Saint's Day

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.

Progress

David Cameron appeared on a BBC Question Time special last night and I reckon he got a shock. Despite assembling a balanced audience of Remainers and Leavers the questions were generally hostile. Even the Remainers were pissed off at the lack of a positive vision for a UK locked into the EU after the vote. While the Leavers were openly scathing and critical, the Remainers – the few of them who tried to ask supporting questions – seemed to be seeking reassurance and replies they could believe. He was wholly unconvincing and may have done his bit to put the Brexit case back on track. Let’s hope so

In three days’ time we get the only chance many of us will ever have to see this country regain its rightful place in the world we were instrumental in shaping. If we vote to Remain, the divisions within the EU and within Britain itself will continue. Toynbee et al were dead right to say that there is a mood of helplessness and despair abroad; this is a direct result of the unchecked pursuit of a progressive agenda. In the true spirit of doublespeak ‘progressive’ means the exact opposite of advancement, unless you see progress towards national oblivion as a good thing.

Progressive means denying your children a decent education by abandoning what was proved to work and adopting every unproven faddish tenet of academic pedagogic dogma. Packing the classrooms with flush-cheeked but semi-literate teaching assistants on minimum wage; providing ‘support’ for legions of kids with dubious statements of ‘special needs’ when all they need is a return to discipline and rigour and keeping politics out of the classroom. Child-centred education has facilitated the emergence of an infantilised population, taught that they have inalienable rights to a self-centred existence regardless of the cost to society. Just how many graduates of The Science of Harry Potter does society really need? 

Progressive means being labelled as a racist because you have pride in your origins; this carries a caveat that it only applies if you are white and born in Britain. If your origins or heritage are from elsewhere, then not only is your clinging to your roots admirable, you are considered brave to do so openly and loudly in the face of so many British people trying to quietly do the same. Such people as you are bigots and must be shouted down, for every single one of your opinions and values is worthless when compared with the opinions and values of ‘diverse’ and ‘vibrant’ multiconfusionism.

Progressive means the pursuit of equality uniformity at any cost. In the textbook this suggests they would rob the rich and give to the poor, but in reality the rich are good at hanging on to their gains (all of which are ill-gotten in progressive folklore). No, it is far easier to make everybody equally dependent on state largesse by expanding the welfare state to accommodate not just those who don’t wish to work but also those who do work, by paying them more in tax credits than they pay in tax, magically conjured by the economic alchemy of importing ever greater numbers of cheap workers who also pay less in than they cost the system. Nobody understands how this works, least of all the experts of David Cameron’s fantasies.

Incidentally, those who have grown rich via the public sector – the aforesaid experts along with advisors, commentators, heads of departments, state-aided charities and officials of the Eurocracy – are honourable heroes of the struggle, who deserve every penny they have been paid even though such receipts represent a near total loss to the economy. The progressive system will spend whatever it needs to do in order to maintain the illusion that Neil Kinnock is a price worth paying for peace, harmony and contentment, even though said peace, harmony and contentment are his and his alone.

"I'd like to renegotiate the arrangement of our deckchairs"

So, when you are berated for being a Little Englander. When you are patronised for not understanding ‘complex’ issues that seem pretty straightforward to you. When you feel bullied for having an opinion when all around you are allowed opinions you find distasteful or wrong. When you are told that you are wrong even as the evidence of your existence is that the peaceful and tolerant country you used to love is disappearing in front of your eyes remember that all of this is happening by design and with the complicity of ‘your’ government. And when today’s Dianafication of Saint Jo in Parliament is used to accuse you of being complicit in her death, make a decision to reject the lot of it and vote to Leave on Thursday.