Tony says Power to the people, esp black women!

my name is ella devi and i approve this message

Security told Chud to move. He calls them Nig**** & walks off. White woman hears him and asks to walk him back over to say it to there face. "You don't wanna say it to there face, scary ass"

Chips fried in beef dripping were a different object to what passes for a chip today. Walk into a Whitby chippy in 1978. The fryer has been on since 11am. The fat in it is beef dripping, held at 180 degrees by a man in a white apron who has been frying chips since he was fifteen. There are no seed oils in the building. The idea would not occur to anyone. Thick-cut Maris Pipers, ninety seconds in the dripping. Dark gold at the edges, fluffy inside, crisp in a way that sets your teeth against them. Salt. Vinegar. Paper. Two bob. You eat them walking home along the harbour wall. The chip tastes of the chip and also of something underneath the chip, something deeper, something you don't have a name for because you are nine and nobody names it, it is just what chips taste like. That taste was beef dripping. By 2002, 90% of British chippies had switched to rapeseed, palm, or sunflower oil, on the advice of public health officials citing research since quietly retracted. A stable saturated fat used for ten thousand years, swapped for an industrial oil invented in 1911, oxidised at fryer temperatures for twelve hours a day. A seed-oil chip is lighter, flatter. The crust doesn't hold. The flavour stops at the potato. No deeper note. No roast beef on a Friday. Ask a British person under thirty what chips are supposed to taste like and they will describe, with complete sincerity, the chip they have always eaten. A chip their great-grandfather would have considered a practical joke. They cannot miss it, because the reference point was removed from the national palate before they were born. A handful of chippies still fry in dripping. The Magpie in Whitby. A few survivors in Yorkshire, Lancashire, the Black Country. Go. Drive. Queue. Eat them standing up, out of the paper. You will understand, in one bite, what was taken. The cow is still in the field. The suet is still at the butcher. The fryer could be switched back tomorrow. A whole country forgot what a chip was.

Twitter brand is so strong it was renamed and it’s still Twitter.

They're racially abusing him and laughing at him, saying that he's voting for his own deportation.