December 12, 2022
Source: Wikimedia Commons
The British media are much like a magician who waves his free hand to distract the audience while he pockets card or coin, unseen, with the other. Presently, you would think Fleet Street stringers would be working late nights to cover what should be huge stories, not exactly Watergate but (if you know London) perhaps Bishopsgate.
Half the country, it seems, is going on strike; at least nurses, train drivers, firefighters, civil servants, and paramedics are. Spot the one from that list whose absence at work won’t be noticed. There are reportedly power outages coming (and a surprisingly cold winter predicted), immigration is rising steadily with inflation following suit, while the pound is heading in the other direction. It’s just a question of which headline you run with.
Hold the presses! Thankfully, hacks won’t have to fret about that question, because a story hit the news last week that obviously takes precedence over the other mere journalistic trinkets noted above. What could this cataclysmic event be? Buckle up, particularly if you are of dusky hue. This is the story that gripped the British media.
An 83-year-old white woman asked a guest attending a Buckingham Palace function where she was from.
Lady Susan Hussey is—or rather was—a tireless and faithful servant to Britain’s Royal Family. A lady-in-waiting and friend to the late Queen since 1960, one of her functions was to meet-and-greet at royal events.
Ngozi Fulani, on the other hand, is head of a charity called “Sista Space” that aims to support victims of domestic and sexual abuse and is, as my grandmother used to say, as black as your hat. She arrived at a charity function at the palace in an alarming outfit suggesting she owns a pan-African dressing-up box and likes a little multicultural cosplay from the Dark Continent. Lady Susan broke the ice—and her career—by asking Ms. Fulani a question that, apparently, is even more injurious and heartless than “Apart from that, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play?”
The conversation was transcribed very precisely, which is curious as mobile telephones are not permitted in Buckingham Palace (or 10 Downing Street, and doubtless a few of London’s Masonic lodges), and is unverifiable aside from obtaining this apparently clandestine recording or admitting Ms. Fulani has a perfect audial memory. The press was given the transcription in record time. There is more than a hint of a PR stratagem about this whole affair.
The heresy committed by Lady Hussey appears to have been implicitly asking Ms. Fulani not where she came from—she replied “Hackney,” a north London borough—but what her family’s ethnicity was, a huge and career-ending mistake. Ms. Fulani made much of her—valid—claims to be technically British, but seems to have no great affection for the white section of those islands. Her charity is strictly blacks-only, and she has been linked with the British chapter of BLM.
Why would a woman who is clearly either from the Caribbean or Africa in ethnic origin, and who so clearly resents Britain, be that keen to emphasize her Britishness? Because she gets the grift, she knows how to game the system, she understands exactly how to operate the apparatus of British postcolonial guilt to her advantage, in many ways. Interview fees, promo for her charity, and the inevitable eventual book will feather her nest. But I wonder if she will write that book under her real name, which is not Ngozi Fulani but Marlene Headley. She took the African name “early in life,” apparently, whatever that means.
The media rumpus began far quicker than it now takes a British ambulance to attend your distress. They unquestioningly accepted the assumption of the modern left, that contortion of reality whereby language and violence are the same thing. Thus, Fulani is quoted as follows:
It can’t be true that you invite people from different demographics to attend a function about violence against women and girls and THEY are faced with non-physical violence.
Now, had Lady Hussey persisted by offering to whack Ms. Fulani in the head with a cricket bat if she didn’t answer her question, you could make a case for “non-physical violence,” but this victim in Wakandan national dress called her experience “a form of abuse.”
Buckingham Palace didn’t so much throw Lady Hussey under a bus as tie her to the tracks five minutes before the big freight train was due. Prince William effectively called her a racist, and that would be the woman who was one of his grandmother’s greatest friends and allies. Oh, and Lady Hussey is William’s godmother. In the end, an old lady has been humiliated, and Meghan Markle will smile to herself. Increasingly, the word of a black cannot be doubted. And so the world turns.
British blacks with a few smarts have seen a gap in the market: oppression. Now all they need are aggressive, media-savvy blacks and ethno-masochistic white liberals, and there are increasing numbers of both. The racial division in the United Kingdom is gradually coming to mimic that of the U.S., where friction has been worsened by the administrations who said they would unite their citizens across racial lines. And just as unscrupulous blacks are learning how to do the hustle, so too there will be an equal and opposite reaction among whites, as they gradually learn a lesson that will become an axiom: Don’t associate with blacks. Is it worth the risk? Will you be up half the night learning what you can and can’t say to the new black guy at work?
This century, in Britain, race relations haven’t come far at all, in fact they have gone one step forward and two steps back, aided and abetted by a white-hating media. And, like the Mafia seeing someone else’s business doing well and worth skimming, grasping and PR-trained blacks will soon be descending on other whites, like piranha scenting flesh in the water.
In the end, I am surprised by the fact that Lady Susan, in all those years of companionship with QE2, didn’t absorb the late monarch’s famous opening query put to guests at any of the royal receptions, and one that heads off the possibility of a royal faux pas: Have you come far?