Barrel Strength

This is perhaps the most unwittingly damning self-confession of liberal relativism I have encountered:

It’s about attempting to understand people who are radically different from you, and saying to them you want their voice in the process. Tolerance isn’t just a value you hold, so much as it’s something you do repeatedly. It’s uncomfortable. You fuck up. You go to parties where they play music that you don’t know how to dance to. You go to restaurants where the food is difference. You go to neighborhoods, where no one speaks English. The whole time people on the outside are laughing at you. The people you’re trying to understand get pissed at you, and call you racist, homophobe, bigot, sexist etc.

But they ultimately respect you for trying. And you get better. You pick up bits of a second language. You learn to like the food, to enjoy the music. And then one day you look up, and lo and behold, it seems like the whole world is dancing to that same music, eating that same food.

Because, of course, the end-game of multiculti tolerance is one nation united in its devotion to funky restaurants, the world music programming on Radio Two, endless afternoons of hacky-sack and blissful amnesia about the real world around you.