Tag Archives: Notting Hill Carnival

Elon Musk Violence Speech Hits a Raw Liberal Nerve

We thought it. Elon Musk said it. He said it at the Unite the Kingdom Rally

21 September 2025 – Elon Musk Violence Speech Hits a Raw Liberal Nerve

The British establishment and its leftist media were clearly stunned by the huge number of British patriots who gathered in London last week to voice disquiet, dismay and disgust at the political elite’s indifference to, or perceived complicity in, the erasure of the UK’s culture by the immigrant tsunami. They were also mortified when Tommy Robinson, recently released from what some have described as Britain’s Gulag, bounced back into the limelight to be joined on stage by Elon Musk, the richest man in the world, who, guested in by satellite link, warned the British nation in no uncertain terms that their once revered and illustrious country is on the verge of collapse and that every Briton should be prepared for the violence that is coming.

Unite the Kingdom Rally

Unite the Kingdom was without question the largest and the most successful anti-immigrant rally ever to hit Britain’s streets. Both the liberal political elite and their media cronies were caught with their pants down, most likely in the same room.

Usually, over-vocal and brimming with far-right cliches, on this auspicious occasion, the shell-shocked liberal media seemed to be having difficulty in deciding what ammunition to use.

The rally’s composition alone, full of happy, cheerful British folk, including mums and families, many bedecked from head to toe with colourful Union Jacks, and the carnival atmosphere of it all, tossed the media’s only grenade, the one that goes off with a far-right phut, squarely back into the lap of the propaganda arsenal from whence it had been half-heartedly thrown.

A re-arming exercise would take place later, but during the rally’s opening salvos, the biased UK media and London’s leftist hordes were hopping around on a lame back foot.

Naturally, once the crowds had dispersed, it was time for the usual roll call of how many law-enforcement officers had been injured in the line of duty. Correct me if I am mistaken, I think it was 26. (How can anyone do that job, bound and hamstrung as they are by our insufferable climate of woke?!)

Britain’s poor, old, beleaguered bobby
Sympathy where it’s due, please. Unlike our police force of old, today’s police are as much victims of a dysfunctional ideology as the rest of us. They have a very difficult job to do under the cosh and jackboot of woke. The coppers that I have talked to cannot wait for the day when the force becomes a force again instead of being a cross between a public relations bureau and a branch of the social services. The UK police force like the UK education system urgently needs to be rescued from the weed-ridden liberal landscape that Britain has become, pruned downwards from its political top and replanted in unpolluted soil. The police that I have talked to are as desperate for change as you and I.

In the days following the most successful anti-immigration rally in British history, much would be made of the injuries sustained by the boys who were once in blue but who, like most of us in the UK today, would feel considerably safer on Britain’s streets if permanently clad in full body armour.

The injuries that the police sustained at the Unite the Kingdom rally are, of course, deeply regrettable, but they pall into insignificance compared to the year-on-year assaults which occur as regular as clockwork at that vicious, vile, stab-happy fest, the murderous Notting Hill Carnival — the public disorder event of the year, which carries on regardless for reasons that must be obvious to you.

The Villains and the Victorious

The biggest villain at the Unite the Kingdom rally was not the odds on favourites, Tommy Robinson, nor Katie Hopkins, who with customary zeal and vigour delivered to the establishment the kind of resounding kick in the nuts which the establishment having duly received would like to pass on to Elon Musk. Yes, you’ve got it, children, the naughtiest man at the rally was Uncle Elon.

It is, however, one thing, to put the ideological boot into a working-class lad like Tommy Robinson and to threaten and intimidate a woman (although, I, for one, would not want to try to intimidate Katie Hopkins!), but quite another altogether to attempt to muzzle and bring to the liberal heel one of the world’s most prominent figures.

Apart from daring to show his face at a media-proscribed ‘far right’ rally, speak candidly with its attendees and on their terms, understand the fears that bind them and align himself with their noble cause, Elon had the brazen temerity to vocalise in public what every Briton thinks but many are afraid to say — such is the yoke of liberal woke — that racial-religious-leftist violence is coming to Britain’s streets big time and that something like a civil war is imminent.

The UK media were quick to twist the words of Mr Musk, disparaging him for inciting violence, when all he said, in fact, was that given the state of Britain today violence seems inevitable, and when that violence comes all one can do to survive is respond to it in kind. Elon said nothing more than any self-defence instructor tells his practitioners every day: when there’s nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, when your backs against the wall, fight or die are your only options.

Elon Musk Violence Speech Hits a Raw Liberal Nerve

Elon Musk’s prediction of violence coming to Britain because of deep and divisive cultural changes inflicted by mass immigration, in which the UK’s political elite are regarded by some, by many, to be both instigative and supportive, are by no means uncorroborated. In 2023, David Betz, Professor of War in the Modern World at King’s College London’s Department of War Studies, published an essay in two parts called Civil War Comes to the West¹. In this disturbing treatise, he identifies mass immigration and the multifaceted cultural malaise derived from its imposition as principal flashpoint factors in the causation of an internal conflict that will be violent, intense, widespread, sustained and tragic.

This is the ‘violence’ that’s on its way as defined by Elon Musk. Nothing more; nothing less. He may have had the balls to say it, but I bet you thought it first.

“Western governments under increasing structural civilisational distress and having squandered their legitimacy are losing the ability to peacefully manage multicultural societies that are terminally fractured by ethnic identity politics. The initial result is an accelerating descent of multiple major cities into marginally ‘feral’ status …” – David Betz, Professor of War in the Modern World, King’s College London

“Things are manifestly worsening right now. They are, however, going to get very much worse—I would estimate over not more than five years. That is because of the combination of two other vital factors. The first is the urban versus rural dimension of the coming conflicts which, in turn, is a result of migrant settlement dynamics. Simply put, the major cities are radically more diverse and have a growing mutually hostile political relationship with the country in which they are embedded.” – David Betz, Professor of War in the Modern World, King’s College London

A couple discuss on the phone Elon Musk Violence Speech

On 16 September 2025, the headlines screaming from your TV screens, emblazoned across the front of newspapers and cluttering up the internet, when not just parroting the words ‘far right’, were obsessing, touchy-feely-like, about the disconcerting way in which the Unite the Kingdom rally had ricocheted detrimentally like a bullet in a cowboy film across the length and breadth of Britain’s normally happy, fully assimilated, interethnic communities.

A new dramatic word, along the sensational lines of ‘slammed’ and ‘blasted’, entered the liberal media’s lexicon, as PM Starmer proclaimed that the Unite the Kingdom rally had sent a shiver through communities.

Yes, that’s right folks, ‘shiver’.

“Plastic patriots”, said our plastic prime minister, by openly voicing their desire to preserve their country’s cultural integrity [he didn’t say the latter bit] had sent shivers through Britain’s colonised land [he didn’t use the word ‘colonised’]. He also did not state specifically whether this shiver was felt elsewhere or was exclusive to liberal-left circles, including the seat of government.

Sounding more like Captain Mainwaring than he has ever done before, and believe me that’s quite difficult, The Standard cites the plastic PM as saying, through his official spokesman of course (shouldn’t that be his ‘official spokesperson’!) that the words of Mr Musk “threatened ‘violence and intimidation on [the streets of Britain].” Adding, “I don’t think the British public will have any truck with that kind of language.²”

But, Mr Prime Minister, Mr Spokesman and your mealy-mouthed media mouthpiece, that is exactly one of the major issues that the rally was addressing: the violence and intimidation that is already on our streets. It is a language we could well do without, but, alas, it is all around us. It needs to be addressed, now, or has that slipped your notice?

Perhaps what Musk should have said was not that ‘violence is coming’ but that the violence which is already here is going to get a damn sight worse unless something effective is done about it and done about it quickly. Or, he simply could have said, ‘You ‘aint seen nothing yet!’

That same Standard article quotes Mr Miliband, who is Labour’s Energy Secretary (now, he’s doing a grand job, isn’t he!), as winging away on LBC, “Who the hell is this guy?” Ed, if you weren’t referring to Starmer, Elon’s the man whose got more money and more respect than you’ll ever have. Ed went on to say, according to the article, that “Just because you’re a billionaire, it doesn’t give you a right to … tell us how to run our country.”

Well, I hate to be a far-right fly in the liberal left’s hypocritical ointment, but billionaire or no billionaire, he has as much right as anyone else to voice his opinion openly.

We may not have much of one left, but at least we like to go on pretending that we live in a democracy, and that the cornerstone of this pretence is the right to say what we want to say, the strategic erosion of which, in case it escapes your two-tier notice, is another major reason why the Unite the Kingdom rally took place and why it is universally regarded as such a towering success.

It can’t happen here!!!

Now look here, liberal lefties, what is difficult to understand? The comments made by Mr Musk were neither ‘dangerous’ nor ‘inflammatory’; he was not inciting violence; all he did was merely reiterate what Professor David Betz has said, which the Mirror also echoed, that Britain’s ‘feral cities’ are bringing us closer to civil war³.

Readers’ comments at the close of the Mirror’s article hit the proverbial immigrant nail fairly and squarely on its boat-landed head (just a metaphor, you understand; no intention of inciting violence):

Marod June 3, 2025: “It would not be Civil War as it does not fit the description: ‘A civil war is a war in which parties within the same culture, society, or nationality fight against each other for the control of political power’.

Townsrwt June 4, 2025: “Not a civil war. Drugs gangs taking over citys … towns even villages [which will] be like Haiti or parts of South America.”

Let it be known, therefore, that the ‘violence coming to Britain’ will not be a ‘civil war’ but a war to preserve or destroy our culture. Let it be known as a cultural war (er, hypothetically speaking)

Getting back to Starmer’s shiver, whatever fallacious ripple is said to have run through Britain’s communities, it is nothing compared to the seismic tremor caused in recent years by bad political actors and their inadvertent or planned bad management of the immigrant-multicult fiasco. I am sure that legacy Britons shiver with far more credibility at the heinous changes in our society that are turning our towns and cities into worse than third-world no-go areas. I don’t recall a time in my youth of exploding vests and rucksacks, summary knifing and machete attacks, young girls stabbed in community halls, lorries driven into crowds, assaults on police at airports and nationwide grooming paedo gangs conducting rape on an industrial scale whilst those in authority turn their heads and look the other way. This is not the Britain that used to be. It’s not the Britain we want today. It cannot be the future Britain or Britain will have no future.

Elon Musk Violence Speech Hits a Raw Liberal Nerve

I do hope that those of you who have condescended to read this post will not, as the PM’s spokesman said, ‘have any truck with my language’. Whether they come in trucks or by boat, let’s hope and pray they are dealt with swiftly. At present, we cannot stop them from coming, we cannot get them out, but what we can do, and what we do do, is to put them up in expensive hotels and give them free housing and benefits. The far right, who are not far right but every-day, ordinary British folk, are tired of political gimmicks and games that have no hope of succeeding. They no longer buy the Blairist line ‘diversity is good for you’. They know what it is; they’ve got it; most of them wish they hadn’t and would like to turn the clocks back. Enough migrants are more than enough. We don’t want more, full stop.

This is not the time to vote for the parties your fathers and grandfathers voted for; then was then, now is now. Stop the migrant invasion. Save Britain from the hideous future that Elon Musk et al envisage.
Vote Reform and save your country.

References
1. https://www.militarystrategymagazine.com/article/civil-war-comes-to-the-west/ https://www.militarystrategymagazine.com/article/civil-war-comes-to-the-west-part-ii-strategic-realities/
2. https://www.standard.co.uk/news/politics/keir-starmer-prime-minister-tommy-robinson-nigel-farage-elon-musk-b1247863.html
3. ‘Military expert gives chilling British ‘civil war’ warning over ‘feral cities’ – Mirror,3 June 2025

Image attributions:
Tug of Door: http://www.clker.com/clipart-520843.html
Cheerful family: https://publicdomainvectors.org/en/free-clipart/Cheerful-family-saying-goodbye/74068.html
Man on phone: https://publicdomainvectors.org/en/free-clipart/Man-on-the-phone/71458.html
Woman on phone: https://publicdomainvectors.org/en/free-clipart/Woman-on-the-phone/41314.html
Boats coming in: https://publicdomainvectors.org/en/free-clipart/People-ride-banana-boat/88891.html

In answer to Elon Musk violence speech, woman tells her hubby, 'You knew it would happen sooner or later'

Dean Village Show the Last of the Summer Wine

Not in Notting Hill ~ Thank Heavens!

23 September 2023 ~ Dean Village Show the Last of the Summer Wine

Whilst London’s Notting Hill Carnival, which should have been banned years ago, was erupting into its usual frenzy of violence, with, as the Daily Mail* depicted, odious-looking behoodied things running amuck in the streets brandishing knives and machetes, we, I am happy to say, were over the hills and far away, somewhere on the brighter side of proper English culture.

Resisting the temptation to allow ourselves to be dragged down by the Daily Mail’s depressing but not delusional strapline, ‘ … Britain Now Feels Like a Third World Country*’, but pondering on what Plod will do in the unlikely event they apprehend the Notting Hill Carnival misfits (‘Come on now, don’t be naughty. How about a cup of tea. Let’s sit and discuss your problem.’), we escaped the gruesome subspace that London has become by joining a lot of nice English people at one of the county’s late ‘summer shows’.

Dean Village Show the Last of the Summer Wine

You may recall in a previous post on ‘summer shows’ that I happened to remark upon the tragic disappearance of the greatest big band leader the world has ever known, Glenn Miller. In this post I postulated that at the time of his disappearance he may have had in his pocket a list of English garden fetes to which he was rather partial. It cannot be confirmed, but neither can it be dismissed.

The whereabouts of such a list, if indeed there ever was one, deserves a trial by academia. I am assured by its ambiguity that for someone craving a PhD it would give them something to waffle about for the three small years it takes to secure a job for life within the ivory-tower equivalent of an overpaid Alice’s Wonderland.

As for us real folks, who have ‘to move those microwave ovens … got to shift those colour TVs’, the historical mishap that was Glenn Miller’s fate and the mishap of the present, as signified by the mud-hut happenings in Britain’s capital city, which will themselves one day be judged by history, if today’s generation can get off their phones long enough to realise what the establishment has in store for them (I hear the sound of sheep!) were insufficient reasons not to struggle into the Aston ~ jumping in and out of it is not as feasible as once it was when we were twenty years younger ~ and go tootling classically off to yet another local village fete, which prefers, by academic licence, to rebrand itself as a ‘summer show’.

As we were pulling out of the gate on the spoked wheels of the Aston, our senses were regaled with the inspirational sight of a lady with whom we are acquainted (She works behind the bar (but only on Mondays and Wednesdays) of a pub we know and to which we go.). She was trumping past on a vintage tractor, with a cute little trailer in tow. She was, and in this we were not mistaken, off to the same show as us.

It is hardly surprising that here in the sticks, agricultural relics command the same respect and attention as vintage and classic cars. True village folk, as distinct from Johnny-come-latelys, have all had a taste of agriculture sometime in their lives, and these days even women, when not playing at football, are trying their hand at driving tractors. And some, it must be said, appear more suited to this task than butching it up on a football pitch. Just remember not to get too close when you are behind them and, when they are coming directly towards you, always give them a very wide berth.

The last of the summer wine

One of the lasting joys of my personal summer, this summer, give or take local garden fetes and the odd summer show or two, is the privilege it bestowed upon me to witness from my bedroom window the impressive extent and degree to which British agriculture has progressed.

It is years since I participated in the yearly rural ritual of ‘bringing in the sheathes’, and, needless to say, things have moved on. The good old days, so called, characterised by pitchforks, sore, blistered, split and chafed hands, jumpers out at elbow and trousers out at arse, tied at the waist with bailer twine, have gone to be replaced by farm machinery the likes of which is so fantastic that my generation could never imagine it outside of the realms of science fiction.

Young farm operatives now drive these fabulous machines, not crusty, gnarled old farm-hands. They cruise around in comparative luxury ~ fitted cabs, music systems, heaters for the winter, air conditioning in summer and everything satellite navigated. Sporting the latest haircuts, trendy country-wear jerkins and smart regulation high-vis jackets, the young who work on Britain’s farms often look better turned out than the lords and masters for whom they work. “Where will it all end?!” I ask. It’s new, but it’s not Notting Hill!

The farm machinery of today, the combine harvesters and the tractors, are vastly larger than they used to be and so much smoother in their operation ~ their engines no longer ‘chug’, they glide. They are also more sophisticated, even excessively comfortable; capable of getting things done in a fraction of the time it would have taken us to do them using our often second-hand, tired, worn out, prone to breakdown, cronky and battered old kit.

Good examples of how much things have changed is the paper sack stuffed with straw, which we used to cushion the bumpy ride and to prevent our arses from icing up on the notorious raw metal tractor seats, and how through the winter months we went, chugging and bouncing across the plough, in gloves, jumpers, jackets, top coats and with balaclavas wrapped round our heads. Men were men in those days and boys expected to do a man’s work, often without so much as a thank you let alone a proper wage and, if you were really unlucky, as frequently we were, a boot up the arse for your troubles. It was angry farmers who ruled the earth then; ‘uman rights and children’s rights and the global-warming industry were just a twinkle in the collective eye of your preposterous liberal-lefty.

A better example of ‘how things have changed’, that is to say a less emotive one, is captured in a photograph, taken from my bedroom window, which juxtaposes yesteryear’s farm implements with their plush and powerful modern counterparts.

At today’s garden fete, sorry, I meant to say summer show, I would be given the chance to see tractors pre-dating my farming years as well as those that were contemporary to the time I spent on the farm. In other words, I would be looking back in awe, and not with a little disbelief, at tractors old and classic which, only the blink of an eye ago, were objects to be marvelled at in spite of their myriad defects. To us they were acceptable; we didn’t know anything else.

Fortunately, time softens sensibility and mellows troublesome memories, turning what was once a bitch to work with into something we never imagined it could be, an icon of nostalgia, deserving of affection bordering almost on abject reverence.

To one side of these veterans of the land, these old tractors which were lined up on the field like so many members of the Home Guard, stood something cute and dinky. We had met its owner the night before in the local village pub, who, in response to my revelation that I had in my youth one just like his, corrected me forthwith, saying whilst it was certainly true that Dinky had made a road-roller, the toy was not the full-sized model parked outside the front of the pub. His was a mark ‘blah blah’ with an ‘oops, ay now and what-do-you-call-it?’ and what is more with an engine capacity that was ‘fart de-lah-de-lah-lah-lah!) … The trouble with vintage vehicle owners is they really know their stuff.

It was a similar situation when I accosted the owner of a Ford Zodiac Mark IV. He had no difficulty rattling off the engine capacity and build, top speed, fuel consumption and a whole lot of other technical and historical stuff, including, I was amazed to learn, that the reason, as I had stated, ‘you don’t see many of these’ was that in spite of the hundreds of thousands of Mark IV Zodiacs produced less than 300 have survived!

My uncle ~ let’s call him ‘L’ ~ owned a Mark IV Zodiac back in the 1970s. When I expressed an interest in it, he told me he bought it because (a) it holds a lot of ‘stuff’ and (b) it can accelerate faster from a standing start than the average police car.

At his funeral a few years ago, I was walking with my mother behind my uncle’s coffin as the pallbearers bore it from church to cemetery when suddenly, from around the corner, a police car hoved into view.

Casting a wry glance at the car, I heard my mother whisper, “I’m afraid you’re just too late”.

Dean Show 2023 ~ Fast Cars

The Ford Zodiac Mark IV was not the only now classic car that could outrun Britain’s rozzers. During the 1960s, the villains’ vehicle of choice was more often than not the Jag. Not only were Jags fast, they were also incredibly flash, seeming to possess for the raffish and the rakish just the right combination of tasteful class, wheel appeal and polished disreputable charm.

A Jag Mark II was with us at the show today, as was one of the 1960s’ most iconic vehicles, the unmistakeable E-type Jag, a masterpiece of curvaceous chic, both the hardtop and convertible versions. Also on display was a 1970’s Mustang, a Citroen from the 1930s’, a lovely coach-built red Rolls Royce and umpteen variations on the nippy sports car models which, individually and collectively, left an irrepressibly glamorous signature on the 1960s and 1970s.

So, where and how did it all go wrong? Whatever happened to classic car design, with its emphasis on strikingly different, instantly recognisable and once seen never forgotten? Whatever happened to walnut dashboards, numerous dials, must-click switches, leather seats and glittering chrome. Wherever the good times went, the good cars must have gone with them.

It was all too much. We decided to explore the stalls, were disappointed when we could not find one catering in old-fashioned junk and swung away in protest for my brother to try his luck on the tombola. (Who on earth is Tom Bola?)

At a previous event, which had been called a garden fete, not show, my brother had had the good fortune to win a bottle of wine on the tombola and a bottle of brandy in rapid succession. Would his luck hold out today? Did it heck as like!

“I said it would be a tin of beans, and it was!” he matter-of-facted. But the little spin of clairvoyancy in which he had couched his statement did nothing to hide his deep disappointment. It isn’t winning, it’s playing the game that counts. What a load of old nonsense!

What you lose on the tombola, you might win on the circus skills, and in this respect my brother fared better, I must say remarkably better, in tightrope walking and juggling. Not that this came as a great surprise. There are those who would say that he has walked a tightrope and juggled his way through life. But today it was for real. Admittedly, the tightrope was only two feet off the ground, and he was juggling bean bags not clubs, but I’ve got to hand it to him, I did not need to hand it to him: he succeeded in both endeavours.

One of the supreme joys of attending English garden fetes, and shows, is not the inevitable dog exhibition. To like dug shows, you have first to like dugs. Some don’t.

Today’s dug show was all about gun dogs and the obedience they learn through training, but as most of the bitches were in heat there were one or two near unfortunate incidents which threatened to turn a family show into something rather embarrassing. This was just the excuse we needed to head back to the Aston, drag the folding chairs from the boot and get stuck into the old, packed lunch, which I washed down eagerly with a refreshing pint of English ale.

Picnic over, it was time to circulate; to say hello to people whom you knew, who you knew had been trying all day to avoid you, and to avoid those people you knew, who you knew had been trying to say hello. You don’t understand the rules? It’s a quintessentially ‘English thing’.

No English garden fete or English village show could be considered complete without the proverbial cup of tea and slice of cake. To enjoy it at its best, you should be able to sit outside in the sun under a Panama hat, preferably wearing a day cravat. Such attire is also good for drinking beer in the evening. Consider it done.

Mick Hart expatkaliningrad with Panama hat and beer

And so, another garden fete, sorry, village show, and indeed another garden fete season (with the exception of Riseley show) inevitably came to an end. Whatever it wants to call itself, it had been a pleasant experience, as had all the local garden fetes that I have attended this summer, prompting the reflection that the UK can be an enjoyable place when free of the unwanted enrichment that Sorryarse and his motley crew seem to have forgotten previous British generations did very well without. “Not today, thank you (or any other day!)!”

As we all know, however, the good old days were not all that: there was no woke, no PC, a lack of sexual harassment payouts, certainly nothing LGBT and sadly no global warming to melt the frost on your tractor seat. Nevertheless, when all is said and done (a lot is said but not a lot done) the good old days in hindsight seem a darned sight better, infinitely better in fact, than what we have at present and what is yet to come. You ain’t seen nothing yet, but consolation has it that the reset they have planned for us will not endure for long. Across the political West, pseudo-liberal doctrines have already begun the slow, the painful, the inevitable process of rupture and unravelling. In the long term it will be brutal, but right will prevail as it always does.

In the short term, however, the story will be different. All that will remain to fill the echoing void left by garden fetes, Sunday cricket and good old English pubs will be foreign food stores, Turkish barbers, one or two Indian corner shops (whatever happened to Arkwright?) and, last but by no means least, the never pleasant, totally unnecessary, no-excuse-for-it Notting Hill Carnival.

Be careful what you didn’t wish for.

Now that’s what I call a country fate!

Reference
Daily Mail* [Wednesday August 30, 2023]