May this fair land we love so well in dignity and freedom dwell
28 May 2023 ~ It’s that man in the Russian hat in Bedford!
Great news! That is, great news if you are a dinosauric socialist or a politically challenged liberal: the results of the UK local elections suggest that Labour are back on track to break into Number 10 next year. It is rumoured that when this catastrophe happens, the first item on Queer Stammer’s agenda will not be to reverse rampant crime on our streets or stem the terrorist threat but to reverse Brexit in all but name. A politician, who wishes to remain Anonymous, as he hasn’t had a sex change, has disclosed that a bill will be produced (abracadabra!) that will ensure that whilst officially the UK is no longer a vassal state of the Evil bully-boy Union, the bureaucrats in Brussels will be firmly back in the driving seat.
Beyond rumour is the sure certainty that the UK’s immigration crisis, that is the one the Conservatives are powerless to prevent because, and I quote, of ‘legal challenges’ ~ time for Sorryarse’s UK legal-system to be investigated and overruled ~ is about to go from bad to worse.
The lefties have always been advocates of open-door immigration. After all, it was introduced by Mr Blair and his cronies as a pre-emptive measure to shore up the loss, which they rightly anticipated, of the white-working-class vote when the old grassroots socialists finally cottoned on, which eventually they did but only after it was much too late, that under Mr Blair’s stewardship New Labour had ceased to be the party of whippets, flat hats and pigeons, and that they and their tired old Marxist policies had been well and truly shafted. No one, not even the Neanderthal socialists, asked for multiculturism, and yet many just went along with it because since their grandads voted Labour they hadn’t the gump to ask themselves why they should do the same.
Neither did we ask for a free-for-all immigration fiasco. In fact, the majority voted Brexit to call for a halt to immigration, and what did we get in return? The net result under Tory rule is that immigration has soared to hitherto inconceivable heights. We also voted Brexit to loosen the pseudo-liberal stranglehold on every law that governs our land, particularly countercultural laws that originate from and are weaponised by the European Convention of Human Rights, the sole-serving purpose of which are to pave the way for mass immigration, a move that Britons pay dearly for, always in cash, often with lives. This, we are told, is social enrichment, when all that is enriched by uncontrolled third-world migration are the symbiotic coffers of the UK’s legal profession, the political mannequins on the end of the strings and the shadowy globalist figures whose hands control the strings that make those mannequins dance to their tune.
We will greet them on the beaches!
Sir Winston Chapelcliff
The proof is in the political pudding: You can vote as much as you like in Britain, but you’ll never get what you voted for. Other democracies around the world are routinely dismissed in Britain by its media and its political class, who refer to them as ‘managed democracies’, the implication being that we should think ourselves jolly lucky that the democracy in which we live is perfectly mismanaged.
At the end of the day, and every day, the cronies that govern our country, whichever party to which they belong, happily and arrogantly ride roughshod over all we believe in and all that we hold dear. Even now, as Enoch Powell’s predictions of ‘Rivers of Blood’ flow from cerebral to credible, the British media continues to praise the heinous game of migration chess foisted on us by a man whom it egregiously applauds as a ‘philanthropic billionaire and champion of human rights. They over egg the diversity soufflé whilst putting down the culinary critics who see it for what it is, as sickly as sick can be, by labelling them as conspiracy theorists and disciples of the far right. And should everything else in their bag of tricks fail, leaving nothing to dissemble with, they fall back on their second-rate act, drop Putin’s name into the mix and blame it all on the Russians.
Hats enough of hat!
You have just read the preface of two seemingly disconnected but actually interdependent actions: the singing of a song entitled There Always Was an England and an overwhelmingly strong compulsion to put on my Russian hat.
Look, it’s that man in the Russian hat!
Earlier this month I took my autocratic Russian hat for a test drive in the English countryside. On a date not to be disclosed for fear that they might travel back in time and attempt to rewrite history (the lefties are always at it), I plonked my hat upon my head and went for a stroll around Bedford.
Now, at any other time in the glorious history of our sovereign country, this would have posed no problem, but today, with almost every English town and city looking, sounding and feeling like the asylum version of Noah’s Ark, keeping a firm hand on one’s tiller is a crucial prerequisite for navigating dangerous urban waters.
This, as it happens (Jimmy Saville was fond of this phrase) is a convenient water-related metaphor, because the first place that my Russian hat took me was along the side of Bedford’s Embankment, next to the River Great Ouse.
Noah is not an English name, so there is a very good chance that he was one among a group of men idling near the water’s edge looking as though they had landed from Eastern Europe. Perhaps Noah himself had brought them?
You could tell that they belonged to the Tracksuit Bottom Club, because all were wearing tracksuit bottoms. They were gathered in a circle, and one of the men, the one with the most superior bottoms, was addressing the rest in earnest, or possibly Lithuanian, or it might have been Ukrainian (do they have a language?). The group was listening so attentively that its leader must have been giving them tips on how to work the benefit system, which was fortunate for me, as I glided past them in my hat like something hypersonic and, undetected by enemy radar, arrived at Bedford’s Suspension Bridge without comment, let or hinderance.
A thing of beauty!
It was a lovely day to be standing above the River Great Ouse wearing a Russian hat. A couple of swans went by, who must have been working for border security because they took as much notice of me loitering in my Russian hat as they would a flotilla of boat people cruising into Dover.
A bus pulled up outside the Embankment Hotel, and from it alighted a gaggle of shadowy personages who went inside the building. Was it one of those freebee buses paid for by the government? Sorry, I mean paid for out of the British taxpayers’ pocket? “Don’t go to the Embankment bar,” whispered a prophetic voice. It was the same voice that long ago had advised me quite correctly to “Avoid the BBC licence fee as one would avoid the plague!” Yet again, I thought it prudent to act on its advice. As an Englishman in England, I had to watch my step! I watched them all the way back to Bedford Town Bridge.
Where did you get that hat?
If there is one thing in life that never ceases to amaze me, and I assure you it’s not the Labour party, it is just how useful bridges are when you want to cross from one side to the other, and Bedford Town Bridge is no exception. Built in 1813 and expanded in 1938, the bridge insisted I stand upon it and have a photo taken wearing my Russian hat!
You can tell it is not a selfie, for, if it was, I would have been pouting and looking like a ten-year old thanks to the camera’s filter. Not having any tats, well, not that I can show you, and without a ring stuck through my snout or a bolt thrust through my lip, the risk of doing something like that, taking a selfie that is, was slim to say the least.
I had my photo taken and then pressed on, passing numerous people young and old alike, who didn’t even see me let alone my Russian hat because every zombie one of them was twiddling on their mobile phones as if they’d sold their soul to Bill Gates, which in effect they had.
Within less time than it takes to invent a pandemic and cash in on those fatal jabs, I came at last to the High Street, which was busy, busy, busy. As I had not been asked to produce my passport, I assumed I was still in England. It’s just not that easy to tell anymore.
I crossed over the zebra crossing, well why not? That, like bridges, is what they are there for, and continued in the same direction in which I had been going. All of a sudden, a strange looking fellow dressed in a pea-green T-shirt clutching a first-prize trophy that had been given to him gratuitously by the world’s most apolitical club ~ it ironically goes by the name of Eurovision ~ turned tail and ran. Had he seen my hat? The last I saw of this funny little man, he was heading towards the offices of the Government in Exile located on Britain’s ‘Take Anyone Street’. Man, that’s an awfully crowded street ~ innit!
I was now standing in one of Bedford’s most populated thoroughfares, next to Debenhams, that has closed, not far from Beales, which has closed, just around the corner from Eurovision Stores, many of which, like borders, are open (A round of applause from the Liebour party!). So far only two people had noticed my hat. I don’t know how they did it, as both have silly great faces of metal and all they do all day long is stand and stare at each another. These ‘statues’ in the centre of Bedford are worth every penny that you, the taxpayer, paid for them: trust me, I’m a politician.
From here it was all downhill to Ethnic Street, or Midland Road as it is sometimes known. Surely someone here would be a specialist in spotting Russian hats? But no, so off we went to Wetherspoons. It being at this juncture not just as good a place to stop as any but the place where stopping is most desirable, and that’s an unarguable fact! — you wouldn’t want to walk further, believe me you really wouldn’t.
Over a thoughtful pint in Wetherspoons we, my camera crew and I, considered chancing our hat in Bidenham, er sorry I meant to say Biddenham, the home of the Ukrainian flag, but came to the conclusion that as the virtue-signalling folk who live there exhibit obvious limitations in independent thinking, the likelihood of any one of them understanding Cyrillic was much less in their favour as was looking silly in the eyes of the world.
Perhaps I should start a beginner’s course in reading Russian hats at Bedford College. We could follow the immigration paradigm: First come, all served! Discounted fees for the naive, especially those voting Green or Labour. But hurry, as places and brain cells are limited! Just quote the password dorac!!
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