Saturday, 29 August 2015
A caller to LBC this afternoon thought it mighty clever of Call-me-Dave to stuff the Lords with cronies and donors, thus leading to a grass-roots socialist backlash and the near certainty of Labour ending up with 2020 General Election-losing Jeremy Corbyn for Glorious Leader. At first I thought, hey, cunning plan, but then I remembered who I was dealing with. While Labour hasn’t a coherent thought among the lot of them, the current crop of pseudo-Conservatives are hardly joined-up government personified. Apart from lucking out on the economy I struggle to recall a single bit of brilliant policy that has led to the desired outcomes.
But isn’t that what the Lords are there for? To volley back to the Commons policy on which the stitching has come undone. Or to toss into the trash that which should never have made it off the lower house’s cutting room floor. When the ermined were the real deal it was in an age when they took it as a sacred trust to look after the country for posterity. A good Squire knows it is in his own interests to keep the peasants fed and happy enough at least not to revolt. And while there were – with absolutely no doubt – devilish dealings and underhand pacts made for the enrichment of the landed class the peasantry wouldn’t have known what to do with wealth anyway.
I mean, look at them; richer than at any time in history, all they seem to do is demand more for less in an open show of ignorance that would embarrass anybody with the feeblest cerebral pulse. And it’s a positive feedback loop – this is rarely a good thing, you non-logicians out there – whereby the masses vote for the parties whose lies they prefer, who then in turn pack the red benches with peers who won’t oppose them. And still the leeching goes on (doesn’t it ‘Lord Moat’?) but that’s okay because now both ends are hammering the middle.
From the political left comes the cry “Reform the Lords!” by which they mean, “Make them agree with us!” But oh how quickly those principles slip away, Lord Prescott, when the call comes from above? There really is no sensible answer. Hereditary succession is rejected because of the class war which has been raging a century or more now. An appointed peerage is a clear no-go as the numbers approach a thousand ennobled stooges who proceed with partisan agendas while taking their £300-a-day to snooze on the plush leather. And an elected upper chamber is a ludicrous nonsense which will simply bring whichever electoral system is used for selection into disrepute.
Lord Filthy Rich
So, what’s it to be? I say we turn the House of Lords into a retirement club for those whose days of political ne’er-do-welling are over. Instead of us paying them to attend we maintain the building as a national treasure, but they cover the running costs and act as tour guides and tea room staff for bemused foreign visitors. But, you ask, what of the legislative safety valve? What of the control over runaway governments? What of the checks and balances? To which my response is, ask the unelected masters in Brussels; they’re in charge now.
Friday, 28 August 2015
The migration figures were out yesterday. Even the painfully high, record one-third of a million net immigration hides the much larger figure of double that for inward migration only. Over 600,000 means that our non-British-born population is increasing by 1% every year (if ‘official’ total population numbers are not wildly under-estimated). Twice as many coming in as going out; think about that. Then consider their make-up.
Those coming in come to make a living from the British economy and no matter how loud the rhetoric that this is a marvellous thing it is a simple fact that sub-£30k workers will always cost more in demand for services, housing and general infrastructure than they pay in tax. Those who come for a short period don’t integrate and those who come from certain world sub-cultures will never integrate. The proportionately few who genuinely pay for themselves and cause no harm would have been able to come anyway and would have been welcome. The rest; well look around you.
Watching your neighbourhood change before your eyes may be a joy to behold if you have swallowed the line that immigration is a natural good. You probably also believe that nationalities are a construct of racist ideology and that all people are of equal worth to society, that every possible variant of gender identity is exactly as ‘normal’ as that held by 99% of humans, that money is shit out by magical rainbow unicorns and Tories hate everybody so much that they would rather see their own children die than put a single penny into the NHS. You may well hope for a Jeremy Corbyn government even, heaven help you.
But what of those leaving the UK? Some of them, it is true, are returning to their own countries, having made their pile, no doubt to start businesses, start a family, etc... good luck to them, but they are still net takers. Others are going back as broke as they arrived having made little difference but, hey, no hard feelings. Some are no doubt a small number of working Brits seeking their fortunes abroad? For all the pleading that, look, we do just the same as ‘they’ do, relatively few Brits go off to do entry-level work abroad; being a waiter in Romania or a labourer in Poland does not pay – ask those who come here to do that work.
That leaves me to consider the rest of those leaving these shores; the natural born Brits. How many are retirees going off, not to contribute but to simply make their British pensions go further? How many are business owners who have shut up shop and cashed in to retire early and become economically inactive in Britain? You may say good, they are also exporting their health concerns, but it’s far more likely those who have problems will stay in the UK for the NHS alone. It has to be a consideration that we are losing some of our best and a glance at our inner cities could leave you with no other conclusion.
Soon – within a generation maybe - you who remain will have no idea what an Englishman ever was; they will be historical relics. Long dead will be the fighters we used to honour, but now denigrate, on Armistice Day and hollowed-out husks will be those who still remember them. The real shame is that they believed in and fought for a flawed ideal; democracy. True democracy can never work in a multicultural society with ideals as disparate as the backgrounds they come from, but it is due to notions of ‘representative’ democracy that we have such a society.
There is a lie that diversity itself produces success whereas the truth is that success attracts and tolerates diversity. For too long our governments have pursued the fallacy and ignored the facts. But the true facts of yesterday’s immigration figures are yet to be fully analysed and accepted and it is doubtful that the authorities on all sides even want to know the truth as it appears to the displaced, the demos, the bulk of voters. And who needs facts to get in the way of election campaigns anyway? Even were the raw data available in a form capable of being rationally scrutinised, the vast majority of those with a ballot would be incapable of drawing meaningful conclusions. Our ‘representatives’, as ever, will decide and they already did, decades ago. On Fridays I normally post a joke. Are you ready for the joke? Here it comes: Democracy.
Thursday, 27 August 2015
Remember the old adage “Look after the pennies and the pounds will look after themselves?” While we are all distracted, watching the flood of migrants threatening to engulf all of western civilisation we ignore at our peril the smaller ways in which our culture has been progressively dismantled. For instance, have you noticed the quiet removal of the once common Chelsea bun from our supermarket shelves, to be replaced by the bland ubiquity of chocolate chip brioche rolls or the evil mass-produced 'Victory Croissant'? You haven’t? Well I bloody well have; my search for Chelsea buns has now covered four counties and as many supermarket chains.
Is uniformly inoffensive Euro-fare to eventually erase all traces of parochial identity from the national diet? How long before we lose the Yorkshire pud? And is there a future for the Bakewell tart, Eton mess and Melton Mowbray pies? The evil Margarita Fatcha closed down the once-famous jam butty mines of Knotty Ash and the French have long envied and despised our Stilton cheese. It's all a big conspiracy against differentiation and the nation state, I tells ya!
The world turns on its axis and tilts us away from the sun and before we are aware of it the changes creep in. Each day we lose several minutes of daylight but in our busy lives we only notice it properly after nature has already registered this annual climate change. Last night I went for a short walk and saw fully-formed conkers amid browning leaves, ripe elderberries already producing purple pigeon shit and that great harbinger of middle class autumn – sloes, already fat and purple and dusted with their characteristic yeasty bloom. While the eternally confirmation-biased anthropogenic global warming mob register this as proof of their doom-laden thesis, the rest of us simply recognise the inevitability of the seasons.
Autumn has long been used as a metaphor for ageing; the mellow fruitfulness a simile for the ripening of wisdom atop old shoulders, with the earlier nightfall heralding our own shorter days – have you seen how they fly by once you pass fifty? The rich hedgerow harvest, if you are able to avail yourself of it, is akin to the rewards for making hay while the sun shone, while those long, wet days sat staring from rain-streaked windows is a hint at the helplessness that comes to us all. But the thing about the real autumn, as opposed to an individual’s autumn is that it isn’t the only one; we have a chance to start over again come spring.
Conkers? Bollocks, more like!
And just as I am not yet ready to lie down and accept old age gracefully, nor should the individual nations of Europe accept that their day is done. “Do not go gentle into that good night” wrote Dylan Thomas “Old age should burn and rave at close of day;” While the mature governments of the world seem to accept as inevitable that our cultures must change and the familiar be forever lost – bizarrely ‘diversity’ makes us ever less capable of difference – it is up to the civilised populations of those benighted countries to stand up to their masters and to “rage, rage against the dying of the light.”
Tuesday, 25 August 2015
England. It’s lovely. We have all of history, climate and culture on our side. If ever there really were a chosen race it was the people who maintained this island kingdom free of invasion for a thousand years. Blessed with a taciturn exterior but fiercely loyal to our friends and our flag, England and its people are, or were, the very best of the world. Oft derided as a mongrel nation we had the enviable character of a stoic with a secret; only the English could truly know the English. We not only showed the world how to behave, we walked our walk; even the lowliest English-born bore the heart of a champion in their chest. Cannon fodder maybe, but with a sense of patriotism unsurpassed.
I grew up with rainy Sunday afternoons watching Kenneth Moore shoot down the Luftwaffe, cheering on Noel Coward as he defied the U-Boats and identifying with Richard Attenborough as the plucky everyman, digging tunnels to return to Blighty and to the fray. I also grew up with fierce-bright long summer holidays, roaming the fields and building straw-bale forts, lolling in hedgerow dens chewing sugarbeet and barley ears. And then there were the deep, cold, hoar-frost winters; how we survived without central heating, fleeces and Gore-Tex© is a mystery as deep as why the country voted Labour in 1974.
But of course we know exactly why we elected the government that ended with unburied bodies and undisposed rubbish; Europe. Or, more specifically, what we then called The Common Market. Yes, the referendum was badly handled, but the instincts of the British Left, as piss-poor as they were in government, were still with the working man back then and they knew, if they would not say it openly, that there was far more at stake than trade. They knew – as today they ALL know – that at the heart of the European Projekt is the total obliteration of the nation state and today it is the majority will of the political classes to complete that erasure.
In pursuit of ‘harmonisation’ – becoming mediocre through diversity - the face of this green and pleasant land is defaced with political windmills which boldly demonstrate the impunity with which local democracy is overruled. The little man who wields the vote has no further say after he has cast it in favour of the party which promised the earth but instead continues to deliver us, piece by piece into the ravenous jaws of the Euro-juggernaut. In our history we believe at least that we would not have stood for it. Now it’s by no means certain we have that shared identity and will to remain unshackled.
The captain of HMS Beagle wouldn't have been the kind of man to succumb to Europe’s demanding embrace. Vice-Admiral Robert Fitzroy was made of sterner stuff. Naval hero, one-time Governor of New Zealand and founder, in 1854, of the Meteorological Office, he was one of that happy breed of men who existed a century before the state broadcasting corporation became the mouthpiece of a softer establishment in thrall to the destructive experiment of socialism. This week we learned that the Met Office is to lose the contract to supply the BBC with weather forecasts.
Whether or not you believe in the advance of Cultural Marxism, this severing of connections between one national institution and another is surely yet another example of the progressive dismantling, the fracturing of a sense of identity; who else but the UK Met Office should be supplying weather information services to the nation in which it is based? But there are many precedents; much of UK services and infrastructure is in foreign hands, foreign control. Bought and sold we can no longer tell where Britain ends and the rest of the world begins. EU-Mission accomplished.
"I think we may be in for a bit of rain, dear..."
Monday, 24 August 2015
Arriving at the hotel last night I found myself besieged with little slitty-eyed yellow people in such numbers as to make Prince Phillip’s temples twitch. He would have been in his hilarious element as they literally teemed about the place, chattering loudly in an incomprehensible tongue. I was tempted to say ‘swarmed’ but I believe that is now on the banned list. We need prodigious new phrase-coiners just to keep pace with the rate of word banning; people like Kathy Lette... even if she is a bloody foreigner. To some concerned citizens, those last two words alone are enough to condemn me as a racist. A vile racist, if you will.
But like every taunt and every pejorative label, overuse leads to the dulling of its blame-spreading blade. Racism, as a hate adjective (hatejective?) has been stretched so thinly of late, applied to words and deeds with no malicious intent and with ever more flimsy justification that the word has become meaningless. The offended have to deploy increasingly more powerful lenses to see hate in place of humour and infer fascism from an expression of fear.
Like running to the newspapers with the latest evidence that the British have become... exactly what the British and all sovereign nations have always been – concerned about our culture. At first glance the Wetherspoons’ poster ‘scoop’ is just an everyday story of pub-going folk: A concerned citizen goes into the pub with his moderate muslim friend only to be shocked, nay violated, by the presence of a hate-filled poster suggesting that those who don’t share our values don’t belong here. The bedwetting Guardianistas were all over it, but wasn’t it all a little ‘convenient’?
For a start, it’s not even remotely racist except by the sensitive standards of those who seek hurt from every quarter. Notwithstanding the long-established truth that islam isn’t a race and its own truly bigoted poison has infiltrated populations of many origins, wasn’t it somehow handy he had a ‘muslim friend’ with him on behalf of whom he was able to get offended. And isn’t there an element of racism in his assumption that said friend would share his feelings and thus “we were so upset by it we were forced to leave”?
What a long article, too, for such a short and insignificant event and yet I didn’t bother to alert the national press on Friday when I was treated to the left-handed, ‘dirty’ handshake of contempt by a member of the supposedly oppressed minority. When snarling, raging, blood-lusting enemies of the west are free to demonstrate and demand the ritual death of their hosts and a return to tribal primitivism, an A4 poster with the perfectly reasonable suggestion that if you don’t like it you could always fuck off ought, surely, to be posted in every pub in the land. In transgression terms it barely ranks alongside the old bar postcard that read “Please do not ask for credit as refusal often offends.”
The only offensive thing here is the redaction.
What will the useful idiots do now that ‘racism’ is rumbled, now that its value is so low that they need to issue a new higher-value currency? The R-word no longer has the power to silence because it has been abused as surely as have many of those against who it has been used. If resisting the incursion of an ideology which expressly seeks to eradicate all dissenters is racist then a synonym for ‘racism’ could easily be ‘normal’. Oh, I forgot; ‘normal’ is now a hatejective too.