I’m not at all sure what historical inclusivity might mean, given the racial demographics of rural England at the time of Brontë and Austen, in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Indeed, what Ms Flint seems to want sounds more like ahistorical inclusivity. And whether incongruous, politically corrected racial casting choices constitute “imagination,” rather than a following of Very Modern Fashion, is a question I leave to the reader…

It is, needless to say, slightly surreal to see supposedly serious productions sharing behind-the-scenes footage, in which we’re invited to admire the craft of the set decorators, production designers, costume designers, etc., and their detailed, punctilious recreations of the period, while the people wearing the costumes and striding about the sets are demographically bizarre. As if we’re not supposed to notice.

The chap in question – known, by himself, as “Sophie Koko” – originates from Kazakhstan and boasts an extensive history of sexual offences, numbering over fifty. His leisure activities – outside of bottling his own urine and then spraying it on children – include searching out articles about his crimes and then threatening any commenters who dare to “misgender” him.

Despite his prodigious criminal activity, often repeated in the same locations, Mr Koko – complete with bicycle and polka-dot dress – proved difficult to apprehend. Possibly due to the public being told by both the police and the media that the person engaging in such activities, and for whom they should be alert, was somehow a woman.

Readers will note the odd implication that the level of serious criminal behaviour at any given time should somehow conform to the amount of prison space you have at that time. As if the moral gravity of a criminal act, and likelihood of recidivism and danger to the public, should be determined by whether or not you can be bothered to build another dungeon.

As the only racial group being explicitly excluded is Old Whitey, the obvious inference is that the cause of all this alleged misery and “trauma” is the party being excluded. As if the mere proximity of People Of Pallor would inhibit and befoul any creative endeavour, any glimmer of “joy.” Given the minority status of white people in London, it seems a bit much. And ever so slightly ungrateful.

And it is, I think, worth noting that the nation’s capital, where these dramas of “resistance” unfold, has in my lifetime gone from a native white-majority city, over 90%, to a native white-minority one, around 35%. Yet it would seem that even this dramatically downsized white devil population is, for some, still too burdensome and oppressive. A cause of “collective trauma.”

To summarise: Opportunist female porn models who pretended to be men pretending to be women, to thereby rake in lots of cash, have annoyed actual men who pretend to be women, including men who pretend to be women while making pornography.

See, I bring you the wonders of the world.

The ladies’ act of presenting themselves as the opposite sex, albeit with extra steps, was not, it seems, deemed affirming by those who like to present themselves as the opposite sex.

“My gender isn’t your costume,” said this chap here, a self-styled “eGirl, but like, with a penis or whatever.” Other indignant rumblings included accusations of deception and fraud, the inevitable “transphobia,” and demands that the ladies in question “don’t get in our space.” Another bewigged gentleman denounced the “masquerade” as “disgusting.”

In terms of ideology, “diversity” seems to be the belief that the less we have in common, and feel we have in common, the happier we will be. An unobvious proposition, to say the least. Yet the word is mouthed as if it were a self-evident good, a “strength,” a moral imperative, a thing of which one could never have enough.

It seems to me we’ve strayed very far from the idea that an attractively developed society should – and must – be discerning about which kinds of newcomers it welcomes, lest it be flooded with incompatible tribes and the trash of the world. The idea that the locals, the voting citizens, might want a good deal and ask, “What’s in it for us?” seems anathema to Our Betters. Likewise, the notion of a civilised society implying, quite strongly, “You’re lucky to be here. Behave accordingly.”

And so, instead, we get the routine airbrushing of crime news, and instructional videos in which ludicrous progressive women film themselves performing please-don’t-rape-me dances.

One might think that gangs of masked misfits following elderly and disabled people to their cars, then obstructing their attempts to leave, while generally menacing them and muttering vivid threats, might constitute a breach of the peace, to say the least. Causing fear and alarm is the obvious intention.

And remember, the targets in the videos above – the unimposing, the elderly, the disabled – are chosen deliberately and with glee. Because that’s who they are, these mighty warriors of the Cluster B Tendency. Malevolence is their aphrodisiac, their euphoria. It’s how they feel important. It’s how they process the buzzing noise inside their own heads…

The threat of catastrophic injury would, I suspect, be the only language such creatures are likely to heed. It’s certainly hard to imagine them being swayed by appeals to logic, reciprocation, or basic decency. I see no evidence of a better nature to which one might appeal. I mean, once you’ve chosen to spend your afternoon menacing the elderly and disabled precisely because they’re unlikely to give you the vigorous kicking you deserve, you’re pretty much beyond any negotiation or genteel outreach project.

Sharp-eyed readers may have registered the seeming absence of curiosity, of enquiry – say, regarding very common causes of the phenomenon in question. Readers may also wish to ponder the inevitable tensions between affirmation and investigation – and to place bets on which will be dispensed with in favour of the other. In this Yes, You Are Napoleon school of psychotherapy, where the unwell must always be told whatever they want to hear. Possibly before being steered towards irreversible mutilation and lifelong pain.

In this supposedly therapeutic context, the words affirmation and validation translate as a willingness to lie. A willingness to indulge obvious bollocks and play along. And so, one might wonder how Dr Tess Kilwein – PhD, pronouns “she/they” – might affirm and validate some of the chaps seen here. Or this merry bedlamite, who violates women’s toilets and pushes his phone camera under the doors of occupied stalls in order to livestream to his admirers, all those affirming fans, the protests of his latest victim.

I suppose we could see the dubious story above – in which an innocuous expression of politeness is proof of “creeping Christian nationalism” – as a new spin on the woke eight-year-old phenomenon from 2016, in which countless progressives, including MSNBC “analysts” and editors of leftist magazines – and including Ms Jeffery herself – started tweeting, competitively, about their small children, all aged eight, supposedly saying Oddly Precocious And Terribly Progressive Things.

The phenomenon was seemingly contagious and quite bizarre, a collective fit of transparent fabrication, and soon became a mocking meme. But I think we’re seeing much the same psychology. The same telling of tall tales in order to assert status and to fuel some progressive psychodrama.

The urge to inflate grievances, and indeed to fabricate them, to balance umbrage and chest-puffing on the merest mote, is a progressive credential. Theirs is a hamster-wheel world of competitive indignation. But when you’re very publicly complaining about a flight attendant using the word blessed, as if this one word signalled some impending theocracy – and when you’re using your eight-year-old child as a political ventriloquist’s doll – then we’re in the land of make-believe. And possibly, anti-psychotic medication.

The bill’s sponsor, Rick Chavez Zbur, claims, “The bill’s goal is to prevent wannabe vigilantes… from provoking violence and then claiming self-defense after the fact.” Which suggests that finding intruders in your home, or breaking into your home, intent on thievery and God knows what else, is somehow not in itself an obvious provocation. Or a basis for vigorous self-defence.

Instead, the bill would oblige homeowners to “retreat” wherever possible, thereby reducing the risk of “force likely to cause death or great bodily injury” to the burglar or burglars, whose wellbeing is apparently a matter of great importance, if only to progressive lawmakers. This restriction is framed as a “safety” measure, albeit one that prioritises the safety of the criminal, who will presumably be enabled to continue his trajectory of repeated home invasion, but with reduced resistance and ever greater boldness.

But remember, wokeness is just about being compassionate.

To assume that a home invader is anything less than an existential threat is, as seen in the links below, foolish in the extreme – and morally perverse. It may be unkind – but it would not, I think, be unfair – to wish upon Mr Zbur and his fellow progressives some first-hand experience of the home-invasion scenarios that they would happily see others endure, passively and impotently, and sometimes not survive, supposedly in the name of “progress.” And fairness to burglars.

Readers may recall our previous visits to the world of glamorised fare-dodging – for instance, in Washington DC, where progressive commuters, including lecturers, lawyers and screenwriters, aired their “exhausted rage,” not at the rapidly growing number of freeloaders eroding social trust and bankrupting the transport network, but at those careless enough to notice such things.

Because noticing routine and shameless thievery is apparently much worse than indulging in it. And certainly more likely to result in opprobrium.

Regarding Mr Look-At-My-Fabulous-Hair-Extensions, I suppose the obvious issue is the self-absorption of our strapping madam, such that he records and then publicly shares classroom videos of himself faffing about with his wig while expecting applause for his feats of fake-hair management. It does rather speak to his priorities and focus. And that’s before we get to the oddly ample fake bosom.

The other issue, I’d say, is the fact that schools have surrendered to cross-dressing men with a rapidity and full-throatedness that is quite remarkable. The place where cross-dressing men should not be – in positions of intimacy with, and authority over, children – is where they seem to find the most gushing welcome and the most ludicrous indulgence. […]

Supposedly, it’s about making the children feel “comfortable.” Though it occurs to me that the [Transgender Pride] flag’s connotations of coerced pretending, fetishistic mutilation and life-shortening hormone abuse – and generally being subordinate to a cross-dressing man with mental health issues – may have other effects. Say, by transforming a classroom from a place of learning into one of cowed pretension, of deference to the untrue.

And then there’s the not insignificant matter of introducing an element of transvestite farce into the classroom, which may result in children being distracted from the task at hand by the perhaps more immediate question of what the strange man in the wig and padded push-up bra sees when he looks in a mirror.

Quite how those unspecified “white” ideas alter the rules of multiplication, percentages and other simple mathematical operations remains a thing of mystery. Indeed, as so often, the precise nature of this alleged corruption, this all-pervasive and befouling “whiteness” – a term used 157 times – is left to the imagination. Though much is pitched upon that mystery.

Mr Lolkus laments his “positionality” as a structurer of lessons and “knower of… mathematical concepts,” wishing instead to be merely a “community member.” A somewhat fanciful flattening of “hierarchy,” and of values, and an abandonment of the teacher’s customary responsibility.

This is followed by a suggestion that pupils, especially underperforming minority pupils – the party least familiar with the subject matter – should be put in charge of structuring lessons and the broader curriculum. A sure-fire recipe for success. And then there’s the conceit that heroically brown pupils are performing “additional labour” by doing less well in class, or by not doing the work at all.

The uninvited newcomers – chiefly, it seems, men of fighting age and all mysteriously unencumbered by identifying documents – are given helpful pointers on the customary use of pavements and pedestrian crossings, and are warned about the hazards of randomly strolling through moving traffic on busy roads. They are also introduced to the novel concepts of avoiding foul language in public and not abusing animals for amusement purposes.

Other teething problems have, it seems, arisen. As the Telegraph reports: “The initiative by Northamptonshire Police followed community and parental complaints over young male asylum seekers loitering near a primary school in the county, including claims of filming.” Not loitering at the gates of primary schools in order to film small children being another cultural subtlety requiring clarification. […]

One of the consequences of massive, indiscriminate immigration – equivalent to the entire population of Sheffield, every year – is that it radically alters the general mood of those on whom this demographic transformation is being imposed. One might, for instance, aspire to the role of gracious host, as it were, of making newcomers feel welcome. But this ideal presupposes an immigration policy that is limited and selective, and in which newcomers have good reason to feel lucky – and grateful.

The graciousness of the locals, the ideal, depends on the notion that the host country is regarded as something special, a desirable thing, something worthy of respect.

But massive, indiscriminate immigration undermines that ideal. If seemingly anyone can walk in and demand goodies, any ill-mannered flotsam of the world, and if they can do so with no discernible sense of gratitude, or any expectation of such, and with no apparent regard for the norms and values of the host society, as if they were unimportant, then the indigenous population may feel they have little reason to be gracious. Indeed, being gracious may be something of a struggle.

I realise that even the idea that the locals might dare to think in such terms – of being the gracious host – is, for some, anathema, a basis for tutting and scolding. But the sense that the value of one’s society – one’s home – is being pissed away, sold off cheap, is not a promising basis for coexistence.

And yet here we are.

We have, it seems, entered a world in which basic map reading and remembering to take a coat are deemed noteworthy achievements. Of course, it’s not just a matter of waterproofs and picking out suitable footwear. There are other complexities to be navigated: “Taking a selfie for social media… is an important way… to feel represented,” says Ms. Fatinikun.

So far as I can make out, the rules are as follows.

First, you should expect the restaurant’s serving staff to be conveniently categorised by their sexual inclinations or some other “ally” attribute, as if that weren’t presumptuous and intrusive – and, you know, weird. And should a pleasingly downtrodden identity be available – and said person dragged into your luminous presence – then you can bestow upon them your glorious and not-at-all-self-serving affirmation.

Naturally, you should make sure everyone sees. And hey, who wouldn’t want to be wheeled out as a prop, an accessory, for someone else’s attention-seeking project?

With a mix of archive footage and modern-day interviews, the leftism of the 70s and 80s is captured in all of its staggering glory. For those who haven’t seen the series, it is quite revealing – and often darkly funny. Among the gems to savour are the endless factional disputes over exactly how capitalism should be toppled, an earnest exposition on “penile imperialism,” and interviews with former self-styled radicals, now sitting by private swimming pools, fretting about fridge ownership, or planning to work on llama farms.

Other highlights include the tale of a bewilderingly inept attempt in 1987 to launch a radical left-wing tabloid, fuelled by the fever-dreams of Cambridge Marxists. The project was, unsurprisingly, a disaster, with its failure a direct result of ideological pretension. As illustrated by the scene in which, with the paper’s first edition about to go to press, most of the staff is out of the office on a deafness awareness day.

If you haven’t seen the exchange above, I do recommend watching it, if only as an instructional tale. Or a test of your own self-restraint. In the video, the cyclist, the aptly named Mr Peacock, goes out of his way to generate conflict, repeatedly, then descends into some paranoid fantasy, in which he is somehow both the hero and the victim. His fabulist construals of what is happening are quite remarkable. As I said at the time, someone should write a paper. Or beat him with a stick until the demon leaves.