The Swiss canton of Ticino is holding a referendum on a burqa ban, and it is about time. Burqa, niqab—it’s all Arabic to me, although I understand firsthand how deep-seated the hatred of women is in Arab countries that men wish to cover them up.

Funny enough, when you see these bearded assholes shouting on TV, it is the men who are so ugly it should be a mandatory cover-up. When I lived in the Sudan and Egypt while on punishment by my father for running up debts, women dressed like Europeans. (She was beautiful, a famous Hollywood actress who taught me rather a lot about sex, and very expensive, so what was I supposed to do, take her to the automat, the el cheapo of the time?)

I’ve written all about this already, but once Farouk fell in 1952, creepy Islamism reared its ugly head. The hatred of women is an endemic barbarism of Islam, no ifs or buts about it. And in Ticino, the Italian part of Switzerland, they are about to put it to a vote. The Brits, as usual, are leading from behind. Both the French and the Belgians have forbidden women—if they are women—to walk around totally covered up. The Swiss love money too much to throw out all these bums who force their women to look like Casper the Friendly Ghost, so they are putting it to a vote. The Frogs, mind you, do not always enforce the ban, but they turn a blind eye when a fat rich Ay-rab goes shopping with his ghosts on the Champs-Élysées. Ditto the yellow-spined Belgians.

“Is it still possible to find remnants of the old Gstaad?”

I find it incredible that in the time of terror bombings a person can totally conceal themselves while people who sit on parliamentary benches defend the act. It’s almost as ridiculous as the clown last week who took exception to the fact that Nigel Farage was named a prefect at his school while in his teens. Channel 4 News began the program with this Earth-shattering revelation. The man who broke the story, one ridiculous-looking baldie with bad teeth who shouts a lot named Michael Crick, used to be known when he was at school—a place much too below stairs to mention its name in high life—as the manic masturbator. Crick did not declare an interest about his chronic masturbation problem—which I fear is continuing—but went on interviewing pupils and masters of Farage’s school trying to get them to call Farage names.

He failed miserably. Nigel was named a prefect by the powers of the school, graduated honorably, went on to a successful career in the city, and now heads the third-biggest political party in the UK. The great masturbator failed to make his case that Nigel sang fascist songs while a teenager—which he didn’t—but certainly made the case for masturbation being the prime mover where Jon Snow and himself are concerned. The UKIP’s leader’s great crime as a teenager was to defend Enoch Powell, one of the greatest men to sit on benches now soiled by the likes of those who defend those veils on women. Go figure, as they say in Brooklyn, where I hope to visit next week.

As I walked down Gstaad’s main street, a totally covered-up person whizzed by on a bicycle. Main Street in Gstaad is a car-free area now made much more dangerous by Arab women—again, if they are women—trying to stay upright on two wheels. After avoiding her I watched a group of covered-up ladies slowly make their way around the expensive shops that line the street.

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