In his erstwhile ‘principled opposition’ to Theresa May’s EU Withdrawal Agreement, and his 18th century gentleman shtick, Rees Mogg gained something of a cult status over the last couple of years.
Moggmania became the young right’s answer to whatever the fetishisation of Corbyn has been dubbed by the idiot media.
I never bought into it, having my suspicions that the whole thing is a big game to him.
Having listened to a couple of the ‘moggcasts’, his lengthy interview on stage with Fraser Nelson (chief spiv at the Spectator) and his similarly extensive interview with James Delingpole (see below), my suspicions grew.
I didn’t know what would happen, but I felt in my head and my heart that Rees Mogg would not be leading us into the light.
Despite the machinations of the last 3 years, the undermining of democracy, the lies, the betrayals, the grievous drip drip drip of insults directed at leavers by a majority of politicians, the media, big business and the luvvies, Jacob Rees Mogg seemed altogether too relaxed about the whole business.
Why? Because he has no skin in the game.
He is worth hundreds of millions of pounds. His hedge fund funnels money through the Cayman Islands and the trading desks are in Singapore, focusing on emerging markets. He is an MP in a very safe Tory seat – turd with a blue rosette etc…
The outcome of Brexit is just a matter of gamesmanship to Rees Mogg. His life is no more affected by the outcome than my life is by a game of snooker this afternoon with my mate Bob.
And so it has come to pass that Rees Mogg finally turned to grudgingly supporting Theresa May’s appalling ‘deal’ on the basis that it is better than no Brexit.
Let me be absolutely clear about this: NO IT FUCKING ISN’T.
As a full EU member the UK has rights and responsibilities. Benefits and Costs. Under May’s deal, the UK gets responsibilities but no rights. Costs but no benefits. In what parallel universe is her deal better than abandoning Brexit and maybe taking another swing at it in years to come???
As such Jacob Rees Mogg and his European Research Group can all go fuck themselves with an electrified length of rebar.
By extension, I have to admit that I’ve become rather disillusioned with James Delinpole, who I used to rather admire. Despite his justified reputation as a realist, as a resolute political streetfighter on Brexit, right-wing individualism and climate change, despite his clear understanding of the manifest problems with the Conservative party, and despite him not being a man of means like Mogg is, Delingpole has been far too ready to lie on his back and have his belly rubbed by people like Mogg, while being unforgivably and repeatedly waspish towards the proles who have been his audience over recent years.
Mogg and co seem to have convinced Delingpole that, as far as Brexit is concerned, it will all be okay in the end. As Brexit has spiraled the drain, Delingpole’s frequent columns on Breitbart News have become an increasingly embarassing series of contortions that would make the Black Knight from Monty Python squirm. Tis but a flesh-wound indeed.
His emerging preference for friends in high places over truth and reason explains why he’s gone easy on Michael Gove, who went from being a principled intellectual curiosity when he was running education, to just another catastrophically self-interested greasy-pole merchant when the Tory leadership election came around, and a sell out to the green blob when he became Environment Secretary.
That’s also why he went easy on Toby Young (son of Lord Young) when Young proved to have the spine of a jellied eel in the face of a bunch of SJW dipshits last year, and spent the next 12 months apologising and writing about his experience and his feelings, rather than attacking the problem.
Because being friends with ‘the right sort of people’ seems to be far more important to Delingpole than truth, integrity and evidence. For all his just claims to be a truth-seeking, humbug-hating rationalist and empiricist on climate change, these principles seem to get abandoned when presented with the merest threat to his friendships with the high and mighty.
So he can go fuck himself as well… and that’s after I donated a good chunk of cash to his podcast and to his fund in search of a cure for his Lyme disease.
Which leaves those of us of an independent spirit with even fewer people than ever to look toward in the public sphere. In the UK, the only ones left that I can think of are Rod Liddle and Brendan O’Neill.
Two old leftists who haven’t really changed their positions in the last 30 years, but now that the Overton window has moved around them, they’re cast as far-right bigots, racists, islamophobes, xenophobes, homophobes, transphobes and misogynists, because of their insistence on being the boy who points out that the emperor has no clothes and a tiny pee-pee.
It’s a very poor do indeed. I can’t even fucking read Liddle’s columns anymore now that the Spectator and the Sunday Times have become such revolting organs of cuckery.
For some time now, reading blogs by intelligent and erudite people like Adam Piggott and Tim Newman, (to say nothing of the widening selection of proficient podcasts and YouTube channels rising up), I’ve wondered why I bother blogging. They’re both better writers than me, they think far more clearly than I do anymore, and there are few posts that either of them have written where I can add any more than a ‘like’.
But really, as the public voices speaking for the viewpoints of around half of the UK’s population dwindle and turn to their self-interest in their careers and upper-middle class social networks, every single hack like me surely has to become more vital as a voice in the wilderness. Right?… Is this thing on?