Of all the reasons I or anyone could have to dislike people (and trust me, there are a million reasons for me to fire off a side-eye of fury every single day) the colour of someone’s skin is the dumbest reason I can think of.
Racism, pure and simple, is just plain rude.
The sons of Alf Garnett may wail, what have our fellow non-white planet-dwellers ever done for us?
Quite a lot, actually. Call me old-fashioned, but I always think that if your great grandfolks put their shoulder to the wheel and left their sons dead on foreign battlefields from Alamein to Normandy, the very least we can do is be grateful.
More to the point, what have we done to them? Let’s be honest, folks, we don’t have a good track record of treading lightly where the rest of the planet is concerned. The trade in human misery we managed to spread around the world might have kept us in cotton frocks, fags and sugary tea, but it certainly didn’t do much for the African slaves who grew them.
There is a certain karmic feedback in the fact that fags and sugar are still wreaking havoc amongst the populations of the West to this day, and don’t get me started on the cotton florals in Laura Ashley.
What’s so great about being white anyway? Despite what old Rudyard might have to say, being born white might mean winning at first prize in the lottery of life, but there’s an entire arm for the beauty industry out there dedicated to helping us bronze from ivory to gold.
Why, we’ll even run the gauntlet of cancer to brown the pale away. Tanning beds are making a comeback. You can even tan standing up, which I think it is quite exciting because you can pretend you are on transporter room of the Enterprise and about to fizz off to a new planet. Don’t wear a red jumper. They always get bumped off first.
Pop along to Boots and the shelves groaning with lotions and potions guaranteed to bestow a Mediterranean tan in your bathroom. I’ve seen a lot of it about up on George Street. Don’t believe the promise of streak-free tanning, girls, trust me.
It’s doesn’t surprise me that the most powerful white man in the world has finally revealed himself to be a man of astonishing rudeness to his fellow non-white Americans, although it does surprise me that he clearly insists on using a cheapo brand of fake bake that makes him look like the last satsuma in bowl.
It does shock me that he, this proud American, apparently knows practically nothing of his nation’s proud record of Nazi-smashing.
If it walks like a Nazi, sounds like a Nazi and waves a Swastika like a Nazi, I figure you pretty much are, well, a Nazi.
The sight of a swastika being toted through the streets of an American city is a huge punch in the gut to the memory of the near half million men and women who lost their lives defeating the original version. The torchwavers at Charlottesvile aren’t fit to wash the gravestones of those dead.
If you swagger about at night shouting your head off in support of a political ideology which endorses carefully cataloguing every five-year-old in certain neighbourhoods, then taking them away and killing them, just because of the religion their parents follow, then I would suggest you are just a tad morally repugnant. You’re also very rude.
At the very least you could stop taking your mum’s best pillowcase and cutting holes in it to hide behind.
A history lesson from John Wayne
It bothers me that the man with his finger on the trigger seems to think that hate-filled extremists who drive cars into peaceful protests are exactly the same as the unarmed protesters who got bounced off the bonnet of the Dodge.
Presumably, he’d quite understand if the murderous driver sued his victim for damaging his bumper. There was a time when America was bigger than this. Someone should sit Mr Trump down in front of a big telly and put on a war movie. Something involving John Wayne. I get the feeling Trump would like The Duke.
Look, they could say: “Look who Big John is fighting. Yes, that’s right. They are Nazis. Bad people. Bigly. If Big John Wayne didn’t like them, we don’t like them. Got that?”
And, yes, I think that is the only way we can teach this man history.
Refugees welcome here
There’s an interesting increase in numbers of our American cousins at this year’s Fringe. A lovely couple from New York stopped me on Princes Street and asked me all the usual questions. You know, the Castle, the Fringe, the time of the bus and then suddenly out of the blue, a question about house prices. Are we seeing the first American refugees?