High Life

Long Live the Pugs

July 15, 2017

Multiple Pages
Long Live the Pugs

I was going through my paces in Hyde Park, sweating out the booze, raising the heartbeat with short wind sprints, keeping my mind off the weekend’s debauchery and the ensuing Karamazovian hangover. I then sat down on a bench and took off my sweaty polo shirt, opened The Daily Telegraph, and took in some rays. That is when a police officer approached me, but with a smile: “Are you by any chance Taki?” “Guilty as charged, constable, but this time I’m clean.” A broader smile and a “May I sit down?”

Well, Constable Hackworth turned out to be straight out of The Blue Lamp, a Spectator reader who somehow recognized my 80-year-old countenance and complimented me on my training. His beat was Hyde Park on that given day, and it got his undivided attention but he remained elusive, like a good policeman should. American tourists kept asking him for photos, and he was generous to a fault, but he was also eagle-eyed and taking everything in. I’d hate to be on the run with Constable Hackworth on the lookout. I haven’t had my picture in a newspaper in twenty-odd years, but he spotted me among hundreds. We didn’t discuss politics, just how loved coppers used to be, say, under Attlee, and how the lefty press and media, and scummy people like McDonnell, have slowly but surely turned the young and spoiled against the blue line that protects us from the mob.

“I can’t even find a porn site, let alone run a club.”

The left romanticizes street thugs, but I learned to love the fuzz early on. I was around 7 when I saw policemen, whose salary hardly fed them and their families, die right in our doorstep defending us from commie guerrillas bent on cutting our throats. Yes, men who ate bread and a little cheese as a main meal gave their lives defending a couple of spoiled little rich kids. That is all I said to Constable Hackworth, who asked me about Rod Liddle, whom he greatly admires: “He’s even nicer than he looks,” was all I said. The constable went on his way and I on mine, but I kept thinking of him the rest of the morning, and what life would be like without cops—and Hamburg hadn’t yet taken place. Two hundred officers injured by professional anarchist scumbags, and the mayor of New York among the scum, peacocking and chest-puffing and leading them on. This is what trendy lefty politics have led us to.

Let’s face it. There is a concentrated drive by the left to gain power by intimidation, and certain British “institutions” are in cahoots. Jeremy Corbyn has been a loser all his life, and now “our” young are clamoring for him to become top banana. As the duchess who stepped into a brothel by mistake said, “Er…something’s very wrong here.” Like when there’s more outrage over an accident (Grenfell) than a deliberate act of multiple murders (Manchester). And by the way, last week I attended the Goldsmith-Birley bash at 5 Hertfort Street, where 250 swells celebrated until very late. What I wonder is, how much outrage would there have been if a fire had roasted all of us alive? Not even 5 percent of that expressed over Grenfell, where most gestures of grief and outrage were stage-managed in order to show Britain’s lack of caring for illegal African immigrants.

When the Shadow Chancellor describes those responsible for an accidental fire as murderers, when one Ishmahil Blagrove demands a revolution following Grenfell, and when an MP demands a white middle-class judge step down for being white and middle-class, it’s time for wet Conservatives to pull their finger out, give the police the freedom to reinstate law and order, and make the word “racist” one and the same as the word “fire” in a crowded cinema. The fascist left calls anyone who doesn’t agree with them racist, so it’s time to take away their slogan by saying yes, and proud of it. Being a racist has nothing to do with race; it has to do with order and shutting down those posturing demagogues of the left. They are the bigots, they are the internet trolls who charge the police with being racist, they are the ones who incite violence. But the walls will grow hairs before those silver-tongued jerks in power do something about it.

But enough about scum. The question posed to us twenty Pugs members last week was, to be or not to be? Should the club of twenty-one members continue, following the death of our founder and president Nick Scott? We posed the question during our annual lunch, which began at 12:45 and ended at around eight that evening. We decided to give everyone present an equal vote—a dangerous principle, I agree, but we were all hungover from Prince Pavlos’ bash in the Cotswolds. To our delight, everyone voted to keep going, like Captain Scott of South Pole fame, with probably the same results. What we didn’t agree on was a president to succeed Captain Scott. Commodore Hoare and Count Bismarck suggested that I be head, but I rejected that out of hand. I can’t even find a porn site, let alone run a club. The ideal would be Bob Miller, a man as generous as he is rich, and a great club benefactor. By eight that evening we were too far gone to decide, so we remain rudderless and without a führer. But life could be far worse—we could have Corbyn at 10 Downing.

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