Katie Hopkins Quotes

My Serenity sings of simplicity

Free speech is a fundamental foundation of a free and fair democracy. But let’s be honest and have the guts to unpick who gets to speak, where, and why. The real test of this country’s perimeters of freedom of speech will be found if or when a person can freely discuss racism without being subject to intellectually dishonest attempts to undermine their arguments. If free speech, as so many insist, includes being prepared to hear opinions that you don’t like, then let’s open up the parameters of what we consider acceptable debate. I don’t mean new versions of old bigotry. I mean, that if we have to listen to this kind of bigotry, then let us have the equal and opposite viewpoint. If Katie Hopkins, with help from the Sun newspaper, publishes a column describing desperate refugees trying to travel to Britain as cockroaches, then we need a cultural commentator that advocates for true compassion and total open borders. Not the kind of wishy-washy liberalism that harps on about the cultural and economic contributions of migrants to this country as though they are resources to be sucked dry, but someone who speaks in favour of migrants and open borders with the same force of will with which Hopkins despises them.

Like Katie Hopkins, prime minister David Cameron described migrants as a ‘swarm’. Foreign secretary Philip Hammond called them marauders bent on overrunning European civilisation. Home secretary Theresa May frequently scoffed at any suggestion that they might simply be seeking safety. Interviewed on Today, BBC radio’s flagship current affairs programme, May said, ‘People talk about refugees, but actually if you look at those crossing the central Mediterranean, the largest number of people are those from countries such as Nigeria, Somalia and Eritrea. These are economic migrants.

I know every day is a battle for thousands of people out there. For too many, just walking down the stairs, taking a bath, getting public transport or being alone among strangers takes real courage. And the only thing that makes you want to cry about how hard this can be is all the other people out there who do all that without even having to think about it. To them all that stuff is trivial, the reflex of life – the nothing on which you layer your everything. The upsetting bit is not that others take it for granted. They should. I would. You never wish that other people should suffer to make you feel better. This is not about wanting other people to struggle or feel worse. You don’t need someone else to be suffering more… (And if you do then you need to go and sit in a corner and have a bloody word with yourself.) Everyone should take walking down the stairs or having a bath for granted. My kids do, and I couldn’t be gladder for them. The thing that gnaws away at you is the fact that you can’t, and that these ordinary things take up so much head space. So much of what you might usefully apply to exciting stuff, or profitable stuff, or happy stuff is used up with nonsense. You go to bed hoping the night won’t be too dreadful, that you won’t have a major fit, that you will wake up with your arms in their sockets and with a tongue that hasn’t been bitten into such a bloody pulp that you sound like a deaf person when you speak.

The hospital is a kind of zombie-land full of hideous monsters with bandaged heads, half skulls, dragging the left half of their body, trailing a leg behind them as they go, surrounded by sticks and helpers and dribble. Any one of them could be the future you. Is this really better, or is it worse? Is a short life better – or is a longer life half-lived worth more? I used to dread my appointments in that place, a place of cures but also a place of horrors around every corner, reminders of what you might become. What would those people give to be normal, assuming they even knew what that was anymore? And just two blocks away – a busy road, people driving without a care in the world. Jogging without thinking, their biggest drama being the fact that their phone is on 10 per cent charge.

Or you’d go – look, women in power, not always good: Margaret Thatcher, Queen Isabella of Spain, Katie Hopkins. And he’d reply “yes, I will take your Margaret Thatcher and I will raise you a Pol Pot, a Stalin, a Franco, a Genghis Khan, a Vlad the Impaler.

No offence to horses but KATIE HOPKINS looks like 1

Trees aside, nothing grew very tall, the moorland dotted with the occasional low shrub and the odd single stone, standing all alone, like Katie Hopkins at a party.

What if I made worse decisions in my twenties or thirties? I could be in prison, I could be homeless, I could be married to Katie Hopkins.

I imagined that Katie looked in my direction, but she was merely looking everywhere but at him. “Bend on over, girl,” “Please, Mistuh Hopkins.” The slapping of their flesh was terrible, sickening, bad music for any ear at any time. Katie begged him to stop. “Not again. Not again.” She cried, her face pressed against the rough wood of the table. In my mind I was rushing to her aid, grabbing the monster by his head and twisting it until I heard a snap. In my mind. In the world I stayed in the shadows. If I killed that man, if I attacked that man, if I was discovered by that man, then all of the slaves would be punished, some perhaps killed. And the white men would return again anyway to do this to Katie. I saw my Sadie in young Katie’s face. I saw my child. I did not look away. I wanted to feel the anger. I was befriending my anger, learning not only how to feel it, but perhaps how to use it.

Suh.” “Hey, what’s this all ’bout?” “I’m going to walk around to you now. If you move, I will shoot you. If you believe anything, you believe that. Now, just sit still.” Hopkins was trembling. He wanted to believe he was drunk-dreaming. I walked around the fire toward him. He followed me with his eyes. I hadn’t touched his weapon, the handle of it showing at my waist. I came up behind him, behind the rock that supported his back. I slowly put my arm around his neck, his chin resting on the crook at my elbow, and applied pressure. “So that these minutes aren’t wasted, Overseer Hopkins, I’ll ask you to think about the women you have raped. Think about Katie. Think about her fear, her voice, her begging you to stop.” I tightened my grip on his neck. It was more than my physical strength that held him there. It was more than merely me. He kicked his legs. “Can you see those women, Mistuh Hopkins, suh. Can you see them right now.” He tried to speak. I released him slightly. “What was that?” “Nigger, are you crazy?” “Possibly. Tell me, what part of raping Katie did you enjoy? Her soft brown skin? Her sweet smell?” I tightened my grip. “Her palpable fear? Yes, that was it. Her fear.