The coverage that the Telegraph is giving to this dead woman is boiling my piss beyond all reason.
It does, at least, give me enough to work with that it confirms all of my darkest suspicions.
On the evening of Dec 11 last year, Caroline Flack, the popular TV presenter, and her boyfriend, Lewis Burton, a former tennis professional, enjoyed a romantic dinner together at the Soho restaurant, Bob Bob Ricard.
To the other diners present the couple appeared happy, carefree and engrossed in one another’s company.
Despite Flack’s chequered relationship history, and the fact the couple had only been together since July, friends of the 40-year-old were becoming increasingly confident that she had finally found the man she would marry.
Professionally, things were also in the ascendancy, with Love Island – the reality show she hosted – enjoying runaway success and about to launch its first winter season.
Love island is just the latest in a long line of TV shows where pneumatic young women with the brains of a stickleback and unnaturally well groomed men, with the depth of a trompe l’oeil of a puddle, go on TV to engage in competetive fucking on camera.
It celebrates all that is terrible about the modern age that was ushered in by the ’68ers. It cheapens humanity and it mocks everything that is precious in life by cranking out disposable plastic facsimilies of love, commitment and vital human endeavour.
Now look, I’m no prude… in my 20’s and 30’s I was quite the libertine.. but even then, I firmly believed that there were certain activities that were best undertaken on the down-low, and only in pursuit of dark humour should they be celebrated.
I thought that when, in my mid-20s, the first series of Big Brother – and the first Pride marches – exploded onto our TV screens, and it remains true today.
But within a few short hours Flack’s life had unravelled and a chain of events began that would ultimately culminate in her tragic suicide.
It’s striking that so much of the coverage of this strong independent woman’s untimely demise is written in a voice that embraces The Great One’s assertion that women have no agency.
She didn’t do all of this stuff… it all just happened to her while she was standing idly by, smiling sweetly and minding her own business.
In the early hours of the morning, while Burton was asleep, Flack began examining his mobile phone, becoming enraged when she discovered text messages that he had received from another woman.
The exchanges – which involved a woman in her 60s – were entirely innocent, but Flack, who had battled depression and anxiety issues, exploded, convinced Burton was cheating on her.
And this is why you never ever let a woman touch your phone. Passcode it… don’t fingerprint or face-ID it. Not because of what she might find that is incriminating, but because when a woman is in the sort of mood where she’d rifle your phone, anything she finds will be incriminating, whether it genuinely is or not.
Launching herself at her still sleeping boyfriend, she hit him over the head with a table lamp and threw his mobile phone at him.
I’ve been there, more or less. The woman was fucking mental. Not safe to be let out alone and certainly not safe to be left unattended while you sleep.
After flipping over a table, Flack also cut herself on a glass, receiving deep wound to her arm.
I’m going to go out on a limb and speculate that even in this ‘moment of madness’ this part of her was thinking about how she could make it look like she wasn’t the guilty party in all this – or at least not the only one.
Burton, who is 6ft 3in tall, was unable to restrain his 5ft 3in girlfriend or calm her down, and at 5.25am made a 999 call asking for the police.
Yes and we know why don’t we. The moment he did, he’d become the bad guy and he’d end the night in a police van and spend the morning getting charged with whatever they could make stick.
The bruises on her arms from where he held her to stop her swinging at him would be evidence. The bruises on her legs where he’d raised his knee and turned aside to stop her kicking him in the balls would be evidence that he probably tried to rape her.
There are clearly some ways in which the guy is a fool, but in this one respect, he has the same sense of self-preservation as any sane man.
He told the call handler: “She tried to kill me, mate. She’s going mad, breaking stuff. She almost cracked my head open.”
The call handler noted that in the background, Flack could be heard screaming: “You ruined my life.”
In a sign of just how seriously the report was taken, the first police officer arrived at the flat in the Barnsbury area of Islington, within eight minutes.
In a city that is overrun by gangs, knife-crime and terrorist plots, this is indeed a seriously rapid response predicated, in all likelihood, on the expectation that she was going to get what was coming to her if they didn’t hurry.
You can read the rest of it on your own time if you like… the idiot bloke stood by her and didn’t support the police and CPS in bringing the prosecution against her. He professes to be beside himself with grief in the wake of all this.
Maybe he is… maybe he’s playing it canny, knowing full well that if he doesn’t he’s going to be turned into a pariah by the media scum.
Many men – myself included – have learned the hard way that you do not stick your dick in crazy, however sweet smelling it may be, because sooner or later it will end very badly – probably with you in police custody.
It’s all very sad, of course… but it’s a sadness with its roots in what the liberal left and the marketing and advertising industries – successfully invaded and colonised by strong independent women and their flamboyant fellow travellers – have successfully done to what used to be our society, and is now more like a zombie apolcalypse B-movie.
For her friends and family it’s tragic, but from the outside it was depressingly predictable. For us it can only serve a positive purpose by being a salutory lesson to all those young men and women who have yet to make the mistakes and embrace the spriritual darkness that Flack did.
It’s the double standard, though, that will never fail to boil my piss. If you swapped the genders, the response to this from the media and social media would be polar opposite to this.
Women of no substance think they can and should act like men, without the consequences that come along with that, and 9 times out of 10, they manage it, because society gives them a free pass when they fuck up, and clears up the mess after them. They want men’s spaces, jobs, roles and rewards, but none of the onus of responsibility that flows from that.
And they get it, without any cost to themselves, always with cost to others. Until that one time when they come up against the irresistable forces of objective reality, truth that they have spent a lifetime successfully evading, courtesy of a retinue of witting and unwitting helpmeets.
Eventually their luck runs out. And then they just cannot cope. And then this happens.
The only good that can come from this is if matey boy takes some time to reflect and change his taste in girlfriends.. it’s probably not too late for him to find a nice young lady that he can have a happy life with.
Enjoy the fucking decline, and don’t stick your dick in the crazy.
4 thoughts on “If you don’t like it you can Flack off…”
Entertaining comments, as ever
The problem is that crazy are interesting.
Just as women seem to seek out the blokes that are violent and unemployed because they are rogues we do the same.
It is only when we grow up a bit and become more sensible do we look for a nice girl. Girls don’t seem to ever reach that stage.
“…you do not stick your dick in crazy…”
Well, that removes around 90% of your options, doesn’t it?
Maybe not 90% of all options, but certainly 90% of the appealing options, yes. The risk/reward calculus is out of all kilter.