Ibrahim Khan takes a satirical look at the day in the life of an ordinary Muslim-hating British tabloid journalist.
8AM: Find a message from management asking for today’s anti-Muslim news story. Standard. Also, they’re unimpressed by my contributions to the showbiz section. A colleague sympathises and advises me to be as pornographic as possible in my next contribution.
9AM: I’m a bit short of ideas on the whole anti-Muslim story so I get the other standard stories out as quickly as possible. Today’s Diana story revolves around Diana’s old jewellery being melted down and sold to a gypsy. Apparently the gypsy is also a sex pest.
11AM: I return to the anti-Muslim story and ring up my old pals at Quilliam for some help. These guys are great – they say a hell of a lot of stuff against Islam and Muslims. I suppose they must really hate themselves and cry themselves to sleep each night nursing a Jack Daniels, but I don’t care. If I work in a quote from them and represent them as “moderates”, that gives me full license to then lay into anything Islamic as long as I label whatever I ridicule as “extremist”.
So I don’t like the fact Muslim women cover up and I want everyone to go around ripping hijabs off womens’ heads – or failing that, at least giving them a dirty look. But it might be a bit racist and discriminatory to come out and just say that. So instead I find some Muslim who says women don’t need to wear the hijab, I quote them and then spend the rest of the article ripping into “extremists” who believe in such tosh.
1PM: Some uppity Muslim woman emails to complain about the objectification of women going on down the sidebar on our website. I consider giving her a reasoned reply regarding our stance, but then remember that what makes our paper sell is our complete lack of reasoning and our haranguing of beleaguered minorities.
So I tell her she is far more oppressed than the half-naked women on our website and that she can f**k off back to Afghanistan and stop claiming benefits paid for by the loyal white, male, middle-class British taxpayer. She doesn’t take no for an answer and says she is coming in to see me.
2PM: I phone security and alert the guards downstairs to expect an imminent terrorist attack on the building by a jihadist burka-clad, oppressed, genitally-mutilated Muslim woman. I like this description so much that I decide that this will form the backbone of today’s Muslim story. I throw in the word “Nazi” and “Shariah law” for good measure and decide on the headline: “Nazi jihadist, genitally-mutilated burka-ninja denies oppression after Shariah bomb on London”.
3PM: The Muslim woman who emailed me in the morning about our sexism somehow gets past the guards. She comes in and gives me a carefully-evidenced feminist critique of my newspaper. I disagree violently with her but I am stunned and can’t say anything. I can’t get over the fact that the woman is white, speaks fluent English, and doesn’t seem that oppressed. I am very confused – like I am about my sexuality.
5PM: I continue to repress my feelings for other men and channel my frustration into another article littered with the words “gay”, “dyke”, “poof”, “homophobia”, and “batty boy”. I read through some drafts from my colleagues and their articles too are littered with the words like “gay”, “dyke”, “poof”, and “homophobia”. I wonder if they too have feelings like mine?
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