First they came for the pornographers…

Yes, I considered a rhyming title involving a play on the words ‘masturbation’ and ‘nation’, but in the end decided that the holocaust was funnier than that sort of shit.  Anyway, it won’t have escaped anyone’s attention that there has been a hubbub surrounding pornography, and I think that now I have a blog I should add my outrage to the pile.   (Why not?  Is that not what a blog is for?  Must everything be wholly original?)  We are at war, it seems, and it has been dubbed ‘The War on Fapping’.  I can’t think of a better title.

Yes, there are a few things that will re-ignite everyone’s interest in politics, and the slightest whiff of porn being taken away appears to be one of them.   They are proposing that ISPs block any pornographic material (whatever the fuck that means) by default, and that any aspiring pervert would have to phone his/her ISP in order to unleash the wank-fodder.  Has David Cameron ever used a computer?  Has he ever had a sexual urge?  Surely he realises how monumentally fucking ineffectual this is?  This is just a puny little barrier to accessing pornsites, which will be easily hurdled: not necessarily by those old enough to watch porn, but by those with the requisite technical savvy.  They are just trying to make it every-so-slightly harder to look at porn.  What is the fucking point?

Let’s apply this same reasoning to print pornography.  You know, that old style of porn printed on mashed-up pieces of dead plants, whose discarded remnants were at one time or another found strewn among other, still-living plants.  Or so I’m told.   Anyway, I have this mental image of some mid-80s think-tank assembled around some giant long table:

“We need to find a way to stop our children looking at these porno magazines.  Suggestions?”

“How about we put giant springs on the cover of every dirt-leaflet?  The thing would simply bounce away from their puny child-hands, leaving their fragile little minds totally unbefouled.”

“How about covering the filth-journal in some sort of hyper-slippery surface.  They would try to hold onto it and then…whoosh!”

“How about we tie every grot-catalogue to some sort of small bird…a falcon!  No, too impractical.  How about a pigeon of some sort?”

“Brilliant.  We’ll do all of those.  We’ll make porn the exclusive domain of lubed-up winged jack-in-the-boxes.  Thank the lord, our children are safe and our work is done.”

The internet is awash with frothing outrage.  This should come as no surprise.  Everyone has a vested interest in this topic because everyone is, apparently, a revolting sack of putrid sleaze.  The statistics do not lie:  the internet is overflowing with smut.   According to this article from Extremetech last year, porn traffic accounts for around 30% of the whole fucking internet.  A sizeable portion of humanity is watching this shit on a regular basis, and I can’t help but notice most are doing so without feeling the slightest urge to go outside and molest a pheasant or whatever the fuck new epidemic is being blamed on pornography.

Can we really rely on our elected representatives to put that argument across?  Will any among them admit to whiling away their time in a darkened room, fondling their genitalia like the filthy lizard creatures they are?  For some reason, I can’t imagine anyone standing up in the Commons and saying:  “Mr Speaker, I must confess I’ve been blowing my trumpet, daily, to some of the most fucking depraved shit ever committed to film.  Never done me any harm.”

Maybe we’d prefer that they did that.  I know I certainly would – I value honesty above most other things.  Oh no.  Instead, they would prefer to look at their feet sheepishly, and then appoint some panel of puritanical nutcases to solve the problem instead.  They can get together and rid us all of this menace; presumably by clutching their rosary beads, linking hands and muttering shrilly about how we must all think of the blessed children.  This awful woman is a great example of the sort of person we’re talking about.

Meanwhile, in some future dystopia:  a nation sits, dick* in hand, momentarily dumbfounded by the message on the screen.   They recover their senses, pull up their shorts, spring upright and reach one-handed for the phone like it’s the most fucked up episode of ‘who wants to be a millionaire’ ever conceived.  ‘Who wants to have an Orgasm?’ Perhaps?  But that’s not the important question.  The important question is , who is on the other end of the phone, do we think?  Who would the British public call in that situation?  Is it:

a)      Their ISP, begging to be placed on The Deviant List?

b)       Their teenage nephew to ask how to do that proxy-server thingy again?

The moral of the story (if there is one) is that this is stupid, and everyone’s a fucking hypocrite.  Except me.

A most pleasant weekend to one and all.

*possibly a robot dick, ladies, this is the future after all.

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