Here's EXACTLY why Allen B West is so wrong

I recently stumbled upon Allen B West's egregious blog "Here's EXACTLY why the Religious Freedom Act is so important." It was very important to call it the "Religious Freedom Act" as opposed to the "Gay People Are Icky Act." You know. Catchier.

Allen B West: Silly billy.

West starts by pointing out that he's all right with gays. He points out that he believes marriage is between a man and a woman and if gay people choose civil union that's their business, but it's in no way a right. It's his right to define marriage, of course. That's because Allen B West has tradition on his side. God knows what he makes of female suffrage. Traditionally women couldn't vote and there must have been a good reason. You know. Because of tradition. So presumably he's against that too.

West finds liberal views "interesting." It's a choice of words that sets himself up as reasonable, scholarly father figure patiently indulging the follies and impetuousness of his charges, but then he rather spoils it somewhat by describing liberal views as "rants." He then completely breaks cover by describing homosexuality as a "lifestyle choice" which suggests that gay people are gay because they're just incredibly stubborn. Perhaps all giraffes could have been horses but they were too up themselves. By defining homosexuality as some kind of whimsical choice as opposed to an innate fact, the American Right can seek to undermine the issue completely. They use the same crappy tactic with Climate Change.

The idea that anyone would choose to be gay in conservative America is bizarre. Would you really choose to be marginalised, abused, bullied or beaten up? But this has become an all too common ploy among the powerful these days. American homophobes rather cynically set themselves up as victims of an oppressive Liberal junta, as if anyone has ever been flung from a building or executed for NOT accepting homosexuality! The persecutors don the mantle of the persecuted. The BNP's Nick Griffin previously tried to rebrand British whites as a threatened "indigenous people." Given what white Brits, historically, has done to indigenous peoples worldwide, it's pretty shameless stuff.

'Freedom of religion' and its associated constitutional posturing is a smokescreen. Rather than saying "gays make my tummy feel weird" it's better to say something about religion, because then your irrational anger can be justified in some sober sense of dignified gravitas. Allen also throws in a bit of history. If in doubt, throw in some history.

"I find it odd that we are now in the religious persecution mode, which is why Pilgrims came to America in the first place."

Unfortunately Allen only has a limited grasp of history. The Pilgrims were NOT fleeing persecution. The Pilgrims came to create a more puritanical state. They saw England as a lax den of iniquity, not because they were being persecuted. If anything they came to persecute. In that respect, their legacy runs strong. So, nice story, but bears no resemblance to actual history.  Still, as Chopper Reed put it, "never let the truth get in the way of a good yarn."

"So let me present a simple question: is it fair for someone to be forced to accept a lifestyle choice from another that is inconsistent with their freedom of religion and free exercise thereof. "

Forget about Christian love and acceptance or any of the other nonsense that Jesus spouted, conservative Americans must be allowed to express their Old Testament beliefs to not like homosexuality. The same book also forbids them to eat shellfish or any kind of fat or wear mixed fabrics (seriously - Leviticus 19:19) but Allen B West doesn't care about THOSE bits of his precious religion. They don't justify his aversion to men having a smooch whilst he's trying to eat his fatty shellfish sub in an evangelical Christian brand polyester polo shirt.

Meanwhile, according to Allen, the government speaks out against homophobia and so is massively hypocritical for dealing with a homophobic country. What's truly "disturbing" is Allen's logic. The idea that you will only deal with countries who reflect your exact values is impossible. Iran may have some pretty hoorendous policies, but they are fixie-riding hipsters compared to Islamic State, and Iran is a key player in defeating IS. The happenings in a cake shop have nothing to do with international politics. Hardline Republicans know this but they have a higher ideal in mind - power.

West then infers that because gay and lesbians are not persecuted in the way that his black parents were, they have no real right to complain.  He then says "we have charlatans like Al Sharpton who will try to equate this to race -- incomparable." But you JUST DID! You've just equated it to race!

Because West doesn't believe that homosexuality is innate he can't see that it's a lot like race. Even so, he believes that cake shop owners are well within their rights to feel religiously persecuted! Religiously persecuted? Why? Do they have to live in icing ghettos or wear little cakes on their jackets to show they own cake shops?

Gay cake.

Allen believes this boils down to  "a certain group that seeks to impose its lifestyle and behavioral choice upon others." I've always found this argument utterly disingenuous. It's not as if the Indianapolis couple wanted to impose their lifestyle choice on to the baker or invite them to a massive cake-based orgy. They just wanted the cake they wanted. If a kid wants a Power Ranger cake, this doesn't suggest that the baker should then be compelled to like the Power Rangers. Opponents of gay marriage somehow hold the contradictory beliefs that they have the right to interfere in the relationship of two consenting adults and yet it is they who are being somehow imposed upon!

During one of my fruitless Twitter arguments I made the mistake of suggesting that you didn't have to be pro-gay marriage to allow gay people the freedom to marry. Someone tweeted back "Remember my freedom to not participate in it." Don't worry. You won't be invited to the ceremony!  I hear these gay folk have a dim view of mixed fabrics.

Zayn Malik Gave Me His Heart...

Former 1 Direction heartthrob Zayne Malik has rather oddly accompanied me to go and get a heart transplant. Now, no offence to Zayne but I’d probably plump for a family member over the former X-Factor chart topper. I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but I would secretly wonder what Zayne was up to. I know he now has empty days to fill but I don’t even know the guy. This feels inappropriate. That’s mostly why I’m nervous and actually him kissing me doesn’t help. He says he knows I’ll pull through FOR A FACT. What are you up to Zayne? What’s your angle?

Anyway, ‘I come out successful’. That sounds a bit casual for major surgery. Is this Snappy Snaps? Presumably they just popped the dicky ticker out and slapped a new one in. Plug in and play. No recovery time, no hospital bed for weeks. In, out and put the kettle on. The thing is, I’m pretty sure I’d have a fair idea where this heart was coming from. Presumably there’s an organ donor’s waiting list I would have had to be on. I’m not rich or in the mafia or anything Presumably I’ve been on that for a while. I don’t think I’d just turn up at the hospital on the off chance they had a heart on the go. “Not today mate. Try again tomorrow.” Either way, Zayn has disappeared, which is probably for the best. In future, I think I will take family with me for major surgery.

But what’s this? I’ve found a gift! Found? I’ve come out “successful” so I must be leaving the hospital. Has Malik just left it outside the operating theatre doors – potential tripping hazard – or concealed it in a hedge in the car park? And how long has it been sitting there getting damp in the rain or being swept around by cleaners? It all sounds unlikely to me. A bomb disposal would be all over that. Either way, there’s a little teddy bear and a “card shaped like a card” or, to abbreviate, “a card.” Such imagination that guy! “Hey babe” – bit weird – “Sorry I couldn’t be there for you after your operation” – don’t sweat it, actually. “But, I will always be in your heart. Forever.” Sounds  a bit final, Zayn. A bit sinister. What can he mean?

I’m a bit weirded out by this so I ask the nurse and she says “Didn’t they tell you who the donor was?” FUCKING HELL! Zayn Malik gave me his heart. THAT’S FUCKED! Hang on! He was perfectly healthy when we went in together, so…the doctors killed him to get his heart? That’s definitely illegal. Even if he consented. I barely knew the guy. He must have been shitting miserable. Essentially he’s committed suicide really mawkishly. Oh God, that’s morbid. I’m not sure I want his boyband heart pumping twat-juice into my blood. I feel very sick. And also. Who the hell gets a teddy bear and a card-shaped card as their final token of sacrifice? You’ve got 10 million quid, mate. You could probably do better than Hallmark! I’m actually relieved he’s dead.

I’ve got a root canal next week and the McBusted Boys have asked to come with. They can all get fucked.

Why the Dutch Are Better Than Us...

If you want to see how civic society is done properly, go to Amsterdam. Walking through the manicured Vondelpark, I witnessed a jogger bend down, pick up a discarded bottle and deposit it into a recycling bin mid-stride. These people are self-cleaning! Contrast this with a Brit in comical drag on a stag night accosting a stranger with "Can you take a selfie of me and my mates?"

Now it would seem a bit unfair to stereotype my countrymen on the basis of one drunkard in stockings with an appalling grasp of photographic concepts. So let's base it on the night life. The area in which we were drinking was the Amsterdam equivalent of Leicester Square. But, unlike Leicester Square, it wasn't like a scene out of Day of the Dead: No glaze-eyed marauders (other than the ones we brought with us), no vomiting, no scuffles, no litter, no heavy sense of palpable hostility. People ate delicious international street food in an orderly fashion without even the threat of an Angus steakhouse. Let's be balanced. Britain is coming on leaps and bounds. It's now perfectly acceptable, for example, to put mayonnaise on one's chips.

Now, this is not to say that the Dutch don't know how to get drunk. Any showing of the Dutch football team is always accompanied by reveling giant oompa loompas. We went into one bar where there was a private party, although no one seemed bothered by our presence. They swilled beer, sung boisterously to what sounded like the Dutch Oasis ('Don't Look Back in Alkmaar'?), formed a huge drunken rowing formation on the floor and somehow tore down an impressive light fitting, which was then methodically tidied away under a table. Despite all this there was not a single note of hostility. Not a cross word or a fight. The light was probably just acknowledged and added to their bill. No need to call the clog squad.

Getting out of the centre, we found ourselves at a cool, minimalist bar. As the eight of us rollicked in there was an audible sigh from the other patrons. Apparently getting Brits in your bar is a bit like cattle rustling desperados entering the Last Chance Saloon just after you've had the place re-glazed. I ordered a gin and tonic and typically beautiful, blonde barmaid brought it over. I stood up to take it off her - in my hazy state thinking this might be chivalrous. She handed me the gin and seemed to linger with a little bottle of something herself which she held towards me. Mistaking her helpfulness, I clinked my glass with her bottle, holding eye-contact and saying "Cheers." She looked pitifully at me. "This is your tonic...don't have much more to drink, okay?" This was witnessed by my whole group. As I slunk down in my seat she went back to talk to the male bar staff who were all 6'6 and sculpted from marble. We Brits have a booze-fueled self-confidence, but the very stuff that gives us our audacity also makes us splotchy and shapeless. When we asked for the bill, the waiter brought over a large handful of Worther's Originals - successfully appeasing the stoned morons in the corner.

Amsterdam is a city almost designed to be enjoyed on foot. It's not like trying to walk along the Thames in London. It isn't okay and picturesque for a bit and then you have to take a backstreet through a car park and down an alley to get back on to the path. The buildings are also immaculate. Although Amsterdammers didn't go through the Blitz, they nevertheless keep their buildings immaculate - as if they're given a rigorous sponge bath every Sunday night.

It probably helps that Amsterdam has a much smaller populace and has far less traffic than London. It has proper cycle lanes running parallel to the roads where cyclists can comfortably ride two abreast and chat, although they can be a bit of a hazard for the unthinking pedestrian and trying to cross any road at any time is a four lane marathon. London has introduced 'cycle super highways' - painted areas of blue road that are general full of buses and taxis or disappear onto the pavement. Official London cycle routes meander through back streets like a river with Attention Deficit Disorder before mysteriously depositing you in sinisterly deserted housing estates.

It seemed that the Dammers really do have it better than us. For a brief moment, we all resolved to become better people by relocating. But then our montage was interrupted as every café and restaurant seem to be afraid of properly runny eggs, they have no proper pubs with any decent music that seem to have one toilet for every thousand people, so with much straw-grasping we decided we were better off going back to where we came from. In the Kingdom of the full bladders, the single-cubicled venue is most definitely not king. Perhaps they're afraid that too many flushing toilet might return this little piece of paradise to the sea.