I’ve been a Speccie subscriber for a very long time now, through thick and thin.
But it’s over.
I always used to be okay with the diversity of opinion presented, which is why I tolerated Matthew Parris and Nick Cohen’s work being in there.. occasionally I even learned something by reading them.
There’s been a general deterioration of quality though. A slide towards mediocrity, banality, feminism, illicit injections of wokeness into the Spectator mix.
Latent harpies like Isabel Hardman and future Witches of Eastwick such as Lara Prendergast have been encouraged to flaunt their feminist credentials.
My patience has been steadily tested over the last year or two, but there have been three final straws over the last couple of weeks.
The first was when – after millions of dissenting words – the Spectator endorsed May’s deal as the best option on the table as its official editorial line. As a follow-up, Fraser Nelson waded into the comments below the article, basically telling any subscribers who didn’t like it to fuck off.
The second was when some nobody from nowheresville was given a platform to tick off the right wing about their ‘problem with Muslims’. That problem being, of course, that the soft right – as cucky as they are – are insufficiently aquiescent in the face of this alien invasion. Naturally comments were disabled for this column, because the staff know damned well what the readership would say.
The third and final nail in the coffin was another episode of the Spectator making its transition from house journal of Conservative Central Office to being the red-crescent-adorned tanks on the New Statesman’s lawn. Once again, no surprise to see that comments were disabled.
It’s both odd and sad, because Spectator Australia and Spectator USA both retain a joy and impishness that seems to have been completely wrung out of the British edition by Fraser Nelson, who presumably thinks his cultural vandalism will afford him entry to what these days seems to pass for polite society.
Like every cuck everywhere, he’s counting on them eating him last, and he’s likely to be disappointed.
I shall miss reading Rod Liddle and Rory Sutherland, but I’m afraid I just can’t stand the stench enough to endure it for the benefit of their wisdom and humour.