If the Internet is a city, there are neighbourhoods you definitely do not want to go anywhere near. There are others you would be embarrassed to be found in but occasionally, in moments of weakness, you might find yourself in. There are some truly god-awful sewers and filth-pits of degenerate humanity out there: black, dank nasty places of squalor and debasement where the light of the human soul has been all but snuffed out. But even from these experiences you can be purged and made whole again. Redemption is possible even for the gravest of mortal sinners. And then there is James Delingpole. A creature so horrific, so vile, so loathsome that to read his demented ramblings is to feel violated. Before, when I needed to make myself vomit I would think of those pools of waste found in the many hellholes on Earth, a mixture of human slurry and abattoir effluent simmering in the third world heat. Now, instead, I click on James Delingpole’s internet blog and projectile vomit the moment his page loads. I would slurp down liters of aforementioned liquid shit like it was a vanilla milkshake rather than suffer sharing the same hellish mental space he inhabits.
On first reading him you are left wondering if it is pastiche, a prank or the fetid drool of a dribbling teenager gone mad from lack of sex, in the way some animals in heat do. How is he so unaware or uncaring of how idiotic he makes himself look? How can someone so utterly demean themselves just for a paycheck? How a person who purports to be a defender of the higher moral values of civilization can sell themselves so cheaply is completely beyond me. The most plausible explanation, to my mind, is that the man is just not well in the head.
If he actually believes a word of what he writes he is either spectacularly dishonest, or so intellectually deficient as to require care, or else deluded to the point of psychosis, or most likely a combination of all three. He is just plain wrong about virtually everything he writes about, so wrong that it is futile to engage with his fantasy world and, anyway, it is wrong to feed a sick mind’s delusion that it has any toehold, however tenuous, on reality. And it is wrong to intellectually demean oneself by pandering to his contrived cretinism: As they say on the ‘Net, “Don’t feed the troll.” and never before in the history of the Internet has the term troll been so apt.
That this hateful turd is the spawn of such a privileged upbringing makes his rage at the World unfathomable. That is until you have seen him on video and it all seems to become a bit more understandable. Now, I normally find remarks about a person’s appearance below the belt but here I feel the superficial betrays something ugly all the way to the core, as if there is some Dorian Grey shit going on. The vile creature is as repugnant physically as the excrement he weekly vomits up for the Daily Telegraph, making Golum look like Adonis. Perhaps this is the source of his extreme hatred? One can imagine it now: Jealousy and rage at being condemned to years of frustration relieved only by furious onanism. Long, painful years of rejection. Scorned and mocked. The emotional and physical barrenness of his young world stunted his development, years wandering alone through the desert of his mind until the torment ruptured his sanity, until he became a wanker in every sense of the word. This could explain how his mind became so warped and poisonous but others have suffered far worse and kept their humanity. I suspect the illness is pathological, as Delingpole displays all the traits of psychopathy. Whatever the reason, he is a deeply unpleasant cunt.
That this üntermensch has found a way to procreate is so incredible, the only three possibilities that I can imagine are parthenogenesis as some reptiles do, or he has incredibly found someone who voluntarily submitted to being impregnated by him, or by kidnapping and raping someone. I rule out the last possibility due to his obvious deficiencies: he would be far too feeble and socially maladroit to overcome a woman, even with the aid of drugs. It begs the question: what kind of a woman could bring herself to voluntarily mate with such a horrid fuck? A fellow damaged individual perhaps, or a vulnerable soul, easy prey to a predatory psychopath. Whatever her major malfunction it makes you wish for the self-replicating lizard option.
One day his children will wish Josef Fritzl could have been their father instead. One day his children will read his bile for themselves and realize, if it has somehow escaped their attention until that moment, what a truly horrible, malignant bastard’s blood pumps through their veins. If they have miraculously managed to preserve even the faintest echo of humanity after being exposed to such depravity they will react with horror, shame and disgust. Hopefully this knowledge will not drive them insane or to kill themselves. Hopefully they will overcome the horror of having James Delingpole as their father, and they can become what he could never manage in his pitiful, sordid, little life. Hopefully, against all the odds, they become pleasant, productive members of the human race.