Liberals are upset. The word ‘woke’, originally enlisted into the English language as a weapon to further their ideological aims and bulwark their arsenal of victimhood, has fallen into enemy hands. It seems that ‘white privileged males’, ‘populists’ and even a man who gets paid to be rabid on television, have wrested the weapon from the hand of the mugger. They, along with millions of legacy Britons like them, are turning it to their own advantage in an existential struggle to preserve country, culture, heritage, home and history.
In this series of posts, I will update you from time to time on the wokey pokery that, having been brought to the surface and accelerated by such a monumental political event as Brexit, threatens to undermine, destroy and eclipse what, less than a century ago, was one of the greatest nations on Earth but which now, regrettably, as a result of social engineering and state-sponsored sell out, is little more than Pandora’s Box in a carnival hall of mirrors.
If, in a wild and distorted dream or a state of unpardonable and gross inebriation you have even vaguely considered that the ‘liberal way’ could be progressively good for your country ~ or, for that matter, remotely good ~ let these posts serve as a moral reminder: Be careful what you wish for!
The Strange Woke Case of the White Privileged Male
The liberal left like nothing better than to label anyone who does not obsequiously and unquestionably conform to what Piers Morgan has described as their ‘PC-crazed world view’. Case in point:
For the first time in months coronavirus slips from its number one place in the British media slot and is immediately replaced by lamentable laments about race. It wasn’t April Fools Day when I read about the liberal media’s reaction to the Sewell report on racial disparity and caught sight of the shockless, but none the less discouraging, headline, “Pimlico Academy: Angry pupils stage mass walk-out at school’s ‘racist’ uniform policy”, but it ought to have been, at least then it might have all made sense … a little sense … some sense … no?
On the same day, 31st March, it was refreshing to see something infinitely less predictable than a load of liberals all crying collectively into the same obsessive snotrag. It was the actor, political activist and leader of the Reclaim Party, Laurence Fox, the High Priest of Anti-Woke, whizzing across London in a traditional, red, open-topped double-decker bus, launching, in an applaudably British way, his London mayoral election campaign against that really nice Asian man, the Woke’s mayor of choice, Mr Sadiq Khan BLM, EU, AGENDA.
Woke Watch PC UK!
Mr Fox, probably best known for his co-starring role in the TV detective series Lewis, entered the political arena after he fell foul of anti-freedom of speech liberals and the predominantly liberal-virulent Twitterati mob for responding to a mixed-race university lecturer during the BBC’s Question Time who accused him of being ‘a white privileged male’. Such an accusation, he said, was racism.
Following the broadcast, the actors’ union, Equity, which is not at all institutionally Woke, called on other actors to denounce him. As a ‘white privileged male’, he had obviously overstretched himself. Racism, as we know, is a one-way street ~ or so they would have us believe. My only regret is that I missed the headline: ‘White Privileged Male Blacklisted’.
I am sure you will agree that there is absolutely no excuse for being a ‘white privileged male’. If you have the misfortune of being one, let it be a lesson to you. You should have chosen the race of your parents more carefully and ensured that both were on the dole. You should also sue them for not consulting you on your gender preferences before they had the temerity to consider giving birth to you.
Woke Watch PC UK!
Piers Morgan, formerly of Good Morning Britain (yes, that’s him, nice, quiet man, never got a bad word to say about anybody), himself since hounded by the same crazed hypocrites as Laurence Fox, Tweeted on Twatter:
“Laurence Fox hounded off Twitter for daring to challenge the virtue-signalling mob. The repulsive abuse & threats these shameless ‘liberal’ (*illiberal) hypocrites spew out on here to anyone who refuses to sign up to their PC-crazed world view is disgraceful ~ [Feb 24, 2020]”
Piers Morgan ‘lost’ his job at Good Morning Britain “because I chose not to apologise for disbelieving Meghan Markle’s claims in her interview with Oprah Winfrey. I thus became the latest ‘victim’ of the cancel culture that is permeating our country, every minute, of every hour, of everyday. Though of course, I consider myself to be neither a victim, nor actually cancelled.” [https://www.manchestereveningnews.co.uk/news/tv/piers-morgan-addresses-lost-job-20113944 [accessed 31 March 2021] ]
News on the grapevine has it that Mr Morgan, true to his beliefs, has not been ‘cancelled’. He is about to be reinstated (so he tells us), which is something that Laurence Fox has yet to experience.
I was sitting in the office of our antique shop. It was a bright, sunny afternoon one Saturday in June. A couple whom we knew as being members of the 1940s’ crowd had just parked their 1935 vehicle on the small forecourt out front. I greeted them as they entered the shop, and they said to me, in a disappointed tone, “We have just heard that the shop is closing; that you are selling up and moving.”
I replied in the affirmative.
After saying how much they would miss the shop and us (which was nice of them), they enquired where I was moving to. Over the past six months I had become an expert at answering this question. Turning away to place an advertisement on the shop’s ad board, I casually replied, “Russia.”
Nine times out of ten, on hearing this, the astounded party would cry: “Russia!”. And some even fell back a few paces, as if thrown from the bombshell I had just dropped.
On this occasion I was deprived of my fun, as the people concerned turned out to be the one in ten: they expressed no astonishment on learning that I was planning to leave ‘our wonderful democracy’, in fact they empathised with me, sounding envious that I was ‘getting out whilst I can’, and saying “we don’t blame you” and “we would like to do the same.”
Mick Hart & Olga Hart in the Vintage & Antiques Emporium
But I did not decide to leave the UK and give up the country where I was born and everything I had ever known simply because it would furnish me with a first-class opportunity to laugh at the way the UK media brainwashes people.
It is true that my wife is Russian, and some people when apprised of this fact took it for granted that this is why I wanted to move to Russia, the logic being that had my wife been Martian I would want to move to Mars or, even more irrational, had my wife come from Wisbech I would want to move to the Fens. She hadn’t, and I didn’t, and I wouldn’t. Would you?
There was, of course, a bit more to it than that.
Moving to Russia from the UK
My wife, Olga, moved to England in 2001. In Russia she had been a qualified teacher of English with 10 years’ teaching experience, but as we know, or are led to believe, educational standards in the UK are far superior than those in any other country, so her qualifications and teaching experience was immediately rendered null and void.
Being a worker not a shirker, within two days of arriving in England, Olga set out to find gainful employment, no matter what it was, and after a couple of weeks managed to obtain the envious position of waitress at d’Parys Hotel in Bedford. Not bad, we thought: from qualified teacher with 10 years’ experience to table servant in two weeks: Welcome to the UK!
Nevertheless, it was a job — a thankless job. No sooner had she started than she fell foul of a bossy young lady with a rank inferiority complex and seriously challenged people skills, whom I would eventually christen ‘Fat Arse’ ~ for reasons that would be quite apparent to you had you been acquainted with her ~ and by extension (heaven forbid!) d’Parys then became known to us and our close circle of friends as DeFatties.
Incidentally, this rebranding of the hotel almost caught us out when my seven-year-old stepson, who liked to be taken to d’Parys for chicken nuggets and chips, blurted out one Sunday afternoon, “I like it here in DeFatties!!”
“DeFatties?” asked Olga’s bemused manager.
“Er yes,”I quickly replied, “Daniel calls it that because I always say that we are off to d’Parys for chicken nuggets and fatty fries, instead of saying chips, and although he’s doing well with his English, he does tend to confuse his words a little.”
But I digress.
During this period of her induction into the side of British life which immigrants rarely anticipate, Olga did manage to find temporary work with an agency that needed tutors with foreign language skills to act as a guide and mentor for overseas students. She juggled both jobs and eventually migrated her waitress skills to what was then d’Parys’ sister enterprise, The Embankment Hotel in Bedford.
The Embankment Hotel, Bedford, UK (December 2019)
Whilst labouring here, in addition to working towards her UK Citizenship ‘exams’, she was also studying for a postgraduate degree at Luton University, and in the meantime landed her first education post in the UK as an advisory teacher for EMASS (Ethnic Minority Achievement Support Service).
This meant that she would have to give up her job in the hotel trade, an outcome which my stepson Daniel heartily disapproved of. His mother becoming a ‘teacher’ was a definite step down from hotel waitressing, with its chicken nuggets, fatty fries and often free ice cream.
Although the EMASS job was a demanding one, Olga enjoyed it. As she said later, she felt as if she was actually doing some good and although it was not that well paid, most importantly, she liked the staff and got on well with her boss.
It was about this time, as Olga passed her QTS (Qualified Teaching Status) exams, that I asked her, whilst she still had chance to change her mind, was being a full-time teacher really what she wanted? I had visited a couple of schools in Kaliningrad, Russia: once to collect Daniel from primary school and, on another occasion, to pick up some documents from the Russian equivalent of a UK comprehensive. On both visits I had been struck by how well behaved and polite the children and students were and how attentive and orderly they were in class compared to their British counterparts.
I was not without experience of what British schools were like. I had a near brush with school culture when I left university. Not having the faintest idea of what I wanted to do in life, I fell prey to what in those days was standard career’s advice, which was to dragoon you into teaching. Reluctantly, I went through the motions, which included three-days’ ‘teaching observation’ at a school of one’s choice ~ I chose The Ferrers School, in Higham Ferrers, Northants*.
This brief introduction was enough to convince me that by not pursuing it further I would escape a career worse than death, and that, remember, was back in the 80s, when although British schools and life in Britain generally was all going terribly wrong at least it had not gone so utterly wrong as to be irredeemable.
But, in spite of all my remonstrations to the opposite, Olga ignored my pleas, held her course and set sail into the Poe-like maelstrom of UK education, reasoning that this was her job, this is what she had been trained for and this is what she wanted to do. Besides, she enjoyed teaching and enjoyed being a teacher.
Illustration for Edgar Allan Poes’ A Descent into the Maelstrom by Harry Clarke (Attribution: Harry Clarke, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons)
Soon after qualifying she landed a job at the now no-longer-in-existence Harrowden Middle School, Bedford, and soon after that she stopped enjoying teaching and stopped enjoying being a teacher. This was the UK: being a teacher in the UK was nothing like being a teacher back home in her native country, Russia.
There are so many accounts that I could narrate to you about my wife’s experiences as a teacher in the UK, but I will leave that for a later post. Suffice it to say, it was every bit as bad as I had described it and worse, and it was no coincidence that the first school at which she worked, Harrowden, soon earnt itself the sobriquet of ‘Harrowing’.
If you are familiar to any degree with the UK education system you will not consider it to radical of me to say that UK schools and universities are little more than political indoctrination factories. The educational equivalent of ‘from the cradle to the grave’, but in this instance from primary school to university, the principal function of the education system is to inculcate, without fear of question or second thought, the dubious doctrines of so-called liberal progressiveness, particularly with regard to socially engineered and politically correct enforced multiculturalism and, in more recent years, gender engineering.
This, let us refer to it as political paedophilia, filters down from the top, through the career school heads and the ultra-left liberal staff to be consolidated by the biased nature of the texts and writers studied and reinforced by a daily helping of liberal-leftism from the BBC.
At the time that Olga was teaching, the BBC was head-over-orgasm in a tawdry sycophantic fantasy with Barack Obama, pulling out all the stops to cast him in the unlikely role of the Patron Saint of Democracy. When he was ousted in 2017, Trump was immediately framed as Bogeyman Number Two, just behind Vladimir Putin. Although Olga was unwilling to take an active part in this political grooming of youth ~ and refused to point blank ~ she had to endure considerable bullying before her case was heard, viz that she was there to teach English not enforce political views and corrupt the minds of the young.
Be careful whose sweeties they are and who you accept them from!
There are many other problems associated with working as a teacher in the UK, such as inflated bureaucracy, unnecessary paperwork, unpaid overtime etc, but these ills are universal to a good many other jobs and professions. However, one that is exclusive to teaching, and which stems from the same invasive fungus root of ‘liberal progressiveness’, is the continual round of daily abuse that teachers have to contend with both from feral pupils and their belligerent parents.
Every single day in my building, there are egregious acts of student misconduct going unchecked. Teachers are losing hope that things will ever get better, and we are tired. We are expected to be therapists, social workers, substitute parents, punching bags, and outlets for student rage and verbal abuse. Teaching is only a small percentage of what we do anymore.
Once again, I do not intend to expatiate on this here but will leave that subject for a later and more detailed post on the parlous state of the UK’s education system, in which I shall provide specific examples of incidents that my wife experienced whilst teaching.
After 20 years on the frontline of Britain’s schools, my wife had had enough. It was time to call it a day ~ get out. In many ways, this was a great pity, as teaching had been her life. In the UK, in addition to her teaching qualification, she attended and successfully completed many professional development courses and received numerous compliments and accolades from the heads of the institutions in which she had taught, from members of the teaching staff and also from pupils.
The rewarding element of teaching ~ so sad that UK’s schools are the victim of a pernicious ideology
Throughout her career, she had seen many teachers come and go, both long serving and new: some who had been ‘dreaming of escape’ for years and just could not take it anymore; others, fresh from college, who lasted less than a week before making the brave but timely decision to embark on a different career.
As if an Orwellian education system, lunatic skewed political correctness and state-sponsored delinquency was not enough, another baptism of western malfeasance awaited my wife.
In the time that she had been resident in England there had been several anti-Russian campaigns prosecuted in the extreme by the UK’s media, but in her last three years of living there the establishment and its media’s attempts to trash all things Russian and stir up rampant Russophobia had gone into overdrive, having obviously been prioritised by those who control our governments.
It was no coincidence then, and it is no coincidence now, that the anti-Russian Blitzkrieg had been launched at a time when both the British and American public’s trust in the neoliberal way had resoundingly hit the skids. The last thing that an imploding democracy needs is its 5-year cross-tickers looking elsewhere for the national, traditional values that no longer exist in their own back yard. And UK politicians would do well to remember that making history is a considerably less stable proposition than valuing and celebrating history, not to mention rewriting it or simply giving it away.
At last, incensed by the liberal propaganda machine and suffocating political correctness, Olga broached the subject to me of getting out ~ of leaving the country.
So, did I agree to go just because I am a fine husband and devoted to my wife? It would be so easy at this point to say yes, and by doing so pedestal myself as a martyr to feelings other than my own, but the truth is that it took almost three years before I, too, decided that I had had enough of the liberal canker that was so malevolently blighting the land that I loved. English born and bred, a legacy Briton with roots ~ my grandmother’s brother fought and died for his country in the First World War; my two uncles also fought in the Second World War, and my father’s brother, who was a Major in the Second World War, was awarded the Military Cross (M.C.) posthumously) ~ it should not have been an easy decision to make, and it wasn’t.
In the interim, whilst I was weighing my decision, I used to joke that the next time I went on holiday to Kaliningrad I would ask for political asylum on the grounds that I could no longer live under the oppressive liberal yoke: open borders, anti-social behaviour, ethnic-linked but never officially admitted-to crimes, increased internet censorship, and all the other politically correct baggage ~ the petty, ridiculous, meaningless stuff that is blown out of all proportion and which saturates our daily life, such as should we have a female Dr Who? how many women are there in the UK’s board rooms? not enough black actors on television, should same sex couples be allowed to adopt children, LGBT issues, gender issues, race issues and aarrrrggghhh!!
And then comes Brexit, with its liberal-motivated back-stabbing, double dealing, wriggling, writhing shiftiness and utter contempt for democracy — the liberal leavers screaming (and don’t they just!) that we must have a ‘people’s vote’ in the name of democracy when by the democratic process that is exactly what we had, it was called a referendum. (Apropos of this, it amused me recently to see the headline in one of the UK’s extreme left newspapers which claimed that if Trump was not impeached it would be a ‘threat to democracy’. Talk about ironic!)
Even though Democracy ~ battered, bloody, tarnished, sullied, bribed, threatened and subjected to all manner of shameful legal illegalities ~ would eventually break free from its criminal leave abductors, thanks primarily to Nigel Farage, by now my mind was made up. We were sailing on a cultural Titanic. It was time to leave the sinking ship
There were some who asked, “Why not got to Spain?” and “Why not go to France”. I suspect my reply was somewhat too obtuse for them: “The EU ~ NGOs ~ Merkel”.
And now, when fellow Brits ask me ‘do I like living in Russia?’ I play their game. Knowing what they want to hear, I reply, in a suitably pained tone: “Why did I do it …?” And as a triumphant smile begins to dawn on their faces, before they can say I told you so I quickly conclude my statement with, “ … leave it so long, I mean. I should have moved ten years’ ago!”
Next (when I have time to write in between beers) ‘What I like about life in Kaliningrad’
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What I like about Kaliningrad Updated 18 April 2022 | First published: 2 March 2021 ~ Kaliningrad beyond the headlines of the West [INTRO} I wrote this piece over a year ago, at a time when western media had nothing better to do than push a hysteria-fomenting narrative about the coronavirus pandemic; now, apparently, it… Read more: Kaliningrad beyond the headlines of the West
Diary of a Self-isolator: Day 645 [9 December 2021] Published: 8 December 2021 ~ Vaccination Passports Stop the Spread of Underpants Diary of a self-isolator is one of a series of posts and thoughts on self-isolating in Kaliningrad. Links to previous posts appear at the end of this post. It’s amazing isn’t it! Just when… Read more: Vaccination Passports Stop the Spread of Underpants
In Memory of a Good Friend Published: 1 November 2021 ~ Celebrating the Memory of Königsberg Tour Guide Stas 28th November 2021. Today was the anniversary of Stas Konovalov’s death. After paying our resects at the graveside, a group, consisting of family, close friends and neighbours, were brought together by Stas’ mother for a memorial… Read more: Celebrating the Memory of Königsberg Tour Guide Stas
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A modest proposal (with apologies to Jonathan Swift)
In the land of wokes and snowflakes Hope & Glory are to liberals what a crucifix is to Count Dracula. Demolishing the BBC and sowing the ground with salt might help.
Published: 28 August 2020 by Mick Hart
‘Come on now, play the white man!’ Now, there is an expression that you do not hear every day. Back in the 60s, my friend’s father, who never passed up a chance to remind us what a true ‘English gentleman’ he was, often used to say this in circumstances where standards were lax or propriety compromised. It always produced a good titter from we children.
‘Ooohhhh, but you couldn’t say it these days!’. Well, I’ll let you into a secret, we do now and again, and it still raises a chuckle or too. The laugh comes not from the so-called racist connotation but from the jingoisticism of it. It is funny because it echoes and epitomises the arrogance, stuffy, and overbearing colonial mentality in which it is rooted. It is, in short, like many such sayings, a delightful and whimsical anachronism.
John Cleese, a master of satire, exploits similar examples of the British colonial mindset in the award-winning comedy series Fawlty Towers. The humour lies in the fact that it is self-deprecating, self-effacing. It demonstrates how the British, the English in particular, are able to send up their own national foibles and laugh at them. As our friend Victor Ryabinin would say, if you can laugh at yourself then you can laugh at others. Poking fun at one’s own national character is as British as a pint at the local and the age-old tradition of Yorkshire pud and roast beef on a Sunday. So, hoorah for the likes of Cleese and hoorah for Fawlty Towers.
Thus it was sad, nay deplorable, to learn on 12 June 2020, that the ‘gutless and cowardly’ BBC, as John Cleese called it, had removed an episode from the Fawlty Towers series for what The Guardian referred to as featuring ‘racial references’. Although, he was perfectly right ~ it was gutless and cowardly ~ it was not entirely unexpected, as more and more people agree that the BBC is the most institutionally liberal organisation in the UK, second only perhaps to the UK education system.
Fawlty Towers is just one of many classic TV programmes that have come under the BBC’s prissy PC scrutiny of late, although it is worth remembering that a lot of these condemned programmes are readily available on DVD. I recently watched a wonderful episode from Steptoe and Son on DVD in which old man Steptoe sings ‘Enoch’s dreaming of a white Christmas’, and, believe it or not, you can still buy the liberal anti-Christ of all 1970s’ comedy series Love Thy Neighbour and watch it at home in your Englishman’s castle. “Sssshhh, is the drawbridge up, Ethel?”
Knowing what the BBC is, knowing how it operates but wondering why anyone who does not read The Independent pays its license fee, it came as no great surprise when I heard this week that its latest PC purge was a suggestion to drop Rule, Britannia! and Land of Hope & Glory from its televised account of the Last Night of the Proms from the Royal Albert Hall. Apparently, the BBC lovies had been impelled to consider this in fear of reprisals from the Black Lives Matter mob. What was it John Cleese called the BBC? Aaahh yes, ‘cowardly and gutless’. Thankfully, the response of the real British public to this blatant publicity stunt was such that the BBC did a double-fast U-turn. Had it not, I think we could safely say that the writing, which is already on the wall for it, would have been summed up in two short words ‘F… Off!!’
It is appropriate that the BBC, which is at the forefront of historical revisionism, advocates that Land of Hope & Glory is dropped from the Last Night of the Proms, as revisionism and PC-groveling has been a cornerstone of its programming philosophy for some time now. I believe it must have a slogan on its foyer wall, soon to become an integral part of the BBC logo, which reads, ‘If the left don’t like it we’ll rewrite it!’ They are particularly assiduous in this respect when it comes to creating parallel worlds, especially out of historical dramas; who recalls their not so finest hour with the sad and sorry remake of that superb old series Upstairs, Downstairs?
Why not just call it a day? Give away your heritage, history and ancestral home in one fell swoop; commit cultural suicide and become second-class citizens in your own country; anything has to be better than this slow, painful and humiliating death via cringing appeasement and craven capitulation.
Oh, dear, who is really sick to death of all this liberal-left diversity-inspired political correctness gunk? Alright, let’s rephrase that question, who isn’t?
For years now the poor old tolerant, long-suffering British nation has had to sit back and watch as this once great country of ours is dragged into oblivion by two-party seesaw politics and the self-interested jobs worths and subversive lobby groups who run it ~ or rather, who are running it into the ground. No wonder the bods in Westminster did nothing when the adherents of BLM tried to remove Churchill’s statue. I should think it is a constant reminder to them of how gutless they have become. Come on lads (and the lady quotas) Tony’s been gone a good while now!
Anyone who was naïve enough to believe that things might change when the Conservative party got back into power need look no further than the humiliating paralysis that settled over Westminster during the BLM riots to prove how wrong they were? Was it not Nigel Farage who asked, what is it that the conservatives are conserving? I mean if the BBC is as anti-conservative as it is constantly claimed to be, then why does not the Conservative government do something about it, and, whilst it is at it, why not replace Ofsted for Instead (Investigating Standards in Education, Children’s Services and Skills), a department tasked with rooting out the liberal bias entrenched in the UK education system?
Ahhh, somewhere over the rainbow. It is obviously far easier, and possibly agenda fulfilling, to back down, give in and accommodate ~ I mean, think of what might happen at the ballot box! But the sad truth is that each time a concession is made in the false names of tolerance, fairness and equality, because one ethnic group or another demands it, another little piece of British history and its way of life is chipped and scraped away.
When terrorists attacks occur in the UK we are immediately told by the powers that be and their ideologically motivated media, that a few individuals, a minority, are trying to drive a wedge between us ~ ‘us’ being some fantasy co-operative who all live happily together in Pleasantville. The usual community leaders are rolled out, inadequate apologies muttered and, before you know it, we are off down another candle-lit vigil road.
As a friend of mine once said, he was surprised some budding entrepreneur had not cashed in on this process. Considering the way this country is going, someone could make a fortune selling candle-lit vigil kits wholesale.
This wedge, sometimes referred to as the thin end, is, in fact, the fat end. It is up there with the numerous acts of street violence, murders, muggings and the latest moped crime trend that has earned London the unenviable sobriquet of stab-fest capital of the world, and which plague many other big cities and towns in the UK.
The thin edge of the wedge is reflected in the fact that the old British way of life is extinct. It is goodbye to leaving your front door unlocked and evenin’ all Sergeant Dixon, and hello to bolts and barricades and where’s that bloody SWAT team when you need it!
The thin end of the wedge, which is more like a very annoying and painful wedgie done whilst wearing Y-fronts, can be estimated from the following occurrences and their psychological and societal impact on a nation that has never been more unsure of itself, more identity insecure, more unstable and more divided.
Let’s roll some of these thin wedgies out:
😆We must rename the Christmas holiday to Winter Lights because as Christmas is a Christian holiday it might offend the sensibility of certain migrant groups
😆We must not fly the Union Jack, because to do so is racist
😆We must not fly the Union Jack, because it is a fascist symbol
😆We must not fly the English flag, the St George flag, because it is racist, and because it is a symbol of colonialism
😆Serving members of our armed forces, who risk their lives in defence of the realm, are spat at in the streets by certain migrant groups
😆Serving members of our armed forces are refused service in shops run by people of particular migrant origin
😆Serving members of our armed forces are told that they must not wear their uniforms in public for fear of violence from certain migrant groups
😆State-run institutions and some private companies instruct their staff to remove crucifixes as it may offend migrant sensibilities
😆Remembrance Day poppies are burnt by sensibility-challenged migrants; liberals on social media urge for the poppy symbol to be dropped
😆Individuals who cry racism are awarded very large sums of money, often from the taxpayer’s purse
😆 Every day, the printed, televised and internet media is saturated with tales of a politically correct nature
This is a just a handful of rather unpopular and perennially irritating issues that clutter up and weigh heavily upon the life of every Briton. Perhaps you would like to add more of your own.
Until Nigel Farage burst upon the scene, one mention of immigration and you were immediately branded as racist. In fact, you are still branded as racist whatever you say. For example, if you were to say, I don’t think much of this engineered society of ours perhaps we’d all be better off if immigration was controlled, what would that make you? Concerned about your country, your traditions, way of life and a stable future for your children? Of course not. You would obviously be a racist, fascist, extreme right wing, far right, intolerant, a Nazi … in other words a threat to the liberal status quo.
On the opposite side of the coin, the liberal-owned and democracy-managing media continually refer to the extreme left, the neo-marxist and the various brownshirt organisations that masquerade as humanitarian groups fighting for ‘justice’ and ‘equality’ as anti-fascists and counter-protesters. Sounds good, does it not, if not a tad one-sided?
In 2016, the leader of Britain First, Paul Golding, narrowly avoided jail having being convicted for wearing a political uniform. Was he wearing full body armour like the black Forever Family activists that marched through Brixton this month (did anybody get arrested for that?) ~ no, he was wearing a fleece with a Britain First logo on it. I see so many T-shirts, sweatshirts and fleeces adorned with logos and slogans which, if there was any justice, should get the wearers sectioned, but hey ho and freely around they go, why? Because it is one rule for one and one for another, depending, of course, on the establishment’s patronage.
The internet, that once-trumpeted doyen of free speech, of which it was famously said could never be governed or censored, is governed and censored in the UK~ only the British establishment, who have always done a good line in misnomers, whenever they take down someone’s ~ wait for it! ~ social media account, explain the act of censorship away by stating that the person concerned, predominantly white British, was inciting racial or religious hatred. And watch out for those mean tweets, you could have plod at your door! But only some doors and not others …
The list of politically correct follies goes on and on and on, and yet still the UK has the gall to present itself to the rest of the world as the crucible of democracy, where freedom of speech is sacrosanct. The reality is, however, that freedom of speech in the UK is a lot like rights, ie there are rights for some and not for others. In other words, there is freedom of speech for some, as long as you stick to the establishment script, but woe betide you if you stray from it!
How many of you are old enough to remember Britain as it really was, in the days before PC-enforced diversity? Be honest, when you think of it, does it not make you want to sing, “Oh, but it was all so simple then …”?
How complicated, stifling, suffocating, tumultuous, frustrating and just downright stupid it has all become. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to round up all the racisms, tolerances, civil liberties, freedoms of this and that, rights, discriminations, equalities and all the other infectious isms and bin them, and then make further references to them unlawful! Imagine the tables turned ~ found guilty of being politically correct. Good stuff, ay!
When you stop to think about it ~ and they would rather you did not ~ how awful it is that Great Britain, which was once as its name suggests Great, has been reduced to this. And whilst you are at it, spare a moment to commiserate with the hapless lot of legacy Britons, those Britons whose families go back generation upon generation. What have these legacy Britons had to put up with? ~ the oppression, the intimidation, double-standards, bullying. The only people who believe they have benefitted from so-called progressive liberal values are those who are, bless them, really nice but naive people who want desperately to be thought of as tolerant or enlightened, and are used as democracy fodder as a result, or self-culture loathing anarchists.
Whenever I see or hear the phrases celebrate diversity, champion diversity, show more tolerance, or hear references to ever-increasing levels of enrichment, I am reminded of the conditioned response of the villagers in Patrick McGoohan’s TV series The Prisoner. The villagers, the brainwashed citizens of the Village, run around with rainbow-coloured umbrellas like performing poodles, pretending that life is harmonic, whilst Number 6 warns them through a megaphone that “Unlike me, many of you have accepted the situation of your imprisonment and will die here like rotten cabbages”.
What do you want to be a rotten cabbage with a rainbow umbrella or a realist? Either respect the history of your country and uphold its importance and rule of law or else denounce it once and for all. You cannot have your Yorkshire pud, roast beef, tats and eat it. Either value your traditions and celebrate them, set them in stone and let those who want to live here know that if they do not want to live by the rules and values of the host country don’t bother coming (or even better, just close the borders) and for those already here who violate our laws demand that your government take suitable punitive action. It really is time to draw the line and to say that this line must not be crossed. If not, simply cave in, admit defeat, wave the white (oh, sorry) flag and give the country away.
I understand that we are going to hell in a handcart, and the trick is to leave the brake on just enough so that hopefully the complaining oldies drop off naturally one by one, thus leaving the way open for the softened generations processed in the jelly mould of the liberal left’s compliance factory, otherwise known as the British education system, to carry the future can. But, if that is the plan, why wait?
Why not just call it a day? Give away your heritage, history and ancestral home in one fell swoop; commit cultural suicide and become second-class citizens in your own country; anything has to be better than this slow, painful and humiliating death via cringing appeasement and craven capitulation.
It really is time gentleman please, or as dear old Leonard Cohen might say: “It’s come to this, yes it’s come to this and wasn’t it a long way down …”
Either play the white man and resuscitate the patient or switch off the life support machine, and then perhaps whoever is left can get on with their lives. Perhaps … Land of Hope & Glory? Hope, as they say, dies last!
Once upon a time there were two towns, one called Decadence and the other Tradland. Although the children who lived in each were much the same as children everywhere, the two towns, and the way they were run, were altogether different.
The children who lived in Decadence were told by their prefects that they lived in a blessed land, a land of plenty, full of endless supplies of sweets, chocolates and ice cream and to get this endless supply they need do nothing. In Decadence, there was precious little in the way of laws, except for those that related to credit and borrowing, and all mention of good behaviour or, heaven forbid, morality had been swept under the globalist carpet donkeys’ minds ago.
The children of Decadence had ‘rights’ and all they needed to do to ensure these rights, which in turn ensured an endless supply of sweets, chocolates and ice creams ~ or so they were led to believe ~ was to go the betting office once every five years and put a cross on one of the betting slips. To make it easy for the children, who to be honest did not understand much about high-stakes gambling, the National Democracy Race had always been a two-horse fix. There were no winners only losers; no matter who you placed your bet on, you always got more of the same. Most of what you got was promises, but as the children of Decadence had been taught from primary school to the time that they left university, usually with a triple first in banner carrying, what was the point of promises? They were only there to be broken.
Nevertheless, Decadence was sold to the children who lived in it and to the rest of the world as such a bountiful place that people flocked there from every forsaken corner of the world. It did not matter that thrown together in this way these poor unfortunates despised one another with a vengeance, squabbled, fought, and grappled for power, as the prefects just kept on telling them that Decadence was Utopia and everybody in it one big happy family. And the more they repeated this, the more the children who lived there, who let me say dear reader did not know any better, wanted to, or were made to, believe that what they were told was the truth .
A Fairy Tale for the End of Summer 2020
Meanwhile, whilst the children were getting fat, indolent and lazy on too many sweets, ice creams and chocolates, the prefects, who had carefully schooled them in the art of looking the other way, were busy plundering the world of its wealth and resources. From the children’s point of view, this good life was a life without end. They really did believe that ice creams, sweets and chocolates grew on Rights trees, firstly because the prefects told them so and secondly because those same kind prefects were always willing to grant them credit, as long as they paid the interest, of course.
A few miles away, down the road from Decadence, there was another town, a very large town indeed. In this town the children were not much different from the children in Decadence. They, too, liked ice cream, sweets and chocolate, but they had been taught that in order to have these luxuries they had to work for it. In Tradland, rights were not enough to get ice cream, also to be considered was respect, social responsibility and a very old-fashioned and out-dated idea by Decadence’s standards, morality.
The prefects in Tradland were not as bad as they were painted by those in Decadence, who, as one old sage from Decadence remarked, “Decadence is ‘frit’ of sovereign values, and therefore ‘frit’ of Tradland itself” (The parish magazine promptly labelled him as the village idiot. He was excommunicated by the high priest of the Internet, Facebook, and never heard of again.). But in Tradland sponsored-egotism, waywardness and the continual free-for-all mentality that was worn like a badge of honour in Decadence was not encouraged. Neither did the prefects of Tradland support a World and Its Wife attitude with regard to who came to their town and who lived there. In short, they wanted their town to be lawful and safe, to be proud of its history and conserve its way of life.
Whilst Tradland did not care too hoots how Decadence was run, the prefects in Decadence had been brought up on the nasty belief that you could never have enough. Gangs in Decadence had sprung up and these gangs, such as Hope for More Ice Cream and Hate for Traditional Values, were bent ~ as were many of their followers ~ on whipping up trouble in their own town, and the prefects, whilst never admitting it, supported them in this quest and used words like free toffee apples and equal candy floss opportunities as a pretext for bullying other towns to adopt their ice-cream-on-credit mentality.
As Tradland had more bows and arrows than Decadence, the only way Decadence could get the upper hand was to attempt to change it from within. To help them to do this they enlisted the assistance of the men with bent noses who owned and ran the parish magazine. Using a language which a lot of the children understood, Sheep, they produced endless articles calling the prefects of Tradland all sorts of nasty names and promoted the lawlessness and bad behaviour that epitomised Decadence as a natural product of freedom whilst disparaging the rule of law and order and conservative values in Tradland as a sorry old state of affairs ~ a bit like a shop where you couldn’t steal sweets.
One day, quite unexpected, a stranger climbed over Bills Gate and ended up in both towns, and more besides, at once. In Decadence, where there were many strangers, and no one was allowed to question him on pain of having their ice cream tubs removed, he passed among the children like a peculiar shepherd. Dressed from head to toe in black, and carrying a strange kind of crook, he wove back and forth among his flock, who were far too boisterous and self-obsessed to even know how close he was to them ~ certainly less than a metre (cough! cough!).
In Tradland, the stranger was spotted at once, but although Decadence’s parish magazine, Gardnonsense, reported that Tradland’s evil prefects had immediately deprived him of his lollipop, he had in fact been placed in quarantine, as the elder prefects of Tredland, being wise men, suspected who he was. And do you know who he was children? He was the man from Pestilence!
Some children later chanted the ancient rhyme, “Never on a Saturday, Never any day, Here comes the bogeyman send Sorryarse away”, the same rhyme was sung by a minority of rebellious children in Decadence, but they were soon shut up by the prefects and parish magazine, which threatened them with inciting hatred against harlequin ice cream, which was a state-ordained brand rolled out and force fed from early-years school, through doctored GCSE grade to a university first in PCism.
In spite of the best efforts in Tradland and none in Decadence, the contagion spread ~ or, at least, appeared to spread! Some of the more selfish children thought that it was simply an excuse to stop them going to the shops to glut on ice cream, whilst still others cried that the Pills & Potions Gang were masterminding a protection racket called Vaccine.
Whatever anyone believed or did not believe, Decadence declared a race: who could develop the vaccine quickest. It was all a matter of more sweets, chocolates and ice cream, and their reputation as Freeloadersville (as some wags called Decadence) depended on it.
About the same time as all this was taking place, a pantomime came to town. It was a spiffing wheeze in which the main jape was to accuse people of things that were done centuries ago and then pull their statues down. The prefects, anti-farcists, and other street gangs loved it. Decadence’s police force, which had long ago had its force forcibly removed, dutifully ignored it and the prefects of the town clapped furiously from the front rows as they did absolutely everything in their power to do absolutely nothing about it. It was such high jinks, this pantomime, that it was not long before the game had spilled out onto the streets. Children were running amok. Choc ices became an overnight best seller and statues of the great and good were coming down faster than you could sing “Roll me over, more from Dover, Roll me over, take them down and my country away”. Talk about knees up Mother Brown! It was all jelly, ice cream, sticky buns, sweets, chocolate and …. yes, children, you’ve got it ~ it made one sick to the stomach.
Just when tears before bedroom looked imminent, it was announced in Tradland that a vaccine had been found. What a calamity! Unless something was done about it quickly all bets would be off! As luck would have it, luck for Decadence that is, at about this time a small village that lay between Decadence and Tradland, Agoodexcuse, developed a serious problem. The man who ruled the village was looked upon by some not as a guiding prefect but a stern and strict headmaster. A good many of those he ruled, began to call for change. Some believed that this call for change had been aided and supported by the ice cream salesmen from Decadence, but Decadence’s parish magazine painted an entirely different story, with tales of ice-cream deprivation and sweets-withholding practices contrary to the natural laws of Hedonism (which was a large and frivolous amusement arcade owned and operated by the Obama Fence-Sitting Company ~ those who spoke Sheep adored it!).
The parish magazine was a gay parade of encouragement, urging the prefects of Decadence and towns of a similar ilk to intervene, ‘More sweets! More Ice cream! More sticky buns!’ it cried, whilst at the same time, terrified of true conservatism, throwing out more than a hint here and there that the prefects of Tradland were up to no good.
And then, just at this point of time ~ when pestilence and conspiracy theories were at their most contagious, when the children were out of control, the police and prefects powerless, the vaccine race lost, the ice creams melting, the sweets getting sticky and a man who would not stop taking about boats coming in ~ an incident occurred that enabled the prefects of Decadence to resort to the old tried and tested distraction routine, ‘Look out … he’s behind you!’ A staple of all good pantomimes!!
Someone, a free-ice-cream advocate, who did not like the prefects of Tredland, had suffered an accident, but the prefects of Decadence, who never missed an opportunity to put Tredland down, aided and abetted by the parish magazine, Gardnonsense, was bellowing that someone in Tredland had tripped him up!
The Twice-Daily Blackmail, a parish magazine that appealed to older children who loved parrots, had a parrot field day and, before you knew who you were or who you were standing next to, although you knew you had been here a lot longer than them, although they wanted you to believe that you were a stranger in your own town and they were the best thing since boats and Dover, the preface had been written ~ Tradlandaphobia had come round again.
Now, should Tradland attempt to help in any way the village of Agoodexcuse to heal its wounds, Decadence will roar that anyone who is naughty enough to trip someone up will not think twice about regulating ice cream in a small and vulnerable village! And, this dear, children is their despicable plan. They have merely written a preface to the narrative that they have already written.
But take heart! Like all good fairy tales this story has a moral subtext. See that man over there, the one in the long dark robes lurking by the school gates. See the bag of sweeties in his swarthy hand. If he offers you one resist it, resist it at all costs, because it comes with a hidden price, the most expensive price you will ever pay ~ culture. Because come the day when the ice cream melts, and it will, all that he will leave you with is the wafers of your memory.
There is more to life than ice creams, sweets and chocolates, and it is not what you cannot take with you that matters (WYCTWY Matters), it is what you leave behind, such as heritage, history, ancestral home, for future generations.
If Decadence was writing this story, even though tradition means nothing to it anymore, it would fall back on the traditional fairy tale ending, and say of itself and its peculiar admixture “And they all lived happily ever after!”
It is hard
to imagine the people of any other country in the world, except for Britain,
ignoring the advice of the government and health professionals and in the midst
of a pandemic that is killing thousands around the world and plunging countries
into chaos heading off to the seaside for the day. The fact that this behavior
in Britain is exempt from surprise is not surprising either. We are immune to
it. Every day we are treated by the tabloids to scenes and stories of sleazy,
tacky, crude and crass Brits competing for top place in the league of
obscenity.
(Photo credit: cottonbro from Pexels😮[Sorry, silly sanction block; link removed] )
When we lived in Britain my wife had the great misfortune, like the police and NHS, of being on the frontline. My wife was a teacher, which has to be one of the most thankless and God-forsaken jobs in the country. Never a day went past when she would return home with the sordid details of grossly behaved, self-centered school kids and their equally obnoxious parents. There was, in the several schools in which she worked and, we can presume from what we hear and read, throughout the entire British education system, a deeply entrenched, extremely disturbing and highly toxic ethos, a morally corrosive undercurrent that had seeped out of the PC mindset and (sorry to use this word) infected everyone.
At its core there was a contagious admixture, a poisonous combination of entitlement, egomania and absolute selfishness. My wife defined this psychological-emotional malaise as the ‘Me, Myself, I’ attitude. It was rife in almost every school she taught in, and what was more disturbing was that it was systemic as well as endemic. The more she experienced it, or rather the fallout from it, the more convinced she became that it was a product of 70-plus years of so-called progressive liberalism, which had, in its Tony Blair heyday, all but completely disempowered adults in favour of child empowerment.
The clue lies in that most celebrated of liberal words, the High Priestess of Political Correctness, ‘Rights’. Rights are everywhere, and everywhere you look are Rights. Not that teachers have any rights at all: it is open season on them. There were no signs on the school walls where my wife worked, as there are in banks, Job Centres and doctor’s surgeries, stating ‘Our staff have the right to work in a safe and abuse-free environment …’. Empowered school kids know ~ they have been taught by their parents (by government and the media) that they can be as disruptive, offensive and abusive as they like towards teachers, and can act this way with impunity, as they have the Rights and teachers have none. But this glib, blasé and malicious attitude does not end there. It is extended to adults in every sphere and at every level and is manifest in blatant disrespect for teachers, parents, neighbours, police, government and society at large.
Brits ignore social distancing
But we
cannot blame everything on Tony Blair (can we?). Historically, the rot set in during
the 1960s and has travelled ‘progressively’ down, mutating in strength and vileness,
through subsequent layers of generations until it hit rock bottom, which is
where we are today.
“’ere I’ve
got my Rights!” was a mantra that was thrown at my wife when she was a teacher
day after day after day. What was most telling, however, was the conjoined
absence of the words ‘obligation’ and ‘responsibility’, and here was the rub: a
‘do as we please life’ underpinned by Rights but no acknowledgement of, no
understanding of, indeed no knowledge of the fundamental prerequisites by which
those Rights are granted, ie personal obligation and social responsibility.
“Two things fill the mind with ever-increasing wonder and awe, the more often and the more intensely the mind of thought is drawn to them: the starry heavens above me and the moral law within me.” — Immanuel Kant (1724-1804): Critique of Practical Reason
Fast forward now and, as I have said, we are where we are today. In the midst of the greatest crisis that the UK ~ the world ~ has experienced since World War II, and with people facing death all around them, the Rights-infected British public ignore advice to self-isolate, ignore the need for social distancing and continue to congregate en masse at the coast, in parks and wherever they know they should not.
Brits ignore social distancing
If it was not so pathetically sad it would be laughable. I am tempted to call it Carry On Infecting, but that would just be cruel: it would be cruel to the people they will infect, to the people that will die, but cruel, most of all, not to mention insulting, to the doctors, nurses and health clinicians who are laying their lives on the line each day in administering to the sick and dying whilst trying to contain this dreadful disease.
Is the
situation as hopeless as it seems? Possibly not.
In perusing The Guardian and The Independent recently (yes, I am sorry, but I do that sometimes), have you detected a distinct change of attitude in some of the columnists, one that suggests that even the most dizzy-headed kite-flying liberals have come down to earth with a jolt? Rights are important things, and let us not forget it, but there is a line where political theory ends and commonsense starts and that line today (and always) we should not be allowed to cross, either guided by a conscious respect for decency and humanity or where selfishness subverts this by any measure necessary to ensure the best result for the greater good.
“One who makes himself a worm cannot complain afterwards if people step on him.” — Immanuel Kant (1724-1804): Critique of Practical Reason
