I see you, Anjem Choudary

I see your salt and pepper beard and your wire-framed glasses, your trademark scholarly look belying your impressive ignorance. I see your bowed head, your face hidden as you’re bundled up and rushed to the car that will lead you out of prison. It’s been a couple of years during which we didn’t have to listen to you but time’s up, isn’t it? You’ve served half your sentence and now you’re free, gobbling up the undeserved headlines like the rabid tabloid-flogging clickbait shithouse that you are. Try as we might to ignore you the media fucking laps you up, lending you a pathetic unearned credibility that you could never generate yourself. You’re Britain’s bogeyman, the fevered hate-spitting monstrosity whose clarion call is deep and booming and resonates far and wide through the wicked hearts of his true believers.

Or at least that’s what you’d like us to think. It’s a bit hard to buy it when you open your mouth and sound like a thirteen-year old Jonathan Ross who’s just trapped his ballbag in the zipper of his school trousers.

I suppose in one small way it’s beneficial for the public discourse that you’re back in the spotlight. I’m not allowed to call Tommy Robinson a fucking numpty without a thousand thumb-shaped gammons with 8-bit bulldog tattoos dragging their knuckles out of the woodwork to accuse me of being too much of a cowardly leftie to call out hardline Islamists like you. That by doing so they highlight the very equivalency between the two of you that they claim doesn’t exist is an irony so delicious that you could eat it with a spoon at Alanis Morissette’s wedding is a fact that’s lost on them. But you’re here now, aren’t you, Anjem Choudary? I’ve finally got a viable reason to write about you, so if you’ll indulge me, please allow me to speak for The Left, with all our snowflake apologist pro-terrorist bleeding heart cowardice:

Go fuck yourself, Anjem Choudary.

Go fuck yourself on every level. In fact, dig another one under the basement and when you’re finished, go fuck yourself down there as well. Go fuck yourself for everything you claim to stand for, you pathetic, cowardly little hypocrite. Go fuck yourself for the way you’ve weaselled yourself into the public consciousness, and while you’re at it tell the media to go fuck themselves for the way they’ve given you a platform and enabled you over the years.

You don’t speak for all Muslims and never have. You’re just another self-aggrandising little militant hiding behind religion because hate makes him feel important, a squeaking little troll with a Napoleon complex and an ego so fragile that a quail’s fart could shatter it. In the false name of ‘balance’ we put you on the TV and radio, the public spotlight shoved so closely to your face that the massive shadow you cast engulfed those that stood behind you in darkness.

In darkness you worked, same as liars and corrupters always have, twisting injustices into victimhood and the pursuit of righteous vengeance. The media may have amplified you, Anjem Choudary, but the ultimate responsibility for your poison is your own. Innocent people who carried no responsibility for the hurt dealt to the Arab world have been killed because of you, and for what? For the promise of a future that brings only more violence. Instead of buying into the division or listening to one more bullshit second of your vision for a Sharia future, we should be looking at the embarrassing hypocrisy of your past.

I see you, Anjem Choudary.

I see you laughing and joking at university, downing cider and smoking joints with the rest of the infidels. I see your clean-shaven face, your eyes blinking in the evening light as you stagger out of the pub into the cold Southampton air. I see your legs wobbling as you steer yourself into an alley, a half-empty pint glass in your hand and a smouldering joint between your fingers. In a few months you’ll fail your first year exams, won’t you, Anjem Choudary? Don’t worry. It won’t be the first time you read a book and completely fail to understand it – just wait until you get your hands on the Koran.

I see your head, loose on your tipsy little neck, wobble as you raise it. I see you squint as the air begins to crackle and fizz around you. I see you smile, Anjem Choudary. Is that tab of acid you dropped a while ago starting to kick in?

I see the world explode in light, and I feel the wind rush past as reality implodes. I hear a thousand jumbled voices, the ticking of a clock, the chiming of a bell. I feel the clap of the universe realigning and I hear the pop as you’re spat back out, your feet skidding on sand. I see you struggle to keep your balance, the hot, dry air shocking your throat, the blinding sun causing you the shield your eyes.

I hear the cocking of a dozen rifles, Anjem Choudary, and I see the eyes squinting down the iron sights at you. I smell the fires burning in the distance and I see the black flags fluttering in the desert air.

I see you raise your pint glass, Anjem Choudary, your hand offering out the joint as a peace offering. This brave new world you’ve landed in seems like an odd one, but surely it’ll welcome a cheerful, drunk little womaniser like you, right?

Right?

I see you, Anjem Choudary. I fucking see you.

I See You