Melanie McDonagh: Jan Moir is a model of liberalism

Indubitably, a whiff of self-confabulation wafted through the avenues of punditry this week. As the Social Attitudes Survey painted a picture of modern, wanton Britain clasped by the claws of the preening librelligentsia, the gays fiddled and the Guardian danced a merry jig to its folky squim.*

Even grumpy Mr. Humphreys found it chortleworthy that ever swelling numbers of our sons and daughters - or, more often than not, sons and sons - live in sin, while good Sir Kelvin MacKenzie, old knight of The Sun, squirmed, pinned and wriggling on The Today Show as answers were demanded of why his newspaper so derided the pooves in those glory days of fearless reporting and unfettered intolerance.

To some extent the findings of the survey and the trends it reflects must be welcomed. At least we must pretend to welcome them, and must feign enjoyment at the spectacle of the old newspaper man pilloried for his outmoded views. Indeed, I must sit here and write that I welcome the change and enjoy the thought of gay men doing what they do. You know, in the bedroom. That's fine with me, so long as they don't shove it down my throat, if you excuse the expression.

I suppose, technically, a world in which They do not lay sleepless at night fearful of beatings and bullying is better than one in which we are all allowed to point and laugh at them like we used to. But I belong to that small minority of writers who start their sentences with the word 'but'. I'm also one of those 27% of people who quite rightly believe that married couples produce healthier, more beautiful children than poverty stricken, drink soaked cohabitees, clutching their benefits in one hand and a half-smoked Mayfair in the other. I may not have evidence to strengthen my case but we all know deep down that it's the truth. And how do the gays figure in all this? Well, they just do.

But sadly, my so-called 'reactionary' views and distasteful opinions are fast becoming the new queer: pilloried, scorned, not entirely coherent but definitely fabulous. I worry that we've replaced good old fashioned hatred and intolerance with permissive acceptance - and where's the sense in that? 100 years ago would we not have laughed off the suggestion that soon the lawmakers of this country would see fit to outlaw the smoking of opium outside of strictly regulated Chinese smokeries and Indian smack-dens? Wouldn't you dismiss as absurd the possibility of banning fans of the poppy from enjoying their vice in public places, lest the grey teetolars get a waft of that delicious dusky scent?

And anyone who doesn't subscribe to the state prescribed view that homosexuals are not only similar but equal in every way to humans is sneered at and scowled upon by the same right-minded scarf-wearers.

Not so long ago, celebrated columnist and ayatollah of intolerance Jan 'Nothing natural' Moir was victimised by an horrific pack of screeching web devils simply for writing horrible, horrible words about dead gay man Stephen Gately. Is it now a crime to write ghastly, factually inaccurate venom at a time when homophobic violence is increasing and encourage morbid intrusion into the grieving privacy of the family of the recently deceased? Can somebody out there explain to me why intolerance of depravity and gayness is so terrible but valid criticism of poor journalism is fine?

Liberal? Tolerant? That's reserved for journalists, folks. We're allowed to be liberal with the truth and tolerant of inaccuracy day in, day out. Don't try it at home.

* What the FUCK did all that mean? - ed.

Moirgate: Am I sorry? Well...

Jan Moir shook off allegations of being a bilious gay-hating she-bigot last night with a considered rebuttal (euphemistically framed as an 'apology') of the orchestrated campaign launched by Twitter demons last week.

Quail homosexual affairs correspondent Left Outside has come into possession of an early draft of the heterosexist columnist's apology, which can be read in it's gloriously unqueer entirety here.

A mirror of Moir's revised article can be found here (just in case, y'know, interweb pixies alter it in the MailOnline version in the night).

JAN MOIR: Why there's nothing natural about these gays

It was bound to happen.

The moment Stephen Gately came out in 1999, selfishly mortifying legions of young female fans in the process, I had him marked as a dead man walking.

Through the recent untimely demises of Michael Jackson, Heath Ledger, and Richard Whiteley, fans have become resigned to finding out that their heroes were probably at least a bit gay and thus doomed to an early grave. There are few things as sad as a young girl finding out that the idol whose image adorns her bedroom walls has died - or even worse, is homosexual. Sadly, it is becoming all too common to find that, inevitably, both are true.

There are millions of household names out there that are ticking timebombs of fatal gay. Their damaging lifestyle choices only lead to one thing - certain death, whether it be of one of those gay diseases you read about like Herpes, or just gay itself (a proven immune system inhibitor).

Danni, Simon, Cheryl, Louis - especially Louis - we all know they're at least 12% gay. And it's not hateful to anticipate, or even look forward to, their terrible end at the hands of modern gay: a pink shirt, an appearance at Pride, or a scarf that's just that little bit too dainty, all herald impending doom.

That fateful morning after 12 hours binging on mojitos and 'Slippery Nipples' (or strong brown ale if it's a lesbian), a body is found face down in the gutter, an outline of sparkly body paint marking the place at which gay finally caught up with the sufferer and the soul was taken from the body by angels in denim hotpants. We've heard the story countless times before.

And yet, somehow, most people never expected it of Stephen. Not the cute one with the big blue eyes from Boyzone. He was all the things that homosexuals aren't: clean, nicely dressed, and polite. People thought he was safe, because he wasn't that gay. But let's be clear - it doesn't matter how queer you are. Even the merest hint of mincing in a man's stride, or glancing at another chaps's todger in the gym shower or those deadly honey-traps of unsuspecting straight men everywhere, the gent's lavatories, is enough to usher imminent death.

And so it was with Gately. After going out "clubbing" (a euphemism for hanging around the loos with a tell-tale pink feathered hat, the accepted sign of availability), he and "his" husband retired to their hotel room with a pretty young Bulgarian boyman. Now I'm not homophobic, but it's safe to assume they weren't just going back for a quick game of snakes & ladders. More like just plain old snakes, if you know what I mean. In case you don't though, I mean gay stuff. You know what they're into - hanging each other like that other possibly gay Hutchence man did, spanking, dressing up as ladies, knife swallowing, and bear-baiting. If one is to indulge in such dangerous persuits of carnal pleasure, one must be prepared for the consequences. Did we learn nothing from the hapless Sodomites?

Precisely what happened before, during, or after the salacious triumvirate returned to their hotel I don't know, but it's quite obvious that it was something icky that almost certainly led to poor Stephen's death. I'm no expert, or medical professional, nor do I know most of the facts, and I haven't really bothered reading about the case or asking anyone, but with cases like this you don't need to.

Some might say the death and the fact that the deathee was gay are unconnected. To them, I say: 'no'. Look at the facts - he died, and he was gay. Therefore he died of gay. If a young, healthy man dies whilst suffering from a cold, obviously nobody would suggest that the cold had killed him, but with gay it's different. Medical reasons, and that. Isn't it? Yes, I think it is.

The post-mortem 'established' that Gately died from fluid on the lungs. I'm sure he did, but why is nobody asking the crucial question: 'How did that fluid get there? Was it from gay?' Let's be clear, these are no 'natural causes'. Normal, heterosexual men of 33 don't just climb into their pyjamas, curl up and cease to be. First of all, they don't wear pyjamas because they're straight. But most importantly, people under the age of 50 just don't die.

Do you know any straight people under the age of 50 who are dead? I don't. Well, I used to know this chap, but he died at 29 from cardiac arrest, a distinctly non-gay thing to die of. Anyway, I don't know him now, so the point is valid.

Gately's family has maintained that drugs had nothing to do with their son's death, but, as everybody knows, drugs and homosexuality go hand in hand like two lesbians at a stripclub. Another recent gay death proves it. Kevin McGee, the former husband "of" Little Britain star Matt Lucas died after a homosexually charged drug binge.

The dubious events (by which I mean gay stuff again) of Gately's last night raise troubling questions. It is important that the truth comes out - and not "medical" truth, or the ruling of some officious, poorly trained foreign coroner, but a string of ex-boyfriends to tells us all the dirty secrets of Gately's past. Only then can we be safe in the knowledge that this tragedy was all because of gay.

More: Hagley Road to Ladywood: Sickening homophobia
Enemies of Reason: Why there is nothing natural about the life of Jan Moir

++ Update ++

All hosted advertisements have been removed from Jan Moir's article, possibly as a result of this. The headline has also been changed.

I wouldn't be overly surprised if the article is removed entirely quite soon.

Mini-update: Now the article has been pulled from MailOnline's search function...

Jan Moir's Inferno

Though some of my readers may not believe it, even I, a high-powered business woman earning a decent wage writing erudite prose for many a national paper and with my perfect family, am feeling the credit crunch.

It was under such constraints that I first heard of the 'Poundland' from one of my servant's cleaners where apparently all items cost only a 'pound'. As we were a little low on Beluga and I needed some new crystal champagne flutes I thought it an excellent idea to pay a visit and incidentally write about my encounter with this strange world as a service to my readers.

Learning that those of an unfortunate background tend to be found in such places I decided to dress low-key digging through my extensive wardrobes for designer clothes that were at least two years out-of fashion, ah the hardships I put up with.

The first problem I encountered was that my local 'Poundland' did not possess any customer parking and I ended up parking in a muncipal car-park and having to purchase a 'ticket' from a vending machine. It then seems that 'Poundland' expects its customers to seek it out and I ended up in a section of the town I'd never visited before with other oddly named stores such as 'Cinton Cards' - presumaby a reference to the former US president - and 'Foot Locker' whatever that is.

Then I found it huddled between an 'H. Samuels' and something worryingly called a 'Superdrug'. I teetered on the edge of entering repulsed by both the glaring advertising with its liberal use of exclamation marks and the shell-suited behemoths trundling past dragging their kicking and screaming children along, but finally I plucked up the courage to enter.

I stood for some time at the entrance until I realised that no assistant was about to present themselves to take my order, apparently 'Poundland' is self-service. It was an oddly liberating experience to size up my own purchases and compare products though I was puzzled as to how I would be able to carry anything especially just after my manicure.

Trying to avoid eye-contact I glanced at my fellow shoppers and realised they were all carrying some type of ghastly rigid plastic container. 'Was I supposed to have brought one with me?', I mused. Not being able to see an assistant around (such poor service) I steeled myself and addressed one of my fellow shoppers trying to pick the one with the least clashing clothes, fake tan and eye-liner.

'Could you possible tell me where I might obtain one of those?', I asked pointing at the basket in an affected commin accent so she could understand me.
'Wot one of dese?', she replied pointing at what appeared to be a constipated Budha ornament.
'No I meant the container', I elucidated.
She frowned at me and I made ready to run in case she pulled out a knife.
'Dey're by der entrance', she continued to frown at me.
I backed off with a frightened 'thank you' and made a beeline back to the beginning of my trek. Sure enough piled higgledy-piggledy were a stack of plastic baskets from which I managed to extract one.

With basket in place I felt much more 'at home' and set off from where I started. At long last I found an assistant identified by some strange cardigan type covering.
'Young man', I asked. 'Where do you keep your Beluga?'
'Our wot?', he said obviously confused
'Your caviar?, I explained.
'We don't do dat we got some fish over der dough'. He waved in a general direction: 'Might find something der', he grunted before returning to stacking shelves.

Taken aback both by his unwillingness to escort me and that a store could exist that didn't sell caviar, I wrote off obtaining any champagne flutes and ended up in what appeared to be a gardening section surrounded by the same constipated Budhas I'd seen earlier. There were also some odd looking contraptions advertised as Solar Lights and tins of paint of some hideous shade 'This explains a lot', I thought.

More wanderings and I start to spy products with names I recognise from watching the servants on the CCTV - Cadbury's and Colgate to name but two. I slip a few of them into my basket something for my children so as they can learn to truly appreciate their own everyday products.

I was stymied by the eggs though. Not a sign of British stamped farmhouse organic just a pack labelled '12 Medium Fresh Eggs'. I wasn't sure I wanted eggs that weren't wholly fresh only medium fresh and forgetting for a second where I was I commented on that fact to my current neighbour.
'I don't know,' said the woman, slipping some Rolos and a pack of balloons into her basket and vanishing in the direction of toiletries.

Giving up I headed with the flow to where it appeared we were expected to pay for our items I wondered briefly if I could persuade them to offer me the contents for free if I mentioned their store in a national newspaper, but decided not to risk it in case the crowd turned ugly, or at least uglier than they currently were.

As I stood in the queue I looked at the contents of my basket and was surprised by how much had found it's way into it. Of course it was all cheap tacky stuff and looking at the bulging contents of my fellow queuers baskets I felt some small pity that for them this was obviously all they knew and all they'd ever know - clothes made from shiny artificial fabrics and toys that look like they're about to be broken simply sitting there.

But I pulled myself together by reminding myself that most of their shopping would be paid for by the likes of you and I - honest hard-working taxpayers.

I finally reached the checkout and would you believe they don't accept American Express!


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