Marvellous Mabel
Mabel on the Katie Hopkins Arrest
Sep
My name’s Mabel, this is me…..
I’m Unashamedly 93!
Well, I Never! They’ve Only Gone and Nicked Our Katie!
Alright, loves, gather round and mind the biscuit crumbs on the settee. Mable’s got a bone to pick, and it’s a whopper. At 93, I’ve seen some daft goings-on, but this one takes the bloomin’ cake, Katie Hopkins, nicked for being her gobby self. So, grab a cuppa, or something stronger if you’re feeling it, and let’s have a proper natter about this absolute farce.
Well, bugger me sideways with a knitting needle! I was just settling down with my custard creams, hoping for a bit of Michael Fish telling me it’s safe to hang the washing out, when the telly blares out the news, they’ve gone and arrested Katie Hopkins. Not for pinching sweets from the corner shop or setting fire to the vicar’s shed, mind you. No, no. Our Katie’s been collared for the dastardly crime of stringing words together in a way that’s got someone’s knickers in a right old twist. I nearly choked on my tea, (two sugars, splash of gin for the nerves).
It’s Comedy!
Back in my day, you’d only see a copper at your door if your Bert had been caught nicking apples from Mrs. Miggins’ orchard or if you’d been daft enough to dodge the wireless licence.
Now? Seems all it takes is a tweet that makes some delicate soul clutch their pearls and wail like a banshee. Four bobbies, four!, rocked up to Katie’s place like she’s running a flaming opium den. I mean, really, what’s next? SWAT teams for cheeky Facebook posts? I’d have offered them a Hobnob and told them to bugger off back to catching proper villains.
The Katies armsWhat on Earth?!
So, what’s Katie done to earn this palaver? Smuggled knock-off fags from Dover? Nicked a mobility scooter for a joyride down the high street? Don’t be daft. She typed some words. Words! The kind you and I sling about daily, well, maybe not me, I keep it classy with a bit of swearing for flavour.
Someone out there, probably sipping oat milk and crying into their yoga mat, decided Katie’s words were a national emergency. Instead of telling their mate Doris to sod off with the whining, they rang 999. And the police, bless their overworked socks, didn’t say, “Have a cuppa and grow a spine.” No, they sent the full cavalry to nab a woman whose sharpest weapon is her gob.
Free Speech?
Now, don’t get me started on the “free speech” malarkey they’re peddling. The suits in charge’ll bleat, “Oh, it’s not about silencing folk, it’s about protecting feelings!” Pull the other one, it’s got bells on. Time was, free speech meant you could stand in the pub, call the PM a twit, and still clink pints with your mate who voted the other way. You could scribble a stroppy letter to the local rag about the council’s daft new bins and not end up in cuffs. If you were a prat, someone else would call you out, and we’d all move on.
Now? It’s like the whole country’s turned into a giant fainting couch, with folk queueing up to sob about hurt feelings. And the coppers, who should be nabbing burglars, are playing feelings police for the terminally offended.
The details
It could easily be you or me!
This isn’t just about Katie, mind. It’s a warning shot. You see a loudmouth like her get nicked, and it tells every Tom, Dick, and Harry to zip it or face the clink. Meanwhile, real crooks are off nicking cars and kicking over bins. And who’s deciding what’s “offensive”? A gaggle of keyboard warriors with too much time and not enough sense, that’s who. The law’s meant to be blind, not a snivelling errand boy for the woke brigade.
Remember me?
It’s not even new, this nonsense. Remember Graham Linehan? Lovely chap, wrote Father Ted, had me in stitches over my knitting. He dared say women are, well, women, and not just anyone who fancies a frock. For that, he was hounded off the internet, lost his livelihood, and, yep, got a visit from the boys in blue. All because some activist got the vapours over his words.
It’s the same old song, say something the cool kids don’t like, and you’re public enemy number one. Katie and Graham aren’t the problem, it’s the barmy idea that words are so dangerous we need handcuffs to sort ‘em out.
The detailsBe an Anti-Karen like me!
So, what’s an old gal like me to do? Sit here and moan into my Horlicks? Not bloody likely. We’ve got to get our British gumption back, that proper, take-no-rubbish spirit. Katie’s a bit like that marmite you lot love or hate, but whether you cheer her or jeer her, this arrest is a kick in the teeth for freedom. We used to laugh off daft opinions, not call the rozzers. Sticks and stones, my dears, words aren’t bombs. If some berk says something stupid, argue back or ignore ‘em. Don’t go crying to the state for a cuddle.
I say we keep yapping, loud and proud. Write to your MP and ask why our coppers are playing Twitter referee instead of catching proper criminals. Buy one of them “Raise the Colours” tees, stick it to the pearl-clutchers. Support Katie Hopkins, not ‘cause you love her every word, but ‘cause you love the right to speak your mind. This is Britain, not some nanny state where we tiptoe round feelings like they’re landmines.
Tea time. . .
Right, I’m off to grab a few bourbons and drop a tweet that says the PM’s tie looks like it was nicked from a car boot sale. If the Old Bill shows up, I’ll wave my rolling pin and tell ‘em to sod off. Keep your chins up, loves, and don’t let the miserable sods grind you down. Freedom’s worth a fight, and a good laugh.
Mable, signing off, with a biscuit and a bellyful of rage.
The Images Used in this post were taken from the following sources –
Graham lineham – re:publica
This file is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 2.0 Generic license
Katie in her fab pink top – This file is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported license.
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