Tale of a Fallen Irish Warrior
Philip Francis Brennan was born in the little village of Kilsheelan in
South Tipperary in 1916, his mother’s fifth child and second son, with one baby girl to
arrive a year later. His father, also Philip, had another three teenage
daughters by a first wife who had died.
With a small farm and some merchant interests that included wine trading
(for which the market must surely have been tiny), Philip père was able
to support his large brood to a reasonable standard. His passion was
coursing; indeed he was a founder in 1916 of the
Coursing Club which prevails to this day. (Coursing is the
popular, largely Irish pastime of setting greyhounds to catch hares,
much reviled today by animal rights groups.)
But then disaster overtook the family. He succumbed to the Spanish Flu
which swept the world in 1918/19, spread largely by returning WW1
soldiers, which killed more people than the war itself. There has been
no pandemic like it since, though some say the H1N1 swine flu has the
potential to become equally lethal.
He left behind his widow Ethel to care for their six children under
eight plus three unruly step-daughters, but little in the way of assets
or income other than the farm. Life became immeasurably harder and
in 1930 Ethel expired, still a youthful woman of, essentially,
exhaustion. Her children were all under 20 when they were orphaned and
had to make their own way in life.
After his father died, little Phil had been sent to England to live much
of the time with his aunt Rachel, known universally as “Me-Ant”, in Bury
St Edmunds where she was a primary school headmistress. Thus,
though he also attended
College in Tipperary as a boarder, he spent many of his formative
years with Rachel.
it was as a young adult in England that he joined the Shepherd Neame
Brewery (makers of today’s iconic
Spitfire ale) as an apprentice brewer
with an assured-looking future. These were the peaceful mid-thirties
and before long he signed up to the volunteer reservists of the British
Territorial Army. Many young guys did likewise because, simply, it was
good fun. You did a bit of marching, went on camping trips, got to
shoot guns, enjoyed great camaraderie drinking beer together and chasing
girls, and even got paid a little money. What’s not to like?
However as a reservist Phil discovered in 1939, as did so
many American reservists in 2002 and 2003, that when war breaks out you
can to your surprise quickly find yourself in combat zones, not through
conscription but because you are already a trained volunteer member of
the armed forces.
That’s how Phil found himself commissioned as a Second Lieutenant gunner
with the Royal Artillery in France in 1940, as part of the British
Expeditionary Force sent in the vain attempt to keep the Nazi military
behemoth at bay. And of course it ended in disaster with the BEF chased
ignominiously back to the beaches of Dunkirk. There, over a fraught
period of just nine days in the early summer of 1940, a plucky armada of
850 professional and amateur boats sailing from southern England
rescued a third of a million men.
Phil was one of the last, having
stayed behind to
destroy guns which would otherwise have fallen to the Germans, for which
he got mentioned in despatches. But his travels, travails and war were just beginning.
He was just one of
70,000 men (and some women) from the
Republic of Ireland who joined the British armed forces in
order to fight the rising fascism, imperialism and global aspirations of
Germany, Japan and their assorted hangers-on, or should I say allies.
With Ireland staying out after deciding it didn’t have
a dog in this fight, some joined up for altruistic reasons, others for
adventure, a number for the money, some ended up conscripted while many, like Phil, were yoked
in by accident.
All were honourable and courageous young people who should never have
been regarded in their home country with the disdain they endured for so
many decades afterwards.
[Late (January 2012)
note: Five thousand of them, who had deserted the Irish Army to
fight Nazi and Japanese fascism, were
singled out for vindictive revenge by the State].
It is extraordinary (and disgraceful) that the
only statue in
Dublin to an Irish volunteer killed during World War 2 is to the IRA’s
in Fairview Park, who was the only one who supported and collaborated
with the Nazis.
Within two months of his rescue from Dunkirk, Phil had sailed to India
during its monsoon season, seconded to the 23rd Mountain
Battery within 25 Mountain Regiment. This formed part of the Royal
Indian Artillery, a unit to which he remained attached for the remainder
of his service. Always an avid equestrian, he was delighted his duties
included responsibility for the horses and mules that supported the unmechanised Battery.
My nonagenarian father remembers him well as a handsome, jovial, chatty
fellow with a great turn of phrase. This is evident in a letter he
wrote to one of his sisters shortly after his arrival. Having waxed
lyrical about a batch of flirtatious “airgraphs” he unexpectedly
received from some glamorous soldier-struck young ladies evidently in
their final year of school, he doesn’t say much about the fighting but
laments that he has never ridden an elephant or killed a tiger. However
there are lots of wild animals right there inside his tent doing a
highland fling round his hurricane lamp – beetles, grasshoppers and
From India he is transferred to Burma but by late 1941 he has been
moved westward again, to Quetta in today’s Pakistan, and after that to
Waziristan to the town of Razmak, better known in those days, he tells
us, as “the hole of the Empire”. It’s all territory familiar to today’s
Taliban and Al Qaeda and I doubt if contemporary soldiers fighting them
would much dispute such an epithet. Phil writes to “Me-Ant” that Ramzak is but a cantonment completely surrounded by barbed wire and “no
woman has ever been let within 40 miles of it”. He observes that the
local Pathan “has a great sporting instinct and considers careless
British officers fair game”. One such local, “Buckshee Bill” with his
“prehistoric” rifle, gains notoriety when he “shoots up six columns all
on his own and then comes and sits on a hill slap outside the wire,
taking further pot shots at officers, just for fun”. But he melts into
nothingness whenever soldiers are sent to stop him. Being Irish, Phil
admires these doughty men “because they’re all agin the government” and
wishes he could recruit such able fighters.
Yet he regrets not being in the thick of Japanese action, until he’s
suddenly whisked back to Burma, as adjutant to his regiment with the
rank of Major, one of the youngest in the British Army. Even then
however he is grumbling because “the Japs won’t fight” in Burma, a
thoroughly misguided conjecture as he later admits. He travels all
over Burma as no-one is sure where the invaders will appear, meeting Shans, Chins, Kachins, Karens, all with their own language and
customs. In fact it seems as if there are no Burmese in Burma at all.
His pleasant surroundings remind him of Ireland, except for the bamboo
and banana plants and “funny looking houses on stilts”. But the fun
stops when the army moves south to meet the Japanese invaders at last
and some mighty battles ensue with plenty of casualties on both sides,
though unfortunately the censors don’t allow him to relate details. In
his last letter, in June 1942, he is relieved to have survived “Round
One” unlike many of his pals, while he and his comrades prepare,
uncomplainingly, for the next round.
Next three paragraphs re-written 27th
due to emergence of additional information
Further clashes with the Japanese follow over the next five months but
details are sketchy, largely no doubt because he has apparently
volunteered to become part of the Army's
secret, special forces
guerilla organisation called V Force (V for volunteer). This
operates along the 1300 km mountainous Eastern Frontier of India running
from the Himalayas in the north to the Bay of Bengal in the south and
the Arakan region in Burma's north-west. V Force's remit is to remain
behind enemy lines to
harass their lines of
command, patrol enemy occupied territory, carry out post-occupational
sabotage and provide intelligence, with the overall objective of keeping
the Japanese out of India.
adventurous young volunteers who are brimming with energy, find army
regulations and traditions irksome and stuffy and are seeking
action, excitement and the danger of working behind enemy lines.
Phil is working and fighting in Arakan.
However on Tuesday 23rd November 1943,
as part of his V Force remit, he sets off early on his horse
to spy on Japanese positions with a colleague,
Anthony Irwin, whom he has to meet up with on the other side of the
Kalapazin river (on Google Earth, 20°50’14.60"N x 92°33’11.78"E).
Though it is deep and flowing deceptively fast, Phil is a strong
swimmer, so rides his horse into the water but they quickly get into
difficulty. He sends his horse back while Irwin swims out to help
him. But Phil, weighed down with his trousers, boots, pistols and
explosives, sinks from the grasp of his friend who himself almost drowns
in the attempt to save him. Irwin tells us that Phil’s last dying look is one of
rather than fear. He was just 27 years old.
Today Phil, who was my uncle, lies in the majestic
War Graves Cemetery, 35 kilometres north of Rangoon in Burma, to use
the old names, which I had the
of visiting in July.
He is but one of the cemetery’s 6,465 fallen warriors who heroically
gave their vibrant lives for an honourable cause, each with his own
story such as Phil’s. They come from Ireland, from all parts of
Britain, from India including today’s Pakistan and Bangladesh, from West
Africa; Christians, Jews, Hindus, Muslims, Atheists; of every rank from high to
low; each grave adorned with the same style of simple gravestone; all
equal in death. The majority of them were, like Phil, in their
twenties. But one was only sixteen. Imagine. Some of the inscriptions
from distraught families would break your heart: “my only son”, “his
warrior grave”, “he vowed to do his best and he did”, “our
own lives shattered”.
Another monument names 1,074 fallen Indian soldiers who
have been cremated as their religious rites require. 28 monumental
pillars are inscribed with the names of a further 27,000 men and women
whose bodies were never recovered – hailing from Burma, India, Nepal,
Africa and numerous other parts, many of them slave-labour victims of
the brutal Japanese project to build a railway line to bring military
supplies from Bangkok to Rangoon, immortalised in the 1957 movie “The
Bridge on the River Kwai”.
And Taukkyan is just one of three such cemeteries in Burma, which was
itself just one small corner of a vicious global conflict.
We in the free world truly owe an extraordinary debt to these brave
young people who fought and died so valiantly to preserve it for us. We
can repay it only by doing whatever we can to continue to safeguard
human freedom. Sadly, Burma itself is one country where it has been
extinguished, by its totalitarian junta.
Let me close by using the final, poignant words of Pat
Carmichael, in his book
Mountain Battery, which provides further details of my uncle Phil's
deeds in Burma and ends by transcribing Anthony Irwin's account of his
“When you go home,
Tell them of us and say,
For your Tomorrow
We gave our Today”
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Observations from a Trip
Myanmar may not be every tourist’s first port of call, but it has much
to recommend a visit, assuming you have the perseverance to obtain a
visa. I made a trip there in July.
The nearest embassy is in London, but requires that you post away your
passport for three days. Alternatively, you can visit a Myanmar embassy
in person. Once you have filled in countless forms, provided copies of
your passport and travel details, furnished three passport photos and
paid the requisite fees, the process is rather simple and courteous. I
applied in Kuala Lumpur, where I was impressed to read a sign saying
that passports would not be issued or renewed for Myanmar citizens
unless they could prove they were income tax compliant. What an
excellent idea to emulate.
Flights to Myanmar are few, but there is a daily service out of
airport, though small, is very new, spacious and all glass and marble.
Immigration and customs work fine once you’ve filled out even more forms
and had the stern uniformed officials minutely scrutinise your papers.
There is a helpful, English-speaking tourist office in the airport when
you’ve cleared customs. You’ll find that foreign mobile phones don’t
work (you need to buy a local SIM card) but the internet does – just
about and very slowly, but not Skype, all subtle reminders that you’re
in a totalitarian state where communication must remain controllable.
the airport, Yangon city, 20 km away, is really ramshackle – clearly no
maintenance has been carried out for the
47 years the generals have been running the place.
It reminded me
of Lagos (Nigeria) in the 1970s or Hong Kong in the 50s – dirty, broken
paving stones, potholed roads, rust-bucket vehicles, dilapidated
one-time gracious buildings from a bygone colonial era, hawkers selling
food on the street (in fact after dark every pavement transmogrifies
into a restaurant), mothers washing their naked toddlers in the drains,
laundry hanging out of the windows to dry (in the rain), coolies asleep
on make-shift beds (their only home). The only things in good condition
seem to be huge and magnificent gold-clad pagodas – hence the country’s
moniker, “the golden land”. Yet it has a certain charm, and at the same
time, everyone seems very friendly and eager to talk to a foreigner – of
whom there seemed to be very few.
Everything is extraordinarily cheap for someone with hard currency.
Moreover, you quickly learn not to change money in the bank: a private
money-changer will give you three times as many “Kyats” (pronounced
biggest banknote is a thousand Kyats, worth about a US Dollar, so you
end up with a huge wad of bills. My downtown hotel, the
Panorama, cost US$30 a night for a huge clean room, complete with
bathroom, TV, minibar, aircon and breakfast. A typical dish in a
restaurant will set you back a couple of Euros; another Euro will buy
you a pint of the local beer, called Myanmar. For under forty Euro, you
can have an ancient car with English-speaking driver at your disposal
for a full day’s sightseeing.
Myanmar, the size of France, is the largest country in Southeast Asia,
1900 km north to south (its coastline is of
similar length), with 48 million people, 90% of them Buddhists.
It’s divided into fourteen provinces, most with their own language and
culture – Hmongs, Shans, Chins, Kachins, Karens and of course Myanmarese
to name but a few. So you’ll need a lot of car-days to see much of
other hand, a day-trip out of Yangon can delight. The pagodas that dot
of four million and the surrounding area are magnificent places of
worship, in immaculate condition and wonderfully illuminated at night
by search lights, all funded by private donations from people who have
very little to spare. To see the wonderful buildings, statues,
paintings and other icons and the devout behaviour of worshippers coming
to pray almost makes you want to convert to Buddhism.
talk privately to the people – and a surprising number have a good
command of English – you quickly learn that there is a visceral hatred,
shared by perhaps 90% of the populace, for the military junta that
governs them. Citizens believe that spies and informants are
everywhere, and that you can trust no-one you don’t know, much as the
Stasi infiltrated East German society during the depraved decades of the
Soviet Empire. There is a ban on all (self declared) foreign
correspondents, while photographing anything remotely military will have
your camera confiscated.
other hand, citizens welcome illicit activities such as black markets as
symbols of political defiance as much as acts of economic necessity.
This includes sale, by men armed with oildrums, jugs and hoses, of
unlimited petrol for a 50% mark-up, since the state will sell you only
nine litres a day at its official filling stations.
will tell you they yearn for democracy and truly revere Nobel laureate
Aung San Suu Kyi, currently facing a five-year prison term on
trumped up charges, mainly because her period of house arrest has
expired. They have watched with fascination the recent upheavals in
Iran, as similarly repressed people have sought to seize freedom from an
equally wicked fascist regime. The Myanmar junta fear only one thing:
what would ensue were they to do the obvious thing and kill the pesky
lady. They seem to believe that the consequent public outrage would
indeed spell the end of not just the junta but no doubt the lives of the
“Leader General”, Tan Shwe and his cohorts.
best traditions of nationalism and socialism (a deadly combination -
especially when combined into a single word),
the generals forbid most forms of foreign investment and ensure major
industry, such as there is, remains in the hands of the State. It
prefers to deal with fellow totalitarian governments, for example China
for mineral mining and timber exports, North Korea for secret tunnel
building (and maybe even
outsourced nuclear activity). For this reason,
you see none of the familiar multinational names – such as
Exxon, Starbucks, Citibank, nor can you use your credit cards. Private
enterprise itself is impeded by bureaucratic red tape, except for very
rudimentary businesses such as taxis, primitive restaurants, small
shops. Yet as in every totalitarian state, you are in no danger of
being mugged in the street. This is because crime, like all important
businesses, has been nationalised and is the monopoly of the junta’s
all-pervasive state machinery, the only entity allowed to rob, rape and
several other Asian and African countries illustrate the same point,
Myanmar is a classic illustration of the power of freedom and
capitalism, or rather what happens when these are suppressed – poverty
and lack of development. Myanmar has an average GDP of just
US$1,200 per person which puts it among the bottom eighth in the
world, even poorer than Haiti. Yet it is a nation rich in potential,
with plenty of arable land, a 1900 km eminently fishable coastline,
timber, metal ores, marble, limestone, precious stones, hydrocarbons,
hydropower and a large young bright population. The people know that
the only reason Myanmar fails to emulate the performance of their much
envied Asian neighbours such as Thailand, Malaysia, Singapore is the
iron hand of the reviled junta. They live in hopes that one day
democracy will arrive, even if, some will whisper, courtesy of an
reminded of what Thomas Jefferson once said,
the people fear their Government, there is tyranny.
When the Government fears the people, there is liberty.”
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World, Yangon - Restaurant
In Yangon, the main city of Myanmar (Rangoon and Burma for the more
traditional) you seem to have a choice of three kinds of restaurants.
There are a couple of five-star hotels, such as Traders, where you will
get the kind of service, cuisine and prices you expect at the Four
Seasons or Mandarin Hotel in any major city (so why would you go to one in Yangon?).
there are establishments,
some with grand names such as the Global
Restaurant, that front onto and over the street with ancient tiled
floors and decrepit furniture like your granny’s kitchen but without her
attention to cleaning, sweeping and maintenance. These, and similar
ones that appear only on the streets after dark, are the city’s busiest
restaurants, many with open charcoal fires cooking strange-looking body
parts, but with plenty of rice and delicious spicy smells. They are so
cheap the proprietors almost pay you to eat there.
The third type aspires to be upmarket and goes some way to achieving
this. Lion World is one, situated on the corner of Shwedagon Pagoda
Road which leads to the magnificent golden-roofed eponymous pagoda
(Illustrated in previous post), and Bogyoke Aung San Road, which
commemorates the assassinated father both of independent Burma and of
the brave, beautiful, jailed Aung San Suu Kyi. It is located on a wide
verandah on the first floor of a bedraggled building, with tables set
out in pairs along its length and a lit stage at one end. You can get
there via an outside staircase or take the lift. But if you take the
lift you have to wait while a little man runs to switch on the
generator, and hope the generator keeps chuntering till you reach our
I went there two nights in a row and enjoyed the identical culinary and
other experience each time. The attraction wasn’t just the wonderful
spicy fried rice served with microthin slices of pickled onions (1500
Kyats, pronounced Cha’, or €1.20 at the black market rate) and the big,
plump, freshly barbecued prawns (60 cent each), or even the man-sized
milk-jug of ice-cold Myanmar beer – that’s the brand name, not just the
country – for a princely two euro. Or the pages of other delights that
filled the menu, mainly variations on curries involving pork, fish,
goat, chicken, mutton.
There also was, for want of a better word, a perpetual floor show.
Accompanied by a one-man electronic keyboard band,
succession of young girls would get up and sing the latest Myanmar
love-songs. These were delivered with deadly solemnity, the girl’s face
always hidden behind her huge microphone, sometimes even singing in
tune, and often garlanded by a waiter with a tinfoil boa or a bouquet of
plastic flowers. The important thing was the amplifier with the bass
set at its thud-thud-thud maximum, which would have the barbecued prawns
jumping off the plate and into your spicy fried rice. Her number
accomplished, the singer would then immediately rush off the back of the
stage lest anyone should add to her confusion by applauding. Which
nobody ever did.
The singers would then be interspersed with an extraordinary fashion
show down a scruffy red-carpeted catwalk constructed between the
slender young ladies would show up on stage and one-by-one parade,
steely-faced, looking neither right nor left and obviously consumed with
embarrassment, down the catwalk. But each would be wearing the
identical attire, either an evening gown or a day outfit and always
altitude-sickness heels, preferably studded with diamonds. Sadly, it
was impossible to elicit as much as a smile or a grin or a twinkle from
any of these Myanmar models. I know; I tried (but then sensible girls
always run a
mile when I attempt to be suave). For their final act, the mannequins
would parade in a crocodile line up and down the catwalk. Then, after
another warbler, the eight girls would return and perform the selfsame
act but in a different communal costume.
Since there were no announcements or advertisements to tell you where
you could buy the clothes being displayed, it was a mystery to me who
was paying for the costly show and why. At the ridiculous prices being
charged for food and drink, the restaurant itself could not have had
much of a margin for such frivolity.
Photography in Lion World is strictly forbidden, especially of the
fashion models, for fear that this would inexorably lead to the collapse
of public morals. So I dodged the waiters and photographed them anyway
on the principle of act-now-apologise-later. Sorry.
Despite everything I have said, however, the atmosphere was rather
charming and delightful, and the food was delicious and very
economical. I would certainly recommend Lion World – but don’t sit too
near to those monster loudspeakers with their woofers. And leave your
camera at the hotel.
Late Note (1 Sep 09):
Oh, and as I later discovered via the internet, the far end
of the long thin restaurant turns out to be the centre of Yangon’s gay
scene, though it looked pretty tame to me.
In any case I escaped unscathed.
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Billions and Trillions
In this extraordinary age of Government stimuli and bank bailouts, ultimately to be funded
by taxpayers, their children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren as
yet unborn, it is helpful to understand the kinds of units being bandied
around. In Europe it’s stimuli in the Billions and hundreds of
Billions of €uro (or Pounds); in America
the Messiah prefers Trillions of Dollars.
But who can really understand what these numbers mean in practice?
Well here’s a way.
Suppose instead of €uros, Pounds and Dollars, we
were talking about seconds ticking by. Suppose, for example, that you
are being being paid, per second, one €uro or one Pound or one Dollar. How long, do you
think, before you will have earned a million, or a billion?
Here’s the answer:
One second =
= 10 seconds
seconds = 1.7 minutes
This illustrates the terrifying reality of exponentialism in action.
Makes you think, no?
And as I’ve
argued separately, these stimuli are entirely unwarranted, because
the drops in oil price and associated commodities over the past year are
providing more than enough stimuli to world economies, and should at
least be given a chance to work their magic before adding to them out of
taxpayer's pocketsw. Moreover,
they not only never need to be paid back, but will last only so long as
the depressed world economy requires them.
Why should our grandchildren and yet unborn great-grandchildren be
burdened, without any consultation, with repaying the trillion €/£/$ debts to meet our unnecessary profligacy? Why, as a result, should they
be forced to lead less wealthy, less comfortable lives than we ourselves
Don’t listen to people’s guff about caring for the wellbeing of children
and for their future. Anyone who supports these billions and
trillions of spending clearly has nothing but the utmost contempt for children,
for tiny babies, for the unborn and for the yet unconceived.
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Comments to Cyberspace
I have been idle during my two months absence
- only managed to stir myself into making half-a-dozen cybercomments of note.
Do you think the G8 commitments on climate change
mark a new departure in the fight to reduce greenhouse gas emissions?
Comment in the Irish Times
in response to a poll question
The G8 commitments mark a new departure
certainly, in the sense of committing even more of taxpayers’ money to
the cause. But it won’t make the slightest difference to the march of
the climate. Firstly, the world’s average temperature has been cooling
throughout this century ...
Do you think Bernard Madoff’s 150 year sentence is excessive?
Comment in the Irish Times in response to a poll question
You’ve got to hand it to Bernie. Once the law was on to
him, he knew the game was up for him personally. The gigantic nature of his
frauds, plus his advanced years, meant that he would never get out of prison
alive. So he obviously brought his family together (wife, sons,
brothers) and said words to the effect,
“I’m dead meat ...
Should the entire primary school infrastructure be taken into public
ownership?Comment in the Irish Times in response to a poll question
Absolutely not. When was this government - or any government anywhere -
able to run schools, or indeed any business? That is where their competency
most definitely does not run. If the schools are to be wrenched from the religious
The modern heresy of true science
Comment in the Spectator-hosted Melanie Philips Blog
The “science” that purports to prove global warming is caused
by anthropogenic CO2 is indeed bunkum. Just have a look at this
guide to the molecular physics involved. To summarise, CO2
molecules warm the world by vibrating when hit by infrared rays from the
sun bouncing off the earth. It’s the vibrations that give off heat.
But the molecules are tickled into vibrating by only 8% of the infrared
spectrum. Moreover, ...
Should the world fear North Korea’s latest sabre rattling?
Comment in the Irish Times to a poll question
North Korea’s improved nuclear weapons, its renunciation of the 1953
armistice and the unpredictability of Kim Jong Il its dictator make for
a very dangerous combination indeed. With the two Koreas now technically
back in a
war, does Seoul wait for a bomb to arrive from the North or does it
pre-empt and invade? In either event, dreadful conflagration could
follow, sucking in both China and America, the respective allies.
And what will Iran do as it watches ...
Should the Government freeze the assets of religious orders
that refuse to pay more compensation to abuse victims?
Comment in the Irish Times in response to a poll question
The Government voluntarily landed itself with 90% of the compo tab due
solely to the utter ineptitude of Minister Woods, his negotiators and
the Cabinet of the day. Nevertheless, a signed contract cannot under the
law be unilaterally invalidated, which is what in effect the freezing of
assets would be attempting ... Every - EVERY - adult played his/her part
in these hideous abuses ...
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Quotes for Issue 194
- - - - - O B A M A - - - - -
“I don’t have all the facts ... the Cambridge Police acted
President Barack Obama responds
to a planted question
over a minor irrelevant law-enforcement incident
in spite of knowing that he didn’t know the full facts about
the rightful arrest of his friend Professor Henry Louis
for disorderly conduct.
The next day he reinforced his comment.
The day after that he semi-retracted it but didn’t apologise.
Then he invited all involved for a beer at the
Is such behaviour presidential,
or just racist?
Quote: “And so next to Obama beach, we
join President Obama to pay particular tribute to the spectacular
bravery of American soldiers who gave their lives.”
A Freudian slip by a fawning Gordon Brown,
speaking at D-Day commemorations at Omaha Beach
“I would hope that a wise white male with the
richness of his experiences would more often than not reach a better
conclusion than a Latina woman, who hasn’t lived that life.”
That’s what President Obama’s Supreme Court
Sonia Sotomayor, a second generation Hispanic American,
and obviously a racist, didn’t quite say.
A member of the
National Council of La Raza (The Race),
she said it with the
“wise white male”
“The Holy Koran teaches that whoever kills an
innocent, for other than manslaughter or
infidelity] in the earth, it is as if he has
killed all mankind; and whoever saves a person, it is as if he has
saved all mankind. Our messengers came
unto them of old with clear proofs (of Allah’s sovereignty), but
afterwards lo! Many of them become prodigals of the earth. The only
reward for those who make war upon Allah and His messenger and
strive after corruption in the land will be that they will be killed
or crucified, or have their hands and feet on alternate sides cut
off, or will be expelled out of the land.”
President Barack Hussein Obama quotes
verses 5:32-35 from the Koran, approvingly.
Except he leaves out the inconvenient bits in
in order to deceive his infidel listeners
into thinking that the Koran somehow promotes peace and harmony.
“[Overseas,] neither friend nor foe respects
And neither will be led by him.”
editor of Human Events
and one time deputy undersecretary of defence under George HW Bush.
He is commenting on, inter alia,
North Korea’s rocket and nuclear testing,
Israel’s continued expansion of West Bank settlements,
Iran’s deployment of warships in the Gulf of Aden,
Nato’s allies refusal to send combat troops to Afghanistan.
Joe Biden was uncomfortably prescient when,
alluding to his running mate’s inexperience, he
said last October
“it will not be six months before
the world tests Barack Obama like they did John Kennedy
... we’re going to have an international crisis.”
“Them Jews ain’t going to let him talk to me.”
Rev Jeremiah Wright, the deeply unpleasant
who married the Obamas, christened their children
and preached to the Obamas for twenty years,
reminds everyone that he is as thoroughly racist as ever.
“I’d burn Israeli books myself if I found any in
libraries in Egypt.”
Farouk Hosni, Egypt’s Minister of Culture,
who has been nominated as the next head of UNESCO,
the United Nations
“Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization”.
His confirmation will confirm the UN’s
Jews cannot possibly contribute anything to education, science or
Personally, I would put the UN in charge of
dishing out Nobel prizes
to ensure Israel doesn’t add to its unwarranted tally of eight.
- - - - - C A N A D A - - - - -
“So much of the criticism Israel faces is
motivated by a dangerous form of anti-Semitism that tries to hide
behind anti-Zionism and is represented by a coalition of the far
left in the West with extreme currents of jihadi Islam that seek the
destruction of the Jewish nation. They seem to believe that the
Jewish people are the only people in the world that don’t have a
right to a homeland.”
Jason Kenney, Canada’s minister of
citizenship, immigration and multiculturalism,
“Best Overall MP”
by fellow parliamentarians.
He is that rare breed of Western politician,
prepared to identify the blindingly obvious
modern incarnation of ancient anti-Semitism.
- - - - - G E R M A N Y - - - - -
“The fall in the [ethnic German]
population can no longer be stopped. The downward spiral is no
longer reversible. It will be a Muslim state by 2050.”
The German Government, via its Federal
is the first in Europe to admit a horrifying reality.
The Germans’ current fertility rate is just 1.3
babies per woman,
a demographically suicidal rate
which history has shown to be impossible to recover from.
- - - - - L I S B O N T R E A T Y - - - -
France, 80% of the legislation passed by the National Assembly in
Paris originates in Brussels — that is, at the European Union’s
civil service. Who drafts it? Who approves it? Whom do you call to
complain? Whom do you run against and in what election? And where do
you go to escape it? Not to the next town, not to the next county,
not to the next country.”
Mark Steyn encapsulates EU lawmaking and the
Lisbon Treaty nicely
- - - - - C L I M A T E - - - - -
“Worrying is the way the responsible citizen of an
advanced society demonstrates his virtue: he feels good by feeling
Adam Boysel of Muscatine, Iowa,
writing to Mark Steyn
about (what I call) the
“Politics is made up of two words:
which is Greek for
which are bloodsucking insects.”
Gore Vidal, sometime in the 1980s;
cousin of Al the professional global warm-monger
- - - - - C L E R I C A L A B U S E - - - - -
“As a congregation, we recognise and accept our
culpability along with our moral obligation to former residents, to
present and future generations of children and to society as a
The Christian Brothers, one of Ireland’s leading clerical orders,
accepts responsibility for
the physical, sexual and emotional abuses it heaped
on children under its care during the past century.
There were eighteen other clerical orders
who committed similar violations
- - - - - - M I C H A E L J A C K S O N - - - - - -
“We want to celebrate this white man. He belongs to
us and we shared him with everyone else.”
In typical racist fashion, Jamie Foxx claims
Michael Jackson as a fellow white man.
Oops! Typo! For
Of course, when black guys such as Mr Foxx
say this stuff, it’s not racist.
Though it is surely racist to measure blacks’ racist behaviour
by a lesser standard
that that of whites’.
It all gets rather complicated.
But the irony is that Michael Jackson hated
and spent his life (and a chunk of his fortune)
changing himself through drugs and surgery
from being a black man into a white woman,
with, interestingly, children who are fully Caucasian.