Politically Incorrect Horace

Another Horace adventure. The poor fellow never gets a break.

Politically Incorrect Horace

'Horace, old boy,' said John Farnham, 'we've got to get the old Clarion into the Century of the Fruitbat. We're hopelessly behind the curve.'
Horace groaned inwardly. First, because Farnham, having discovered the writings of Sir Terry Pratchett about three weeks behind the Aborigines, was forever quoting him, and second, because whenever his editor-in-chief started talking about innovations (and using all that Orwellian marketing-speak), Horace could be sure of two things:

1. Deirdre Farnham, John's committee-heading wife, was behind the idea, and
2. It was going to mean more work for Horace.

Horace smiled a tight smile. 'John,' he ventured, 'I'm not certain our readers really want to be ahead of the curve. The curve per se is not an entity which they enjoy contemplating. They find themselves most comfortable trailing, rather than leading, the pack, as it were. Most of them associate the name Victoria with Her Late Britannic Majesty rather than the Beckham female – and wish she were still on the throne. Queen Victoria, I mean,' he added hastily, realising belatedly that his syntax had as usual run away with him. 'At any rate,' he finished lamely, 'they're a bunch of old fuddy-duddies who have never heard of 'trending'. Your attempt to update The Clarion will merely unsettle them.'

'That's exactly what I mean to do.' Farnham pounded an enthusiastic fist on the desk. 'I want to shake up the troops here. It was Deirdre's idea, really.'

You mean you want me to do the shaking-up, mused Horace as he reflexively removed his tea mug to a place of safety. Honk if you love aliens, this one said. A gift from his science-fiction-besotted nephew, who knew Horace's most shameful secret: that he read Philip K Dick in bed. Mentally counting up the years to possible retirement, Horace pretended to give his boss a fair hearing on his latest whim...er, stroke of genius.

Farnham ground on, 'What we need is to be on top of new developments, like those American blog thingies...' Ignoring Horace's discreetly rolled eyes, he went on, 'Take this 'political correctness' business that's sprung up of late. Don't know how it got started, but it's gone too bally far, you know. Can't call an [expletive deleted in anticipation of Moderator ire] an [expletive deleted in anticipation of Moderator ire] without getting every [ditto] in the shire up in arms. Apparently, though, the Yanks have found a way to deal with it.'

Horace refrained from remarking that 'political correctness', as an idea, was decades old, contenting himself with a non-committal (and, he hoped, politically correct), 'Hm?'

Farnham wouldn't have noticed. He was on a roll – cinnamon, with icing on. 'Now, Horace, my boy, here's where you come in. I've been following these chappies at Faux News, and I think they're onto something. I want you to do something daring – write a column that is politically IN-correct.' He beamed at his own cleverness.

Horace did not beam. Horace did not light up. Horace failed even to raise a figurative cigarette lighter in appreciation of this piece of brilliance. 'Er, John, I hate to bring this up...but there is one crucial flaw in your plan.' He held up his hand to forestall blustering, catching his boss in mid-bluster. 'Have you forgotten that you yourself, some months ago, caused to have installed a profanity filter on this ra-, er, august publication? And that said profanity filter, while a bit overzealous to my personal taste, most definitely and assuredly protects us and our readers from all possible verbal offence by removing words such as [expletive deleted in anticipation of Moderator ire]?' He patted John's knee comfortingly. 'You can't call them that these days, you know. The Raj is over.' He smiled generously. 'Oh, well, it was a clever idea, but I'm afraid it won't work.' He leaned back in his chair, trying not to be too conspicuously smug about winning.

However, Horace had counted his chickens while Farnham still ruled the roost. 'Pish and tosh,' crowed the editor, as he waved his hand airily (causing Horace to duck and cover his tea). 'A minor hurdle which I am sure you can overcome. I'm positive you can find a way to be politically incorrect without offending the profanity filter.' And having laid his clutch, Farnham swanned away, leaving an open-mouthed Horace to wonder exactly what private hades his overextended metaphors had led him into.

'Politically incorrect', in Horace's opinion, was just a catchphrase used by the cowardly, grotesque relics of a bygone day as protective cover behind which to continue their disgusting penchant for insulting everyone in the world who did not happen to be them – women and children in their own countries, foreign nationals of all types, and anyone whose religion, philosophy, or personal habits they disapproved of. Totally forgetting – as, apparently, did John Farnham – that the Almighty (however he/she might otherwise be described as acting) had not died and left THEM in charge. Horace sighed. It was going to be a long evening.





***Four hours later, Horace leaned back, exhausted. He had exhausted his patience. He had exhausted his store of invective. He had exhausted the Glenfiddich with which he rendered the office stewed tea palatable, or at least endurable.

But he had a column. Or what passed for one.

Horace had found it tough sledding at first – the profanity filter didn't let much through, and there were several nationalities he couldn't insult, simply because the filter found the mere mention of their proper names objectionable – but he thought he had nailed it. Even a US Republican would approve, he opined with shamefaced pride.





Ubi sunt les neiges de auld lang syne¹? Or, what is the world coming to? (A cultural review)

My fellow Britons, it is time to take a stand. A stand for the old days, the true values, the spirit of the Blitz. The time when we, as true-blue Sons of the Empire, stood shoulder to shoulder against the Menace from Abroad. I refer, of course, to the wily eastern gentlefolk from across the English Channel (English! Yes, ENGLISH! Note that, wily easterners), rather than being reduced to membership in the EU, or Everybody's Union, as we are today, forced to rub elbows with the Aliens from Lower Unspellable. Harrumph.
How did things come to this sorry pass, I ask? And well I might. The answer, my friends, lies in our subjection to Foreign Media. Those satellites in orbit have polluted our English skies with rock'n'roll, with American knockoffs of our own, better, series, with Mexican [can I say, 'Mexican'? Yes, I can] soap operas and Tie-Dye noodle boxing. This is intolerable.
Let us return to true entertainment values. Let us bring back intellectual wit, such as the Goon Show. Let us revive that truly British pastime, insulting the Irish. [Yes, definitely can say 'Irish'.] Let us remember that we INVENTED political incorrectness, long before it was a term of art. Take that, Yanks!
Let us insist on classic film evenings. The great days of cinema, from the war and before, when the grand cry of 'Tennis, anyone?' was a sure sign of a hit. When foreigners were seen to be what they are – pathetic losers and slimy villains intent on stealing our women. When women were women – soft, yielding, doe-eyed creatures – rather than Femi- Iron-Guardists². When these scented creatures looked up to their men – strong, manly, British men – for leadership and guidance, rather than running off to dance the Macarena with some yoik from Buenos Aires. Harrumph.
These opinions may be politically incorrect. If this be political incorrectness, MAKE THE MOST OF IT, as a Great Briton once said³. Let us bring back the great values – Christianity, letters to The Times, and hanging. Harrumph.
It is high time we rejected foreign values from our shores – foreign cars, foreign actors, foreign musicians, foreign languages...ESPECIALLY foreign languages. No, we DON'T parley vous, and if you do, back through the Tunnel with you, Mon-sewer.
Let us, in the words of our Prime Minister, pursue a more robust liberalism...the kind that says, 'Our way or the highway, foreign johnnies!'
If you agree with this campaign to Save Our Destiny, please add your comments to our webpage.
If not, please address your letters of protest to Mr John Farnham, Editor-in-Chief, The Clarion

Horace shrugged as he hit the 'Send' button and headed off to rinse out his tea mug.

After all, he thought. It's slightly less ethnocentric than some media outlets I could spit on from John's office window.

Footnotes:

1 Anyone wishing to translate this title is welcome to do so. Take Babelfish. Please.
2 Horace hoped there were no Romanians among the readership.
3 It was Patrick Henry of Virginia, Horace. But what the H? He was British when he said it.