Fort Worth, Texas
To the best state in the Union for the annual John Randolph Club meeting of true conservatives, hip, hip. No posturing peacocks spouting gibberish learned at university diversity courses here, but witty, juicy, intelligent criticisms of today’s cultural sewer, and the part liberals and the enemies of Christendom have played in destroying our society. ‘I disagree with everything you have been saying and doing, you atheists, liberals, diversity freaks and multiculturalists, and I will fight to the death against your right to say it and do it,’ was the common thread which united us few, us happy few, us drunken few by the time the three-day conference was over.
The even better news was Miss Teresa Mull, a blonde 22-year-old Texan beauty who approached me with her two brothers after I had finished moderating the last debate and challenged me to take her to a nightclub. The bad news is that her two brothers are tall, young, very good-looking, and one of them does MMA, which means mixed martial arts, which really means no-holds-barred fighting to the finish. So I took all three, along with Captain Chris Myers and Major Mike of the United States Marines, and made a night of it. Yes, I plan to see Miss Teresa again when she comes to New York, and why not? I’m only 53 years older than she is. So what? And another thing. The days and sleepless nights I spent pining for the deputy editor of the Speccie are over and done with. Finished. Gone. Kaput.
The theme of the conference was Christendom and her enemies, and I was the opening speaker on Friday evening, fresh off the aeroplane and full of venom as never before. I spoke about certain atheists and their divine punishment and some in the audience visibly flinched. That is what is so good about the spoken word. Once it’s out there, only the police can do something about it, but Texan cops had other things to worry about, especially south Dallas, where our black cousins are killing each other in record numbers over drugs. Mind you, the thought police are everywhere, especially in merry old England, where had I said what I said in Texas I’d most likely be back in Pentonville by now. Such are the joys of freedom under political correctness. For the moment I’ll take Texas — until the Brits smarten up and tell the diversity Nazis where to get off, that is.
Mind you, not everything is hunky-dory in the Home of the Brave. Especially when travelling. Never have I heard such inane comments as when my Noo Yawk neighbours on the flight down began a spirited conversation about…movies. Americans, and Brits, alas, no longer travel with a book, but with a black contraption they hold in their hand and press once in a while. When these two extremely stupid women were not exulting over some tongue-tied moron of the TV screen with lots of ‘oh my gods’, they were pressing their little black boxes and — if that is possible — looking even stupider while silent. People nowadays have this vacuous opaque look on their faces, their brains fried from too much BlackBerry and TV. Facebook must be the world’s most insidious invention. Apparently, there are people who live their lives online, or through Twitter, and never have any face-to-face contact.
This, obviously, is why so many zombie movies are being produced by the zombies who run Hollywood. Everyone’s turned into zombies by gadget. Self-aggrandising zombies, that is, as they relentlessly push buttons telling people they’ve never met or are likely to in future their intimate thoughts about Brad Pitt. I suppose this is done to satisfy the me generation’s gigantic ego, or just through plain habit. I find nothing more depressing than seeing people absorbed in a gadget while totally ignoring their surroundings. But I guess this is how the modern world is going to be from now on.
These modern bums will never feel the distilling process of memory and the beauty of nostalgia. The awkward, painful torsions of adolescence, the palimpsest of the past. The yearning to recapture the scent of a woman from long ago, the realisation that desire is at times more satisfying than getting. All these the BlackBerry generation will never experience, never feel. The ache of first love, the butterflies in the stomach, the dry mouth. The shyness. No, all these things disappear behind the tiny screen of Mr Jobs, now searching for ways to have the angels better communicate in Heaven. I am lucky to have lived a normal life, like billions of other people, and never to have used one of these contraptions except for an old mobile when I’m on board my boat. And even that makes me feel slightly soiled. Twitter away, morons.
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