Nightmare

It’s not about Brexit any more; Brexit is gone, betrayed, smothered at birth by an avalanche of mealy-mouthed, self-declared bien-pensants who genuinely believe in their own beneficence and that they know better. Along with millions of others I waited – pretty patiently, I think – to have my say, having been a year too young to vote to leave in 1975. I have watched as young people “whose futures have been stolen” did nothing while my past was being misappropriated, dismantled or rewritten.

Since I attained my own majority I have seen my country, my England slandered and libelled and cast as the villain. I have seen our history overturned and I had to stand and watch as Tony Blair’s treacherous administration deliberately altered the face of my fellow countrymen, so that we were no longer recognisable to each other. I listened to the lies. I heard a succession of paid men tell us that sending all that could scrape a few desultory GCSEs to university was some form of progress; they were told that they were too good to wait at table, or pick fruit.

Then I watched as millions were imported to do those character building jobs that my generation and generations before did, jobs that shaped our work ethic and determination to succeed. And as the new graduates settled into a life of unemployment the whole fraud was heralded as some form of economic miracle. A miracle indeed when you can displace perfectly able workers while paying others a wage which attracts no tax yet somehow pays for the pensions of all those complaining ‘old people’. There’s your enemy, kids, your own grandparents, they said.

And I now find myself possibly part of another problem, because having rejected academia, for which they are not suited, thousands are turning to manual trades. So in part I am helping to serve an industry which is not about turning out quality tradesmen but feeding a voracious appetite for qualifications. Qualifications demanded by an ever burgeoning bureaucracy which – like Parliament – prefers credentials over competence. And still our British trainees are regularly overlooked in favour of incomers who push wages even lower.

Brexit was about being British, not European – not some sort of insubstantial allegiance to nothing – it was about reclaiming a sovereignty that was almost unique in the world, an actual sovereignty of the people. Now we see that has become just a sham. Brexit wasn’t meant to be about reclaiming that sovereignty from the grasping hands of party politics; it shouldn’t have been necessary. But now we see the political class for how they truly are... the biggest part of the problem.

The Tories have turned a shade of red I hoped I’d never see. Labour has long abandoned its heartlands for the sunny uplifted faces of the new British, those who have made their homes here because Labour wanted to rub the right’s noses in diversity, unaware of, or not caring that their interpretation of  the right’ included their own bedrock voters; a horrible twisting of political covenants which is mirrored across the continent as more and more Eurosceptic parties emerge, organise and begin to take back control.

Time to kick the EU out of Britain.

This isn’t about Brexit any more, this is about the destruction of the EU. From within, if needs be, but in any case by that attrition as more and more countries rise up against the tyranny of the velvet-gloved tyrants of the new communism. A civilised, orderly parting of the ways was not just a dream, it was eminently achievable and could have paved the way for a reform of the EU’s more extreme ambitions. But now, whether Britain is in or out, this is about ending Verhofstadt’s federal dream and filling his nights full of mares.

Feet of Clay

Now we know, beyond any rational doubt, that our elected leaders are venal greasy pole climbers without a shred of decency or competence, isn’t it time for action? Not a general election, not a re-shuffle and certainly not a Parliamentary debate about the way forward – consulting Jeremy Corbyn, for fuck’s sake? We need a Cromwell moment and the whole Palace of Westminster needs to be shut down, its sitting tenants evicted, turned out onto the streets and an entire new order imposed.

What, no government? Well why not? The government clearly has no power, abuses what authority it has and is a primary cause of division in the country. Labour offer no useful opposition, seeming to believe that simply opposing is their primary function and proposing no workable alternatives to the same tired old tropes. Fairness, equality, social justice and all those nebulous, airy-fairy notions are chimera; there is no such thing in human society.

But what we do have is an ability to exploit opportunity and the total shit-storm in our supposed seat of democracy is ripe for exploitation. The party system, as was, has come to its inevitable end. Neither party offers a genuinely acceptable way forward and no matter who is in power it constantly has to battle opposing ideologues to make even the slightest progress. Progressive education and the lunacy of cultural relativism has created a population easier than ever to manipulate, easier than ever to penalise. The police are discredited, the judiciary exposed as frauds. The scene is set for chaos.

And maybe chaos is exactly the tonic we need. Let the civil service and local authorities carry on with running the day-to-day business as best they can and set the dogs on Westminster, political correctness, the university training grounds for political malcontents, common purpose and all the pointless agitators for ultra-minority power. Release the vigilantes, set free the conditioned minds and let’s have one massive societal punch up.

Oh, there will be no clear winners, but – apart from the carnage (and you can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs) – a period of utter, desperate, dog-eat-dog, fear and uncertainty might just be the catharsis we need. Find out whose side you are really on, not whose oily words salve your political theology. It’s perhaps not ideal but it’s what seems to be happening anyway; might as well get it over with.

May announces latest genius idea...

Clear out all the old, corrupted crap, usher in the new, the fresh, the untainted. It might still be rubbish, but at least it will be new rubbish and who knows what might emerge from it? In Ukraine, Volodymyr Zelenskiy has starred for three years in a television comedy (Servant of thePeople) about a man who accidentally becomes president. Right now Mr Zelenskiy is front runner to actually become president. Maybe we could do with a bit of that.

Troy

On what should have been Day 2 of UK Year 0000 PB (Post Brexit) the world is going slightly mad over the case of Dominic Grieve and his losing the confidence of his constituency association. MPs are queueing up to wring their caps and intone solemn eulogies to the career of a political giant. To which the general public are saying, Dominic who? Outside Westminster he is an also-ran, only today grabbing the headlines because of what many see as his sheer treachery in seeking to overturn Brexit. But what went wrong?

We use to scoff at the sight of natives rending their garments on the newsreels, sobbing in public and ululating in grief and despair, but since the canonisation of Saint Diane, the British have become mawkish and have taken to repeating the self-same public displays we once used to find so quaint. When the French marched en grève, burning sheep and blocking roads we used to chuckle, remarking that this wasn’t how the British did things. And having invented sport, as such, we were paragons of fair play – play up and play the game and a friendly ovation for the victors, should we lose. In short, we slightly despised all that foreign emotion.

But now look; the British sense of fair play used to mean that we may not have agreed with you but short of coming round to your way of thinking we could respect your view and respectfully defer to you winning the debate. Agreeing to disagree characterised adult discourse and a certain pragmatic acceptance that sometimes a decision made was better than a decision deferred and spilled milk was something only Johnny Foreigner would cry over. How things have changed.

Had Remain won the referendum – an outcome most of us expected – we would have grumbled a little, maybe even protested a bit, but most of us would – having had our say – retreated to the sidelines and politely clapped you off the pitch. We’d have been British about it. We certainly wouldn’t have seized the ball, declared extra time and carried on playing after sunset, the ref blowing his whistle for all he was worth.

But of course, I’m living in the past. I’m imagining what I believe would have happened had the competition been between only the British, when in reality this was always between Britons and Europeans. Grieve is not behaving like a son of Albion, but displaying the petulance of a Spaniard, the disdain of the haughtiest Frenchman and the arrogance and sense of superiority that comes naturally  to the Teutonic race.

Oh, of course we can trust them...

Grieve and his ilk are no longer British, if ever they were; they are Europeans, first and foremost. It is one thing to infiltrate a foreign power with double agents from outside, but quite something when you can get their own governing class to betray the country without even offering anything in return. Beware of Grieves bearing gifts - our Parliament is nothing more than an EU Trojan horse. Time to burn it down.

Allegory

On the day God punished the Africans – thousands were wiped out in Gambia – Abdul Vazçèq was too busy tending to his wilted vegetable plot to notice. He was concerned that the dispute with his neighbour may have brought divine retribution to his door so he was busy. He was not watering the produce, for that was God’s work, but praying devoutly for his intervention from the heavens. But he had to go into town to join the compulsory daily mass demonstration at the behest of the supreme prophet; the holy father of the state religion and God’s representative on Earth.

Before the coming of the Great Silence we were assailed by the clamour of the devil, in the form of newspapers, television and the internet. It was a continuous babble of misinformation and contradictory truths. Nobody knew what to believe and the conflicts between those who voted for one outcome and those for another had become more and more frequent; the normal functions of society were disrupted on a near daily basis as London’s streets were clogged with protesters. But now it was clear that there can be only one truth and at last we have found it.

When they cut down the tree of knowledge (the world-wide-web-of-lies)  life was supposed to get better for the devout and given that Vazçèq’s life was now a power-less, jobless, hungry existence he could only assume that his own lack of unthinking faith was to blame. He couldn’t exactly blame god because, well, that was illegal and god was omnipotent. If it wasn’t in the holy book it wasn’t true and he knew on which side his bread was buttered. Or at least he would if he had any butter. Or bread for that matter. It had been a while now.

As he crossed the town square, looking up at the cloudless sky and worrying about his vegetables he was only vaguely aware of the screens broadcasting god’s retribution on the Africans. Floods; how ironic. In a corner of the former market place – markets were now banned as unholy – a small gathering was busy stoning somebody who had expressed ambivalence for divine government in earshot of the religious police. At least there was now law and order. And everybody had the same opinion, if they wished to stay alive.

But where was the rain? And what must he do to appease the almighty; if only there was a sign. A hundred loudspeakers crackled into life and a booming, voice of authority commanded that all face the screens for their act of devotion. An old still image appeared and the crowd began to bay. The last remaining means of generating electricity now that god’s will was being done was reserved for the generators of state and church. The crowd repeated the mantra and the hated figure – now long dead – became for two minutes the centre of their universal excoriation.

I am the Alpha and the Omega, the Epsilon and the Upsilon...

A siren signalled the end and the crowd began to recover from their trance-like state of angry arousal. The face of Nigel Farage faded from the screen, to be replaced by the calming image of the supreme leader. People began to return to their normal business of finding enough to eat. But none would forget the experience and tomorrow they would worship again, their beliefs reinforced. A small cloud appeared in the sky and as Vazçèq headed for home he saw that his faith was strong; he was on the side of the righteous.

Prepare for Government?

Another day – Day 1002 – in the Brexit psychodrama and more turmoil. There are deep suspicions that the latest move – ExtensionGate – is intended to precipitate a destabilised Parliament into forcing a general election, or a form of coup. Deep conspiracy indeed, yet given the open hostility towards any notion of independence, not so far-fetched as to be disregarded altogether. In the background you can almost hear the collective groan of Leavers as they see what is a clear ploy to deny their celebration.

Then there’s the petition to revoke Article 50. Remainers were thumping the air yesterday as it rapidly passed the two million signatures mark, while some prominent leavers insisted it was being infiltrated by foreign powers, Russian bots or the simplicity of casting multiple votes by the use of different email addresses. But of course there is a far simpler explanation and it is possibly at the heart of why Brexit has been the ugly and embarrassing spectacle it has.

Remainers are happy in the right sort of company. Among them are the kind of people who rejoice in the type of ‘diversity’ that brings misery to the communities on which it is thrust. I can’t be only one to have noticed that pretty much every day now the BBC and others broadcast the islamic call to prayer as a preface to any news stories about any islamic issue. We are becoming habituated to  hearing ‘Allah’s snack bar’ no longer as prelude to slaughter but as a plea for peace and understanding. New Zealand is suddenly looking like Iran, forty years ago this year, during the Ayatollah’s Terror.

The media, politics, the organs of state are flush with the kind of bien pensant goodies who love a bit of politically acceptable acquiescence to the demands of cultures different from our own. It makes them good people and they love being part of the herd,with all the other good people. No wonder they were so shocked in June 2016. In their world nobody would even dream of leaving an even bigger club of even lovelier people with only kindness in their heart. Why, only deviants could be averse to sharing the joy.

So, when it comes to protesting ‘austerity’, NHS funding, climate change and Brexit, there is a ready network of the very best of people who will come together and the call to gather will spread far and wide across social and mainstream media, whose lever-pullers are a part of the same group. Stick up an opinion poll in the Guardian, the [not] Independent, Buzzfeed, Facebook, Twitter et al and of course it returns the ‘right’ result. The result they knew it would – you gorgeous, wonderful, lovely, kind, caring saints.

But where are the voices of dissent? They have been largely silenced; from Gordon Brown’s ‘bigoted woman’ to those who agree with everything Nigel Farage says, the message from the media, from the government and more recently from the police and judiciary, is that your opinion is verboten, practically a crime. As a result you don’t possess an acceptable group identity, which means when you look around for support you see bowed heads, mumbling quietly, mostly to themselves. No wonder the referendum was such a shock to the system.

The will to leave is there. The numbers are not only still there, but I suspect, growing. Many who wanted to leave probably didn’t vote because the media told them that remain would win. If we did have a second (actually third) referendum there is a chance the leave majority would increase; it’s a risk remainers really don’t want to take. But Parliament hasn’t had the balls to do what their electors want them to do, so the EU has stepped in to tell them how to proceed with remaining – get rid of May and put up a puppet.

But it won’t solve any problems. Brussels unveiled has a far uglier face than its worshippers imagined and Brexit averted would be a victory for the globalists, so the opposition will not simply fade. The Champagne – or, rather, the English sparkling wine – may stay on ice for another few weeks, months... or even years, but the fight for Brexit will continue.