Ever wanted to be in charge? Well, in my own little world I will be, one day. Just not quite yet. I'm a bit tired at the moment... maybe I'll take over after I've had my little nap.
The United Dingdom - stating the bleeding obvious so you don't have to.
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So, as most of us expected, the dodgy Paul Nuttall easily
snatched defeat from the erstwhile jaws of victory in the Stoke by-election and
once again, nobody cares what happens in that benighted former industrial
region. Nuttall, like so many in politics, has a view of reality – and of
himself – which is at odds with what those who have to live with political decisions
see. The other explanation is, of course, that as a Scouser he'd do anything to avoid having job.
This week journalist Ian Dunt, who makes habit of seizing
upon the wrong end of the zeitgeist wrote about Brexit in his usual alarmist way.
Trotting out the usual guff about how very stupid the majority of voters are he
paints a vision of a doomed Britain, post immigration without ever considering
the possibility that he may be wrong. Delusions of self-importance and
omniscience have a habit of tripping up such seers; you never, for instance,
see two economists agreeing with a prognosis yet they’ll claim to have foreseen
the apocalypse... after it happens.
Then there is the curious case of Trevor Phillips, who
has undergone something of a partial-sighted epiphany of late as he lambasts
the race relations industry for its former zeal and cack-handedness. Having
spent many years at the forefront of the burgeoning hurt industry, fuelling the
fires of malcontent, now that they have roared into lusty life he adopts a
haughty told you so attitude. Except, no, Trevor, we told you so. Political
correctness has gone mad, he writes. No, it was sectioned long ago, and
pretending you weren’t part of what made it crazy is disingenuous to an extent
that may itself be a form of insanity.
But none of us are immune to a touch of self-delusion and it doesn’t take a lot
to flatter us into seeing a version of ourselves at variance with the evidence.
But not me; I have my feet on the ground, which, curiously, reminds me of a
conversation I had yesterday. I received a phone call from a gorgeous
ex-girlfriend who got in touch, out-of-the-blue, to see if I was still
around and to catch up. We lost track of time, chatting about the wild, romantic days
we used to enjoy together. I couldn't believe my good fortune when she - a
former glamour model - asked if I'd be interested in meeting up and
rekindling a bit of that old magic.
Well I was a little taken aback. “I don't know if I could keep pace with you
now”, I said,
“I'm a bit older and a bit greyer and my hair is a lot thinner
than when you last saw me. Plus these days, I don't really have the energy I
used to have.” She just giggled and with a flirty tone said she was sure I
would ‘rise to the challenge’. She always had a way of arousing my interest and
with that encouragement I have to admit I was up for it.
But I like to think I have a certain robust honesty and more
than a little self-doubt. So I went along with the idea, but made sure to prepare
her for the encounter. “Just so long as you don't mind a waistline that's a few
inches wider than the old days” I said, “not to mention my total lack of muscle
tone. “ I continued, half expecting her to put the phone down on me, “Everything
is sagging, my teeth are a bit yellow now... and I am developing the jowls of a
bulldog. I look like that Churchill on the insurance ads!”
She just laughed that familiar, tinkly laugh and told me to stop
being so silly. There was life, she suggested, in the old dog yet. She teased me a little, saying that tubby, grey haired, 'mature' men were cute. I could picture her, twirling a lock of hair around her index
finger. And then, in a breathy whisper she purred down the line that you never
forget how to ride a bike and she was sure I would still be a great lover. I
have to say, I was ready to close the deal. “Anyway,” she giggled, "I've
put on a few pounds myself!”
The canonisation of Saint Jo Cox appears to be complete. Not
content with St Andrew’s Day, St David’s Day and the splendidly screwy St Paddy’s
Day a new national day has been declared by people so determined to harvest every
scrap of political capital they can wring from the increasingly frayed damp rag
that is Brendan Cox’s public grief. They are proposing street parties to celebrate
the diversity that she so heartily welcomed. I’ve heard of rubbing the right’s
nose in it but isn’t this rather shoving everybody’s schnozz full of bullshit and
sticking two fingers up to all who voted the other way?
Wait a minute though; street parties? Celebration? What
is there to celebrate? Her side lost and badly so, because she represented much
that has gone wrong in the west in recent decades. If anything Jo Cox Day should
be adopted, Guy Fawkes-style, as a symbol of all we rejected. If she were alive
today she would be vocal in resistance to the notion of making St George’s Day
a public holiday in England, a recognition which some have campaigned for years
to bring about. Jo Cox was no saint.
In fact, before her unnecessary – although some might say
timely – murder (for, let’s not pretend it wasn’t a genuine horror) she was relatively
unknown outside the Labour activist circle. Their brand of vibrant, multicultural
insanity was part of what we voted to reject and even the national outrage at
the event did not sway the ballot no matter how hard it was milked and how much
we were publicly denounced for supposedly enabling her killer. Her real
significance was minor and this prolonging of the agony is last gasp
opportunism for those who refuse to face reality.
Although I, like many others, was not particularly moved
by the death of Diana, Princess of Wales the country practically lost its mind
when she died. The national and very public outpouring of genuine grief was marked
by a profound absence of stoic British dignity and a descent into a maudlin
fascination with other people’s private loss. But even after that sea of floral
tributes, that public display of hurt, the demand for answers and the profound if
short-lived slump in support for the Queen, which Blair and cronies exploited
with ill-concealed glee, there is still no formal annual remembrance, even though she had the
decency to pop her clogs on a Bank Holiday.
Compare and contrast...
Call me callous, but long after the strident attempts to
revive a memory most of us have already filed under ‘who cares’ there is one
event which will be a real cause for continued and genuine celebration. Forget calls
for Diana Day, Stephen Lawrence Day, Madeleine McCann Day and Doris Day.
Instead, if you really want to stir up sentiment, if you really want to rub
some people’s noses in it and if you want to annually remind people of the national
insanity we narrowly avoided, if you really want an annual celebration in June,
then raise a glass to Brexit Day.
Marshall McLuhan said, “Control the media. Control
the message.” Control the message, judged Tony Blair, control the sheeple. Oh,
how easily he and his media team must have groomed the BBC and others to carry
out its bidding. And how they must have hated the rise of social media, whereby
alternative messages could rise and compete with the party line. But, lest you forget
and forgive the party line was and remains among the deeply indoctrinated, thus:
‘Multiculturalism can only be good’. ‘Love thy neighbour above thine own’. ‘The
English as a race are not worth saving’. ‘The problem is white men’. ‘Red
rosettes good, blue rosettes bad; Tories are evil’. ‘We need immigrants because
we are not capable’.
Under the New Labour project the metaphorical Tannoys
crackled to life at the appointed hour and the assembled throngs bathed in the
sound of their glorious leader. They all cheered because the voice told them
that things could only get better and as they got worse they cheered all the
louder because the voice told them that only racists couldn’t see the fine new
clothes. Fists pumped the air in the party salute as the voice led the party
prayer to the sacred NHS and welcome mats were lovingly woven and laid out to
welcome in our saviours. Immigrants good, indigenous bad. Replace our own
huddled masses, distort our loyalties.
While those who have grown up through the last twenty years
are poorly equipped to critically examine the world, enough sound-bites and
headlines, scraps of speeches, reportage and memories exist to support a plausible
population replacement programme theory. Plenty of retrospective warnings have
been examined and - taken at face value - speak of a deliberate plan to punish
European cultures for their historical successes. But none of them make sense
unless you buy into global conspiracies such as one world government, common
purpose and lizard people. And yet...
The message controllers say they stand for Peace and Love
and preach against the politics of the common man, the politics of Fear and Hate.
But what if what we are hearing and now seeing from Sweden is exactly what it
looks like? Because it looks to me like you would be well advised to fear the
massive influx of what Pat Condell calls third world muslim men, who genuinely
appear to hate us.
Donald Trump was slated by the media worldwide when he
made reference to Sweden’s problems and their Prime Minister bent double to
play down the issues. ‘Fake News!’ they cried. But whose fake news? If Donald
Trump is so stupid, as they insist, that he believes fake news, how come he is also
clever enough to use fake, fake news to confound his opponents? Who knows what’s
real any more? Well, I’d say the people under attack know what’s real, the
indigenous citizens undergoing self-imposed nightly curfews in fear of their
They look pretty wild to me.
And anyway, if islamic African culture is so much better
than ours, why risk diluting it with our worthlessness by bringing them here?
Surely, you saviours of multiculturalism – which, of course, really means any
culture except white European – would be better to put your energies into preserving
those precious diversities in their original habitat, rather than risk
infecting them with the ‘diseases’ of civilisation. After all, zoos have fallen
from grace of late; so disrespectful to be gawping at animals in captivity. If
you genuinely care for islamic culture you should be lobbying to return those exotic
species to the wild
Diane Abbott and her ilk constantly complain that the
prospect of Brexit has increased hate crime. They claim that the vote to leave
the unhappy union has ‘given permission’ for people to express formerly
suppressed racist, homophobic, islamophobic, sexist and otherwise bigoted views.
Every faintly plausible hint of animus, however expressed, has been taken into
consideration, used in court in evidence and the verdict has been the ignorance
and low intelligence which they insist is the only reason for the referendum
outcome. This is a drum that has been banged daily by all those who so
vociferously campaigned to stay in chains.
Well the converse is also true. The actions and rhetoric of
Gina Miller, Jolyon Maugham QC, Lily Allen, Gary Lineker, AC Grayling, the New Labour
Khmer Rouge and now the assembly of placemen in the House of Lords have given
permission for Remainers to mount perpetual challenges and use the most
pejorative language to describe out-voters whose very existence they hold in
contempt. Voltaire would be spinning in his grave as the likes of Alastair
Campbell pop up on national television to tell us how very stupid we are, dismiss
our concerns out of hand and deny us a voice.
But, if you think about it their hypocrisy their doublethink
and their perpetual tantrum is hilarious. I feel as if I’m in the other room
with the adults, listening to a spoiled infant loudly chucking its toys out of
the cot, trashing its room because of some imagined slight. It’s like watching
a dirty protest in action and knowing that this time the inmates are not going
to be cleaned up after and disinfected by others. If the Darwin Awards were based
on the level of socio-political cognitive dissonance and fantasy on display we’d
have plenty of entrants, because they are all flailing away at thin air,
committing political seppuku to no purpose; there is no enemy.
The winners, those of us who voted to take back our
country from the uncomfortable alliance of unproductive agendas, are getting on
with things just as we got on with the vote. We’re back at work, earning our
living, feeding our families and generally trying to be part of the solution to
whatever ails us. We had our say, we exercised our democratic rights and
despite the constant attacks on our integrity, our motives, our very
patriotism, we haven’t turned out in counter protest. Because, until the
threats of second and third and fourth referenda, bill amendments, overturning the vote, etc are
realised, we know that all of it is just luke-warm air.
Helpful advice for Remoaners...
Of course, we will have an entire generation of
malcontents, cutting off their noses to spite their faces, refusing to entertain
the notion of personal responsibility for their fates and blaming every last
bit of bad news on Brexit, even as that event fades into history. The Remainers
will soon take the place of the now dying breed of Thatcher-haters, squandering
their own potential in an orgy of finger pointing and blame laying. Let them.
They are irrelevant. They are the past and independence is the future. They could do us all a favour and leave the gene pool.
I’ve often remarked that we had to rely on the German efficiency
in language to come up with a one-word summary of Britishness. That word is, of
course, schadenfreude, a positive delight
in the misery of others. If you think ‘oh no, not me’ imagine your glee should
you learn that the odious Philip Green had been declared bankrupt, stripped of
his knighthood and had all his yachts sold to prop up the British Home Stores
pensions. What English heart could be so dark as not to thrill, just a little,
at such a judicious downfall?
When the prospect of a return to good old Imperial Unitswas raised last week I had a little chuckle at the thought of today’s precious
little never-fail generation, barely numerate in decimalised quantities,
struggling to add up in two, or three number bases simultaneously. And just
think of the fun we could have once more with Johnny Foreigner: Oh yes, monsieur,
there are thirteen throckles to the groat and eleven groats to the firkin. And
that’ll be Eleventeen pounds, thruppence and six farthings, if you please.
Schadenfreude, that little thrill you get, even as you
contemplate economic downturn, cataclysmic climate change and the prospect of
going it alone, off the cliff edge, into the unknown... post-Brexit. Because,
being bloody-mindedly British – and there are still millions of us left – we don’t
shrink from a challenge. You can lose your entire family fortune in a thrice but
as long as you can struggle back to your feet there is still all to play for. Bring it on,
we say, do your worst, because Britain up against the wall is an underdog you’d
do well not to turn your back on.
It’s who we always were, it defines us and despite the
years of dilution of that spirit by the dismal failure of forced multiculturalism,
it resides in us still. Britons were made to be the plucky winners, triumphing
against all odds. Which is exactly where Tony Blair made his ruinous miscalculation
last week. The unrelenting pressure to subdue that true Brit grit was relieved
when against expectations last year we voted to leave the EU; when we voted to oppose the bien pensant ways of soft-boiled Britain; when
we rejected Blair, Mandelson, Campbell, Cameron, Soubry, Clarke, Kinnock,
Heseltine, Clegg and every single one of the pro-EU nobles in the House of
Avoirdupois? Don't mind if I do!
So come on, you fuckers, wind us up some more. Tell us
how ignorant and gullible we are. Tell us again how we didn’t know what we
voted for. Tell us that our world is lost in the past and show us how the
beautiful people who sing your siren song are the only ones worth saving. Do
it, because we’ve been spoiling for a scrap for a good many years and a few
more patronising speeches from the likes of you might very well persuade us to go
beyond just rolling up our sleeves and getting on with keeping the wheels turning. But remember one
thing; when the revolution begins, it’s not the peasants they hang from