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.

This England

You used to know where you stood, often quite literally. Entering a busy fish and chip shop, where people waited for various nowadays incomprehensible orders, there was a certain Englishness in the calm order in which matters were dealt with; first come, first served, elders to the front of the queue. Ah the queue, for which we were once famous throughout the world, the very epitome of fairness and egalitarianism.

We didn’t need an identity in the modern sense, for we all had one already and one with far stronger bonds than the myriad fractured hierarchies of grievance to be found today in the relative pain rankings of gender, sexuality, race, learning needs and disability. It was once considered impolite to talk about politics or religion but nowadays we have little else – and some religions are legally off-limits. So all we have left is politics... and the weather, although even the weather is now fraught with difficulty depending on how far down the climate change rabbit hole you have ventured.

But the biggest division today is, of course, Brexit. And it is a division which shows so much about how far we have travelled since the chip shop days. If you are older and still have a sense of the common bond of Englishness (and I do mean English as opposed to British; British is no longer an easy and reassuring identifier) you will likely have voted to try and regain that enviable status. If you are young and have been brought up to believe that the source of all that is good is somewhere else, you are probably a remainer.

If you are an older Brexiteer you are probably a little confused and certainly dismayed at the disdain the young show for a thousand years of modern history. If you are young you are probably furious at the nasty, crusty old leavers who have, in the current parlance, ‘stolen your future’. If you are young, of course, you also know nothing that others haven’t told you... you don’t even realise this fully because, as young people, you still need to be protected from your illogical and self-destructive urges.

We used to do that, we ‘old people’. Nobody voted to make your lives poorer, we voted to make all our lives more meaningful. You may not see a problem in globalism, blasphemy laws, unlimited, unchecked migration, Ponzi welfare systems and the culture of self above all else, but we do. You will still be able to spread your wings, travel the world, see wonders and better yourselves. Having, maybe, to put the tiniest bit more effort into it might be the making of you. But in or out, what you become has always been in your hands; nobody has taken that from you.

And when you’ve made something worthy of yourself, when you are yourself sitting back and taking stock of your life, we hope that one day you will appreciate: “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.”

No need to thank us.

Swamp Creatures

Interesting times, indeed. If anybody was in any doubt about whether electing Donald Trump, or voting for Brexit was the right choice Parliament appears to be bending over backwards to provide example after example of how it exists to serve itself and defy the unfortunate chance of protocol which has saddled it with an electorate to bamboozle. In a proper system of government, they seem to indicate, we would have no need to appease the untermenschen who have somehow been given airs and graces beyond their entitlement. You can imagine the conversations behind closed doors:

“Look here, little people, every five years we let you pretend to have a say and then we let you get back to grubbing about for scraps, or whatever frightful collection of activities passes for a meaningful existence in your world. Honestly, some of you have neither title nor political dynasty to speak of yet you think you know best?

“Sometimes we blame ourselves, you know, if more of you were living on the breadline you’d have better things to worry about than whether or not we had national identity, dignity and pride. What is the point of pride, for heaven’s sake. I mean look what that oik Churchill did with it. He managed to rouse a rabble of common rough people to take up arms and thwart our dear friends’ plans for European Unity.

“Well, we’re not allowing that to happen again. Tony Blair did his bit to swamp the country with so much islamic monocultural ‘diversity’ we’d rather hoped you would have been outbred by now. But no; that’s the problem with low intellect – you have a stubbornness which defies logic. Our logic. We in the EU – of course we are fully signed up to perpetual union, you idiots - were busy trying to plan a secret army to cope with any uprisings and what do you bloody well do? You go and commit Brexit, that’s what. Well, it is sodding well not going to happen on our watch and if necessary we will take the entire country down with us.

“As opposed to what Anna Soubry said about her overblown 'Nazi' incident, where we are now is not just a few horrible people being nasty to MPs, it is millions of you. You can’t imagine quite how horrible it is, seeing your ugly, lower caste, gurning faces massing at the gates of Westminster Palace, imagining that your vote is as valid as ours...”

How Westminster see voters...

It still beggars belief that MPs don’t seem to fully understand the levels of frustration, anger and downright mistrust that exist in the population at large. Voiceless, powerless and now that we know how much we are despised, utterly disgusted at the system that has brought us here. Donald Trump likes to talk about draining the swamp in Washington; well Westminster is no different. A referendum didn’t help one bit; we’re going to need a bigger plunger.