye to the bull. Not, however, in this case because the bull will estinctify. No! Let us be honest. Throughout all time, we have know that the bull is mankind’s natural enemy, after the Jew and the Muslim, that there is always been a danger in keeping sustained the bull population. But that was always the price we pay for the corrida. The bull is an estremely fierce and proud and big-balled beast. He lives for the corrida, for the opportunity to do battle with Man, to chase around the sawdust a multicolour curtain and diminutive hero with sword and lances and things. There is nothing finer, more noble, for the bull than to compete in the corrida, to choke slowly on its own lifeblood knowing that it have given everything in a carnal, cathartic orgy of agony, lust, muscles, meat, power, yearning, thrusting, and an object lesson in mortality in front of a crowd of appreciative Spanish aesthetes.

Si!! Is almost as if a ventriloquist had come into the room, inserted his hand into Brendan O’Neill’s anus, and then used his other hand to type an article having the same views as my own. After having had lunch with me. And washed his hands.

Now, I am not the sort of person to cast aspersiums or to even claim to having had any original ideas of my own. I get a lot of them from Top Gear. But I merely draw to your attention how those of us such as myself with small minds (by which I mean we have no audience of readers), can be sucked off by other slightly less small minds, and so on and so on up the food chain, like mercury. Is like a form of edmosis, in which partially formed ideas slowly crawl their way towards the light, similar to a scary foetus, until eventually everyone has got the same idea but have no idea where they got the idea from. It was me!

And therefore to those people who say that there is no point in me blogging my fascist views for nobody to read, I direct your attention to The Irish Examiner, the Sunday Independent, the Daily Mail, and, to a lesser estent, everything printed by News International, who may not have necessarily been hacking my phones but, well, they was hardly had need to.

I am not sure that I have any case to sue for any damages, but I console myself that the damages caused to society by my writing will more than compensate. I merely am sew the seed.

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One Response

  1. Small Girl

    October 6, 2011 7:44 pm

    Si. Ventriloquism of ideas is the sincerest form of fedmosis.

    Welcome back Manuel.