BOY GEORGE, I THINK HE'S GOT IT
The original transgender-bender is back! Back on the Left's naughty step, that is...
This being the decade that made even the 1980s look cool, it is worth casting a jaundiced weather-eye back on the decade of yuppies, bad motor-car design and even worse haircuts for both men and women. Even the 70s were better for coiffure. If the members of Aha! walked into a Wetherspoon pub now, we suspect the forests would echo with laughter.
On the subject of the world of pop music, it was all going a bit electronic back in the time of Tony Blair and Chris Tarrant. Pop was quantised, mechanical music that took 4/4 time to its logical conclusion. You can hide that Howard Jones vinyl album at the back of the stack all you like, but the truth will out when you get your new date back to your place and she starts going through your vinyl from the back not the front. But, amidst the synthmania (good name for a kid born right now in California), there were some rubies in the dust.
Culture Club had a string of hits that were surprisingly easy on the ear, although none – in the view of the poor kid at BI Towers we force to listen to music – more sweet and charming than the sultry lover’s rock of Do You Really Want to Hurt Me? by the otherwise clothes-horse band fronted by the greatest androgyne since Bowie, Boy George.
Of course, and as you would expect, a pretty poofter with right-on political credentials and a token black man in his band, was lionised by the Loony Left (try saying ‘lionised by the Loony Left, by the way, seven times quickly, while you’re here). But, as the great Primo Levi titled a book, that was then and this is now. A cross-head from Pink News, the mag that has everything for those who bat for the other team;
‘Boy George: Leave your pronoun’s [sic] at the door’.
Yup, the Karma Chameleon has finally shown his true colours, and the Left are not amused. To be fair, the Left are rarely amused, having outlawed humour, but you take our point.
The Boy has come out – again – and said that the recent fad for gender pronouns is ‘modern attention-seeking’. Isn’t everything, just at the moment? All the Democrat presidential hopefuls included their ‘preferred pronouns’ in their Twitter profiles, although Elizabeth Warren got hers wrong. We thought it was ‘Mini Ha-Ha’. But that is a tale for, as Percy Bysshe Shelley wrote in the last verse of The Witch of Atlas, the weird winter nights. (I am fairly sure we covered clever-clogs digressions at the last staff meeting. No? Apparently not. Ed.).
Anyway, say the Left. Bad Boy. Naughty step. Cue a rather limp-wristed, bitch-slapping handbag fight on the various dimbo social media bouncy castles the usual suspects infest.
The cultural Left are going to end up like the Monty Python sketch in which the sarn’ major – and good VE day to you all, by the way – ends up dismissing all his squaddies and marching around the parade ground by himself.
Call yourself what you want to call yourselves. Just don’t pass it into law. A simple maxim that launched the career of Jordan Peterson.
The cultural Left are trying to reduce the English language to three words, which The Beatles have already pointed out; I, Me, Mine.