Thursday, 13 July 2006

Are You Brainwashed?

On 2 October 2001, Tony Blair said this:

"The arms the Taleban are buying today are paid for with the lives of young, British people buying their drugs on British streets."
Now, if the spin and the propaganda had done its work, many people in this country will automatically have believed the above. In actual fact TB was telling an outright lie.

The year before he came out with this deceitful comment, a Taleban edict banned the growing of opium poppies and, in 2001, UN observers reported that the crop had been practically wiped out. However, since Bush and Blair invaded Afghanistan and destroyed the rule of the Taleban, opium production has increased 20-fold.

That’s the truth.

So, are you someone who would be likely to believe everything a top politician tells you? Are you the kind of person who believes something just because a media celebrity says it? Are you the kind of person who says, does and thinks something just because it’s fashionable?

Do you think that most of what is written in your favourite newspaper or magazine is likely to be true?

Do you believe only what you want to believe?

A few years ago I heard a TV hypnotist say something startling. He said:

"70 per cent of the human race is easy to hypnotise".
I cross checked this assertion on the internet, visiting about 10 different websites in the process, and, an hour or so later, I had formed the impression that between 65 and 70 per cent of us are, indeed, pretty suggestible. Cannon fodder for the advertising industry if you like.

Now, we Brits are an intelligent, ingenious and creative breed but I don’t think that makes us any less susceptible to brainwashing. You see, as much as any other tribe upon the planet the British are a TRUSTING lot. If a plausible and decent-seeming fellow tells us something our first instinct is to believe him.

In some contexts this is an admirable quality but if, for example, in 1914, WWI is sold to us as a great adventure which will 'be over before Christmas,' four years later, almost a million trusting British lads will be dead and two million more will be damaged terribly.

And if, when the genocidal catastrophe is over, David Lloyd George says, 'What is our task? To make Britain a fit country for heroes to live in,' a few hopeful souls will believe that he means what he says.

This despite the fact that politicians just like Lloyd George had allowed one in eight of all the British women whose husbands were killed at the front, to die themselves within a year of their husband’s death.

And when, 20 years after the first lad-killing factory had closed, another one opened up which promised to slaughter not just the golden lads but the lasses and the little ones and the grandmas and the granddads as well, you really couldn't ignore Mr. Winston. Those stirring speeches that promised us 'broad sunlit uplands' if we managed to survive the butchery, well, if you ever believed anything, you had to believe that didn't you?

55 million dead people later, when Tommy Atkins came marching home and found that all the girls had gone off with Yanks and Canadians and Poles and Czechs and Aussies and Jewish spivs and Irish and Jamaican dockers and even German and Italian prisoners of war, well, surely, that had to be enough to put a sensible chap off politicians for life.

But then, in the 1950s, when some honourable bigwig with a posh voice tells you that the foreigners will all return home once they'd made a bit of cash, learned a useful skill and helped us out with our labour shortage, well, there would still be one or two sensible working-class ex-soldiers who would have thought that no harm could come from such a well-meaning, Oxford-educated philosophy.

Of course, the teddy-boy who had been priced out of a job and lost his girlfriend to a West Indian pimp, who had an older brother who lost a leg in WWII who once had a sweetheart who went off to America with a G.I., well, the bobbies would soon sort him out, rioting like a bloody foreigner in Notting Hill for goodness sake, and, besides, that type didn't vote anyway.

And then, in the 1960s and 70s, when our political betters blithely informed us that we must behave honourably and allow all the Kenyan and Ugandan Asians into our country, no matter what the social consequences might be for the indigenous inhabitants, well, I do seem to recall one or two of the most selfless gazing womanfully into the far distance and declaring, just like Mr. Wilson, 'It is our duty!'

And, even if it had been known that, with the aid of interest-free governmental grants, the immigrant would own and run more than 90,000 corner shops, paper shops, restaurants and the like throughout Britain less than three decades later, some of England's finest would have said, 'Good for them, they must’ve worked hard!'

And even if, upon reflection, those who always knew so much better came to realise that, because of their generosity to the outsider, 90,000 poor and working-class British people and their families had missed out on the step up to the middle classes that corner-shop life would have ensured, well, you can be sure that most of their bleeding-heart, Marxist consciences would have remained crystal clear.

And if, whilst the Labour government was behaving with such generosity towards the African Asian, and sternly lecturing the doubtful British in the business of not offending the poor, downtrodden newcomer, Mr. Wilson and the rest of the PC crowd were secretly transferring thousands of Afro-Indians from their homes on the island of Diego Garcia to a ramshackle, roofless ghetto on Mauritius, without support, amenities or reasonable explanation, in order to make way for a US air force base, well, decades later, nobody would be able to recall that not one PC do-gooder ever kicked up a fuss at the time.

And when, in the 1970s, we are told that the only reason we are joining the Common Market is to ensure that we can trade on equal terms with our neighbours and that it is, most definitely, not going to be a political union, may years later, when dictatorship from Brussels is a done deal, the odd furtive type might be heard suggesting that the loss of our sovereignty doesn't really matter 'on the ground.'

And if, in 1981, Margaret Thatcher lectures us on the merits of 'a leaner, fitter Britain,' about a third of the country will be happy to go along with the notion that the destruction of British industry is, somehow, a very good thing indeed. After all, she was the first politician since Enoch to say straight that we were being 'swamped' by immigrants, wasn't she? That had to mean that, at some point, she'd be doing what they promised to do in the fifties and pack 'em all off back to wherever it was they came from, didn't it? You could trust people who were as straight with the electorate as that. Oh yes. So this 'leaner, fitter' thing, well, there was bound to be something in it for us, surely!

And if, in the middle of the BSE crisis, John Selwyn Gummer, a government Health Minister, stuffs a hamburger into his six-year-old daughter’s face and tells us that beef is safe, many will be 100 per cent certain that this avowedly Christian gentleman would never put his daughter's health at risk for the sake of a photo opportunity.

And when, in the same year, our MPs tell us that the Victorian asylums are going to close so that the inmates can be cared for in the community, well, almost all will be horrified but the majority will carry on gritting their teeth, hoping for the best and saying nothing as always. And when, for the sake of the poor lunatic, the parliamentary bleeding-hearts of the Labour and Liberal parties sagely pronounce that they are one hundred per cent morally justified to side with the grasping Tories on this issue, most of the newly bewildered with shake their heads in amazement and pray that they don’t bump into a lovely, fluffy axe-wielding maniac around the next bend.

And when, a decade or so after the care-in-the-community bill is passed, it becomes known that more than seven hundred Britons have died at the hands of a cuddly, community-based cannibal, some leafy suburbian's wide-eyed daughter will still be singing the praises of those who gave the psychologically challenged a chance.

And when the Thatcher and Major governments encourage us to take the money out of our company pension schemes in order to re-invest it in some private plan that will definitely be worth a lot more in the end, many will trust this governmental advice, certain in the knowledge that they will not lose out if they do so.

And when, in 1997, Tony B promises us 'education, education, education,' one or two dim Englishmen will be persuaded that this half-Irish Scot is going to bring the dumbing-down process in England to an end.

A few years later, when Boss Crazy's big educational idea is to create a swathe of 'city academies' which fat-cat businessmen can 'sponsor' for a couple of mil, many supposedly Socialist MPs will not be persuaded that this is an idea worthy of Margaret Thatcher and they will follow the boss through the lobbies when the bill to create these institutions is voted upon.

And even when it is discovered shortly afterwards that the odd fat-cat weirdo is imposing a self-interested and chillingly unusual system of education upon the children of Britain, very few within New Labour will have the guts or inclination to make a fuss.

And if, in 1997, TB also asserts that we have only '24 hours to save the NHS,' some will presume that he means to save it. And if he also promises not to privatise the National Health service by the back door, many will be lulled into thinking that Foundation hospitals will be a no-go area for New Labour.

And even when, in March, 2006, TB's ghastly, Australian Health Secretary preposterously asserts that, 'the NHS has just had its best year ever,' after sacking 7,000 nurses since the start of the year, whilst many will be prepared to give Patricia Hewitt a hard time at the various conferences, Tony B will still manage to find one or two New Labour apparachiks to condemn their entirely appropriate outrage.

And when, knowing that many more thousands of health workers were about to lose their jobs, the Dear Leader is brazen enough to say, a few days later, 'The number of nurses is up, their pay is up and the numbers training is up,' well, Guy Fawkes did not rise up out of his grave to light the blue touch paper, did he? Even when a great many more than Gorgeous George Galloway would have applauded him for doing so.

And when the same shiny-eyed Messiah told us at the outset of his premiership that he was 'determined to tackle the menace of drugs,' how many crossed their fingers and prayed he would be true to his word?

Eight years later, when 100,000 drug deals were taking place every day in Britain, a slack-jawed chap with a blank expression would reach for the silver foil and say:

"Long live the Afghan warlord and his best mate, Tony! Oh, the happiness they bring!".

And if, in 2001, we were told that seven million animals must be destroyed in order to eradicate foot-and-mouth disease, few would ever question this.

And when we discover that more than six million animals had been killed that were never infected with anything, well, we knew it all along really, and besides, such trivial stuff wasn't ever going to put most of us off voting for the government that destroyed them next time round.

And if, in the same year, Blair and Blunkett make a manifesto pledge not to introduce top up fees for the university courses that had previously been 'capped,' many will bank on a Labour Prime Minister, even a banker-cuddler like Blair, not to break this promise.

And when, in 2002, Tony B produces a dossier informing us that Iraq can hit us with WMD in 45 minutes, one or two Sun-readers will still insist that such an assurance is not the least bit 'dodgy' because a titty teenage virgin said so on page 3 after Rupert Murdoch whispered in her wallet.

And if Tony Blair, categorically, assures us that WMD will be found in Iraq and the millions who marched against the war 'haven't a clue' and 'don't give a damn,' one or two will nod their heads in agreement and grumble about layabouts, hippies and 'the great unwashed.'

And do you remember, all those years ago, when the flawless one promised to be 'tough on crime, tough on the causes of crime,' how many desperate Britons responded positively to this catchy phrase because they were happy to trust just about anyone who wasn't a Tory sleazebucket?

And when the immigrant-friendly policies of TB at home, and the yo-America, Israel-kissing, foreigner-unfriendly policies of TB away, beget the deaths of 52innocents in London, a tea lady or two in Trimdon will still fix you with her glittering eye and hiss, 'Wor Tony doesn't lie,' if you dare to question his nutcase assertion that the crime committed on the 7th of July, 2005, had nothing to do with him.

And even when you ask the Tony tealady what she thinks of the tough-on-the-causes-of-crime thing after her teenage daughter gets mugged and threatened with rape by one of the 1,023 asylum-seeking criminals that St. Tone didn't bother to deport, she will still look at you as if you might be an immigrant criminal yourself.

And if, in 2004, David Blunkett, with one sightless eye on the looming election, begins to act like a tattooed skinhead on asylum issues, many will choose to forget that, in November, 2003, he said:

"We’ve always been a crowded island… A net increase of 200,000 people a year is permanently sustainable".
And if, after eight long years of unparalleled immigration, TB begins to act as though he is, at last, beginning to understand the concerns of the indigenous community, few will remember that his Immigration Minister, Barbara Roche, a second-generation Jewish immigrant herself, had been the first to proclaim that Britain needed another 150,000 LEGAL immigrants entering the country every year. They will also not be inclined to recall that, in June, 2002, Tony B repeated this claim, insisting that we needed this same number 'to look after us in our old age.'

And when a few simple souls are heard parroting the same 'we need them to look after us' mantra, hoping to garner a brownie point or two from the topmost table, it will be almost impossible to convince them that, if we really are so thick, inept and incapable these days, it is the politician who is wholly responsible for making us so.

There are some who will have been taken in by all of the above.

I reckon that if Mr. Disgusting promised them a check for a million quid to be paid out immediately after the next General Election, one or two might just put their 'X' in the box marked 'disgusting,' on the off chance that the Disgusting Party meant what it said.

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