Journey's End

After long treks across desert sands they set out in their rickety boats; barely seaworthy craft that listed heavily and handled like barrels, with just enough fuel to get them out of African coastal waters and into the path of naval vessels, compelled by international maritime law to rescue them from drowning. A boat trip to heaven if they survived, but still there were obstacles to surmount and no welcome in any country, save for the grudging shelter and food provided by the relief operations. But this worked to their advantage because they became invisible.

Encouraged to escape the loose confines of reception centres and fed stories of a life of plenty in Great Britain that country became a fabled land; they told each other stories to keep the dream alive and soon found how easy it was to travel north. Across baking desert, in open-topped trucks or on foot, fleeing armed conflict, persecution or grinding poverty, they were always at risk of being robbed. If not directly held up they were persuaded to put their lives and what money they had in the hands of people traffickers. But here in Europe it was different.

Nobody wanted to help, but nobody did much to hinder their progress. Food and water were abundant and the penalties for stealing were laughable, although they were rarely challenged. The expressions of fear and loathing they attracted were soon realised to be signs of weakness in populations grown soft and pampered. Fearful of the strangers the local officials did all they could to aid them in their passage to the rich pickings of Britain. Some said that this was a myth, others believed all they were told. Across the water one more time and – they told each other – their journey would rewarded with untold riches and anew citizenship.

But they also herd stories of running battles, of storming the fences and stowing away in lorries. Armed police and dogs, tear gas and baton rounds. Of repulsion and retreat and endless waiting for nightly opportunities to try again. They were ready though; compared to Africa, what was a fence and a non-lethal response? Compared to life in their home countries, this was but a game to be played and although the stakes might be high, the winning of it was simply a matter of persistence.

But when they got to Calais they found little of any of this. The once sprawling camps were largely abandoned and the ruined fences left where they lay. Signs in several languages directed them to the migrant reception and processing centre where they were encouraged o stand in line to receive what they first thought to be identity cards, but proved to be ferry tickets. The British and French, it seemed, were tired of the game and the border was wide open. They marched over to the ferry terminal and walked on board what, in comparison with their flaky Mediterranean hulks, was a mighty, modern ship.

All aboard, thousands packed tightly together, the boarding ramps were raised and they felt the judder of mighty engines engaging propeller shafts and they saw dockside workers slipping the lines. England, here they come! Soon an inquisitive few began to explore, but they discovered the upper decks were locked against them. No matter, there was food in the dining halls and besides, the crossing was under an hour they had heard. The ship, rolling slightly in the swell, steamed on.

By daybreak, however, after several hours in which they had told themselves they were probably going to another port, or in a holding pattern, they knew something was wrong. Applying the same brute force they had been ready to use against the fences they managed to break their way onto the upper decks where they found... nobody. No land was in sight, either, yet they knew England to be so close. Then one of them noticed the position of the sun, astern of them; they were clearly sailing west. A cry from aloft, a note of panic in his voice. The bridge also, was empty and the ferry was in auto-pilot, headed into the mid-Atlantic. 

Immigration policy on the rocks...

A few minutes later and the engines suddenly died. From far below them the muffled sound of synchronised charges accompanied a jarring vibration. Water poured in below the plimsoll line and the scuppered ship began its slow descent to journey’s end. Exhausting all other options the British and French authorities had finally done what their public secretly wished. This time there was no rescue.

Fort Worthless

There is nothing to suggest this isn’t the Daily Mail’s standard fare of cooked up, rabble-rousing reportage but the story about Italy and France [literally] fast-tracking migrants across the continent is bound to have raised the blood pressures of many a Brit: Free train rides to Calais. If this is anywhere near true – and the current appetite in Britain for it to be the case is off the scale – it is surely a signal that the old enemy still harbours animus for its most successful neighbour. Bonaparte may have had an empire, but it paled against that of Victoria. And apart from the recent unpleasantness with the pantomime villains of the Third Reich nobody else has come close.

They may not envy our food, our climate or our fashion– although they are are absolutely fine thank you very much (Our sausages are more honest than the wurst of Germany, our cheese is as cheesy as any in France, we have sartorial insanity to rival Milan and I defy any human in the world to find fault in a mosquito-free, bright summer’s day in the Yorkshire Dales.) but they have always coveted our separateness. Now to save you the trouble I have been on Google Earth, examining our border fences and guess what? Yup, we have none; we don’t need any. It turns out we are an island nation; who would have thought it? Well Shakespeare for one, lest we forget:

This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle,

This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,

This other Eden, demi-paradise,

This fortress built by Nature for herself

Against infection and the hand of war,

This happy breed of men, this little world,

This precious stone set in the silver sea,

Which serves it in the office of a wall

Or as a moat defensive to a house,

Against the envy of less happier lands,

This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.

An invasion of any kind is to be repelled and we’ve been experts at it for centuries. The last invasion from France was almost a thousand years ago and in that time we have kept at bay all manner of flotsam; hell, we even eradicated rabies by the simple act of policing our natural border. But this ‘swarm’ has becoming the most feared invasion of any because it is by our own invitation. Regardless of whatever pieces of paper successive ministers have signed without consultation with those affected this migration is just not wanted and ignoring it, as David Cameron is effectively doing, is helping nobody.

Sealand - The last independent bit of Britain

The migrants may not harbour evil intent but they are unwitting conscripts in the European Union’s war on an independent Britain. Soon the clamour for an EU-wide solution will be so loud that the commissars will take it as an insistence that what the people want is more EU and nation states, unable to act on their own, will acquiesce and give away even more powers. As for the migrants, just watch as the swarm becomes a deluge. We used to be an island fortress; if the EU has its way, soon we may not even be an island.

Swarm

Under a yellow sky, in another world, in a galaxy far, far away, the Rebel Alliance retirees are having their annual reunion meal in a mixed-species restaurant and debating the trans-time interdimensional news stories of the universe. Splashed across the walls and turning the three-horned waitresses into moving silhouettes, occasionally reflecting from the polished silicon heads of a troupe of visiting Glarcks, headlines and soundbites flicker and fade and bring the outside world inside. News from every pan-galactic cul-de-sac has its glorious three seconds of exposure, waiting for enough people to begin reading; the retinal scanners search for the top stories by detecting focus and the most popular are expanded on the screens.

Luke and Obi-Wan watch and listen as the story from another world unfolds. “Tragic it is!” exclaims Yoda, “Let them in, I would.” As the scenes show the teeming human swarm flowing toward the Channel Tunnel Luke is transfixed and doesn’t notice his chopstick-load of slimy Betelgeuseian noodles plop back onto his plate and the others laugh as he nevertheless tries to take a bite and his false teeth meet in mid-air. His bewilderment is quickly forgotten as a shiny puce-faced image is captioned - the Prime Minister of some unknown federation. They all listen to his words simultranslated into a hundred tongues.

“Well I say it was inflammatory and dehumanising!” said Princess Leia, as Luke stirred his chopsticks in the steaming pile of slippery fare. He manages to scavenge up a mouthful and he carefully navigates the chopsticks towards his waiting mouth. “What’s a dehuman?” Asks Obi-wan, but his serious question is lost to the winds as an argument breaks out at the bar. As he turns, rather too quickly, Luke once again snaps his jaws on a big fat nothing as noodles hit the hitherto pristine tablecloth. He looks over enviously as Yoda deftly swirl his sticks in his dish and hoists aloft a massive mouthful of tasty, tangy provender. He grins as Luke’s disappointment writes itself across his face.

All thoughts of David Cameron’s choice of words to describe alien migrants light years away on planet London disappear in an instant as attention turns to Luke. The news screens search for another top story but by now half the restaurant is intrigued. Luke’s disappointment is replaced by grim determination as he sets to his dinner with a fierce concentration; taking a fresh grip on his chopsticks he launches himself once more at the slithery delicacy. Once, twice he tries... and fails. He gets angry and the whole place falls silent as they watch him stabbing, twisting and swirling the sticks in an effort to feed.

Nobody breaths as Luke musters up the steel to have one more go. Seconds pass as he carefully stirs up a knot of noodles, twiddles his sticks and manages to carefully hoist it off the plate. Mouth to sticks, or sticks to mouth? A sheen of sweat breaks out on his forehead as he juggles with this tricky decision and, almost in slow motion, as his open mouth nears the sticks the mass of deliciousness slowly retreats away down the sticks, slithers over his fingers and inevitably plops back into the bowl. He scowls into the silence and looks Obi-Wan in the eye. “Don’t you dare!” he snarls. But, too late, Obi-Wan can’t help it. Stifling a giggle, he advises “Use the forks, Luke.”

Lionised

In the jungle, the quiet jungle, the lion sleeps tonight. Not Cecil though, he’s dead and dismembered, victim of another invasive species which hunted him down and rendered him irrelevant. Nature, red in tooth and claw... and bow and arrow. Daktari it wasn’t. You remember Daktari; the nineteen-sixties African bush doctor show in which everybody and all the animals lived happily ever after in peace and harmony... except when the evil hunters appeared, at which point Clarence, the resident lion king, saw them off with a cross-eyed glare. The natural order of things restored we all breathed again and waited for next episode, reassured that all was right with the world.

That’s how it was when we were kids; the world had an order. You would have to search long and hard and be heavily news-blind and truth-deaf to find much order now. The lions no longer want to stay in Africa and for some reason – maybe to avenge our exploitation of Clarence’s ocular shortcomings – they all want to leave a vast land filled with potential to come and huddle in poverty in a small, cold, damp, unhappy, overcrowded island, already full of people who don’t belong here, with nowhere to live and nothing to live on, or for. The remnants of the tribe called 'The English' pretty much all yearn to live elsewhere and the invaders are slowly taking hold just like American crayfish, grey squirrels, Japanese knotweed et al.

What do we do about Calais? Personally I favour letting them through the tunnel on foot and then selling licenses to hunters who will wait patiently in hides in the Kent countryside ready to bag a trophy or ten, but I just know there will be a tiny but vocal minority of bleeding hearts who won’t like that. At the other extreme is the Obama solution to illegal immigration: give them a passport and sign them up for benefits. But that is clear madness; already thousands want to make it to the Promised Land and making their unrealistic dreams come true will multiply those numbers a hundred-fold. Maybe we could organise a pan-African negative propaganda campaign to tell them what a shithole Britain is and how racist we all are.

You say you’re not racist? Fuck off are you! A preference for people you understand is the basis for all human society. Victory in the competition for territorial rights defines successful civilisations and to deny it is simply juvenile. If you define yourself as anti-racist I bet you are also one or more of: anti-fascist, anti-sexist, anti-austerity, anti-bigot, anti-wealth, anti-monarchy, anti-property, anti-*insert here*... a limitless list of things to rail against. Vocal anti-anything flag-wavers are simply brooding misanthropes with a far greater capacity for hatred than all who simply, quietly, avoid contact with those with whom they differ. Confrontation –violent if necessary – is frequently the calling card of those who believe they have no prejudices.

You looking at me?

Where is all this getting us? Not very far really, because the extremes are unpalatable to most so we need a half-way house; something to make the problem go away without anybody being hurt and without too many sensitivities being upset. And I think I have it, turning once again to the genius of Daktari. The show was inspired by the work of Dr. A. M. Harthoorn and his animal orphanage in Nairobi who developed a gun to sedate animals and capture them without injury. So here’s the plan: We let them all through the tunnel, sell game licenses to rich American dentists who shoot them with tranquilliser darts. Then we ship them out to the reserves in Zimbabwe and let the natural world do what it does so well.

Time Warp – It’s just a step to the left...

Normally, before I blog, I do a few seconds of research. But every now and then I go deep and really get into the detail of the matter in hand. Today I am relying on source material of such magnificent pedigree it would inform and add to your experience if you were to spend a moment studying the inspiration for yourself... if you can get beyond the spelling, grammar and general lack of coherence. Here’s the link:

My response: 

My friends, colleagues, fellow workers… Yet again we are dealing with our eternal struggle; our struggle for justice for the true working man. This never-ending battle has taken some wounding turns but still we stand proud, together and together we stand, er, proud. We have the chance of taking another turn, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, till death us do part... No, that doesn’t sound right at all. Where was I?

Ah, yes, yet again we are dealing with the old enemy, poverty. Poverty of ambition, poverty of aspiration and poverty of class; a piss-poor class, hell-bent on greed, wanting more and more of what we have worked for at any cost to the economy. We are the slaves, to be exploited to give them their unearned living. I know what some of you are about to say; slavery was abolished a long time ago but no, you couldn’t be more wrong. This isn’t slavery of the masses; it is slavery of the few. We are the 1% and we are there to be milked until the 99% get all that they desire.

We are still fighting this class war and it is we who are still losing. Since Saint Maggie was burned in effigy to save us all we have been persecuted by an ideology so perverse it masquerades as freedom even as it chokes the aspiration from the throats of our children. It holds that poor education, high taxes, inefficiency, the abolition of choice and the unfettered flow of welfare is the most efficient way of achieving the greatest social political and economic good.

And this is all hidden in a flurry of nonsensical labels as these warriors for social injustice spout crypto-revolutionary, anarcho-cynicist , neo-Kinnock dynasticism... in guttural northern flat-cap accents masquerading as Socratic dialectic discourse; and claim proletarian credentials just as smoothly as if they were not subsumed into the clinical-bedlamist plot and a desperate need to grasp power and take over the keys to the asylum. Among their insane plans they oppose self-determination and free speech and plan to introduce draconian controls on all human behaviour under the guise of ‘diversity and equality’ and that most discredited of all ideologies, political ‘fairness’

Not content with destroying the grammar system, the means by which many of their class escaped self-imposed drudgery, they went on to close the mines from within and cheered as the bully-boys in the unions shut the factory gates one by one. Filled with a blind hatred of upward mobility and under the delusion that this is somehow caring and compassionate, they seek to drive the most vulnerable in society - those who pay all the tax – into penury. They would make them the scapegoats for daring to lift themselves out of austerity while never laying a finger on the super-rich who they regard as some sort of evil, untouchable mythical beast.

And as if to ‘prove’ all this they write poorly phrased polemic, blaming the sensible, hard-working middle classes, whose wealth diminishes day by day as the price of a decent bottle of wine or a portion of truffles rises out of their reach. “Soak the rich!” they cry, “Squeeze them until the pips squeak!” they urge and then carry on soaking and squeezing, secure in the knowledge that we are too busy working to provide them with a living to be able to engage seriously in politics, while they possess, and hoard for themselves, the greatest resource available to man. Time. The devil, they say, makes work for idle hands.

Wait a minute... are you taking the piss?

Comrades Colleagues, we must come together to fight this evil. If we are not a movement to create a better society for everyone, then what the hell are we for? Do we just wave a white flag and let those moochers do what they want? The grass roots members, the working people of this country, should fight to end this poverty they would thrust upon us; this austerity they brought about. We should reclaim that hallowed ground and restore the beautiful British way of life our fierce forefathers and their fine free fellows fought for. How can we stop them seizing power? We have the chance and we have the ultimate weapon. We can return Labour to their leftist past and leave them there. Friends, I urge you to vote Corbyn and keep Labour out of power for a lifetime.