Today while watching the stomach-churning spectacle of Rishi Sunak greeting Zelensky (who rocketed from playing the piano with his dick to the Presidency of Ukraine) I was paradoxically reminded of my late mother. But first to that reptile Sunak who now masquerades as the ‘British’ Prime Minster. Do you think he has the interests of the average Brit in mind? Does he get a patriotic rush when poring over Britain’s history or take pride upon hearing a a perfect pitch rendition of Land Of Hope And Glory? Looking into his black soulless eyes is there any doubt that every thought that crosses his mind in relation to the traditional British people is hostile and resentful? He epitomises the globalised, hostile elite, the modern arch-cosmopolitan Everywhere People. Unelected, unaccountable, and completely alien to the people of the nation he claims to represent.
I ask because my mother must be turning in her grave at the sight of such a person, and his coterie of treacherous international grifters lording it over her beloved England. Yes, remarkably, despite coming from a staunch Republican family (as a small girl she was used by her brothers, who ran IRA courts and endured protracted hunger strikes in British prisons, to smuggle guns and ammo) was a life-long lover of all things English. It’s always been a source of comfort to me that in her later years I gave her the full tour of Buckingham Palace, the Tower and Windsor Castle. She loved the works of Kipling, in particular those which celebrated the doughty, loyal and indomitable spirit of the ordinary Englishman. One of her favourite poems was The Private Of The Buffs by Francis Hastings Doyle which told the true story of John Moyse, a humble Kentish infantryman who gave up his life rather than prostrate himself before his Chinese captors.
Ay, tear his body limb from limb,
Bring cord or axe or flame,
He only knows that not through him
Shall England come to shame
Private Moyes often comes to mind when a fightback against the invaders currently engulfing Europe is considered. After all he epitomised the spirit of a medium-sized nation that not alone remained uninvaded for a thousand years but had sallied forth to ultimately rule a quarter of the globe. Yet the descendants of Private Moyes have sat back for the last half century and handed his country over to an army of swarthy ingrates, street by street, neighbourhood by neighbourhood, town by town. To the stage where the English now represent a minority in their former Empire’s capital while the tentacles of this cancerous tumour even reach into some of real England’s last redoubts like the Cotswolds.
If the British had been told, say sixty years ago, that their country would, within a couple of decades, be overwhelmed by unassimible Third world immigrants, to whom they’d be forced to give preferential treatment in jobs, housing, education and welfare; that their freedom of speech would be drastically curtailed, their taxes would go on welfare for the parasites, that they’d be bombarded day and night by demeaning anti-white hate speech – had they known this, what would have happened? Would there have been riots in the streets and mass mobilisation against this destruction?
Well actually they were told. By Enoch Powell. But as we know he was howled down and banished while the invasion gathered pace. Crucially, he received little popular support at national level.
The traitors who now rule over Moyse’s country understood only too well what Doyle referred to when enjoining “proud England to keep untamed the strong heart of her sons“. The traitors have systematically tamed and emasculated the strong hearts of her sons. They’ve done it by marginalising, demonising and ridiculing them through their command of every important institution in the country.
I don’t claim to know what’s going to happen as this invasion and displacement approaches an irreversible tipping point. But an insurrection by today’s Privates Of The Buffs – ‘bewildered and alone’ – seems sadly unlikely.
PS: This post does not obliquely defend the British Empire which was masterminded by City Of London oligarchs whose imperialistic adventures enriched themselves but did little for the ordinary citizen.