Monday, October 15, 2018

The Lathe of Hell – The Burning Platform

There we were, having a good time, making money, making love and good music, bringing beauty into the world, building new things and Bang! we awakened to find totalitarian assholes in charge via some back door we were too busy, too happy and too satisfied to keep an eye on. The bill for those good times has now been delivered to our table and via some arcane calculus it appears we are presently held to account for all the bad in the world. It is time to pay up and pay up and pay up again until the parasites at last kill off their host and then I expect we will be blamed for desertion as well.
I was fined Ten Thousand Pounds Sterling for three essays I wrote last year. I like to think they may have been the most expensive essays anyone has ever paid to publish—cold comfort but I am willing to settle for it. All this left me in a bit of a strop so I flounced off for Points More Free, though so far my quest has proved fruitless; simply stated, for my kind—white and English-speaking—there appears to be nowhere left to run.
Because of my government’s fiddling while Brexit burns it is clear anyone nurturing hopes of relocation and not in the billionaire club will ultimately be forced to return due to having no automatic right to reside in any country other than the UK. The branch many currently roost upon could also be sawn off by the Visegrád just up and declaring themselves out of the EU—quick as you like—and chucking out every non-citizen overnight.
This is how they seek to pen us all in.
As a last act before I leave I wrote this post but I am compelled to be clear: I am not entirely convinced anymore that words are worth a damn except as stress relief. People’s opinions appear cast in concrete by now so the time for remedy via handcrafted persuasion may be done, though the time for war has not yet begun. We breathe in and breathe out in the lull between two worlds and everyone knows it cannot last. The rest—to paraphrase Hamlet—is mere bitching to pass the time.
The EU claims it wants to let in at least one billion more North Africans, sub-Saharan Africans, Pakistanis, Bangladeshis, Turks, you name it—the upshot is if you have an IQ below 85 and enjoy raping and killing native Europeans, you’re in. I have little-to-no hope those countries resisting the EU—currently Austria, Italy, Poland, Denmark and Hungary—can defend themselves against those odds. The shapers of policy and the big money backing them have simply decided to replace an entire native population and that, as they say, is that.
Can you imagine a world where Saudi didn’t find a vast lake of oil under their feet? Everything would be different—or maybe not. Perhaps Western civilisation was destined to collapse anyway. ‘The West’ is the only multi-culture in history in which rugged individuality, self-determination, religious flexibility and tolerance, and a studied skepticism of automatic hierarchy is ingrained at what amounts to a chromosomal level. In those terms I’m actually surprised we lasted as long as we did.
The very definition of hubris? Growing up in an opalescent bubble of peace and prosperity and thinking it was normal, that ours was a world without end. We knew bad things happened in other countries but they happened far away or long ago to people we would likely never meet or even read about. Living like that tends to make a culture think the bubble isn’t some anomaly, that their culture really has its shit together and will keep it together forever, turning and turning and turning in the widening gyre.
I was born in what amounts to The Heart of Elvendom on Earth to quote cinematic Haldir via literary Tolkien, a land where white, English-speaking peoples originated then set forth to colonise and ultimately improve every land we ever administered. We convinced ourselves that it was our duty to teach, heal, make more prosperous and thereby transform the lives of minorities when the truth is we—English-speaking white people—are the ultimate minority on earth. Don’t believe it? Here are straightforward numbers: women of classic Caucasian/European/Anglo-Saxon descent in their prime childbearing years—counting prime as between the ages of fifteen to thirty-five—currently number 2.1% of total world population.
Places the term minority in an entirely new light.
These days wherever we are not being explicitly wiped out we are being implicitly bred out by invading orcs. We are the biggest fools in history. The bubble has popped and The God of Hubris laughs at the splatter.
Did someone say, Colonising Bad and we deserve everything that is currently unfolding? Tell it to the Chippewa, they might return the lands they stole from the Sioux. Or perhaps the Chinese might finally relinquish Tibet. The Turks may vacate the conquered Byzantine lands and return Constantinople to the Christians. From one quarter to one third of my family were taken into slavery by Barbary Coast Moslem pirates, snatched from their beds in darkened villages of Wales and Cornwall. You’d think my people would have moved from the coasts but since this took place over centuries, centuries ago, I suppose things settled down between raids and—as people do—the ones who remained became complacent, each time thinking—hoping, praying—it was over for good.
None of the taken were ever heard from again, and I doubt their captors were at any point aiming to teach, heal or make them more prosperous.
Who proposes their reparations?
I envy Americans’ right to bear arms and I will happily tell anyone how hotly that feeling runs in my veins. Brits have missed the starting gun that patriotic Americans are presently poised on the blocks to hear. Even if they were prepared, any honest soul must ask what exactly would we be fighting to preserve? The Great British Bake OffStrictly Come Dancing? My nation is a dead dog on the side of the Progressive Highway, and government-sanctioned invaders are the maggots busily feasting upon the carcass.
What happened to us? I speak to the point here: We sold our soul for secular socialism and a dole cheque.
At the very heart of the matter we are guilty of a wholesale abandonment of a sense of The Divine. The Church of England flounders as it drowns, waving its arms in left-wing signalling as the waters close over its head. Our traditional representative of The Divine on Earth, Her Majesty the Queen, has become—in the best of Marxist tradition—a steadily diminished, belittled and anachronistic diorama of times past for simply continuing to draw breath. It is not such a stretch to picture in the very near future the entire Royal Family—much like their cousins the Romanovs—marched down into a basement and shot. Then the communist takeover will be complete.
Before anyone says good riddance consider this, what will replace a sense of The Divine? Yoga?
Many do not want to hear this but the human heart yearns to exalt a living, breathing, corporeal representation of The Divine. Whether this is a football team, a writer, a rock star, film star or monarch—even if it’s just cradling another human in your arms and naming them your angel—when any of these things are removed from the human experience it creates a vacuum, and what rushes into the void is usually Statism.
When Bolsheviks marched Tsar Nicholas II, his wife, his daughters and his only son into a freezing basement in Yekaterinberg, lined them up, shot them and dumped their bodies in a trench, the way was cleared for the iron-fisted expansionism of the Soviet State.
When the Emperor of China was forced to abdicate, emerged in Manchukuo as a puppet ruler, deposed a second time and imprisoned in a re-education camp for ten years, he was freed as a private citizen in the People’s Republic of China dominated by the secular emperor and personality cultist Chairman Mao.
France wiped out its monarchy, most of its nobility, tortured and banished their Protestants, packed off Bonaparte to the middle of the Atlantic and declared religion out of style. They then settled upon a stultifyingly secular bureaucracy driven by a leftist agenda, and in one of the classic turns of irony presently face an invasion by the world’s most poisonous totalitarian ideology posing as a religion.
Machiavelli wrote that a man must pick his prince, but the more pertinent command may be that we must pick our Deity—along with a seemingly necessary corporeal Representative—and if you do not, one will certainly be chosen for you by the state.
I would never presume to promote any constitutional monarchy as the best form of government but for Britain it was a vast improvement upon what came before. After seventy years of Frankfurt School indoctrination and poisonous, insustainable socialism our system of government—formed over a thousand years and reformed for the past three hundred—is now on life support.
Since some of you asked, I sought refuge in Hungary. It’s clean. It’s safe. The women are so astonishingly, radiantly, effortlessly beautiful it makes my blood run cold. Few outside Budapest know English and I have only enough of the language to avoid giving offence or getting stabbed so making friends who would vouch for me would be a near impossibility.
Hungarians have a love of life unparalleled in my experience of sad-old, jaded-old Western Europe. They cook like people who have known great hunger—nothing goes to waste. Every transaction is make-or-break, negotiated to the nth degree, the hallmark of people who have survived great deprivation. They have responded so snappily to the current demographic threat because they are gun-shy from being invaded by hostile cultures over the past thousand years. This has made them adept at spotting oppressive totalitarians on the warpath. Above all, they have the moral courage and self-belief to call a spade a spade and not The Spade of Peace.
I do believe the EU’s dominance ambitions took them completely by surprise—we all thought we were merely entering a trade agreement when we opted in—though Hungary’s politicians are not bound by hoops of gold the way British ones are. In this sense they are truly The Mouse That Roared. Still, I am convinced that someday soon doughty little Hungary, along with Poland and Czech Republic will eventually have to appeal to Vlad for protection, hence the most ironic about-face in recent history since they left the Russian Soviet frying pan only to leap into the EU fire, all within the span of a few decades.
There’s no job opportunities to speak of for outsiders and they are currently changing the laws to avoid the inevitable white flight headed their way, such as demanding substantial investment from prospective residents. Good on them, it’s exactly what I would do if I ran a country where the citizens had self-esteem.
In short, they don’t need me. Not one whit. And so I will return to the carcass I call home.
My Welsh village is quiet for now. My vet lives fifty feet away, my builder one hundred feet away, my postman three hundred feet away, my solicitor five hundred feet away—I have known everyone for years yet none of us speak to any issues that are now deemed prosecutable by law. My closer friends are further away geographically yet all within a half hour’s drive.
None of us have retained even one quarter of the friends and family we could claim as recently as three years ago, the country is that divided on issues now. We have spoken openly and plainly in person—never on email, never on social media—regarding matters we find troubling and hopeless but after the first few years we now discuss it all less and less frequently. We know we can never change government policy on anything, we know there’s a freight train bearing down upon us and we know nobody can vote our country off the tracks. We also know we are disallowed to defend ourselves against attack without risking prison where we will be carved up anyway. We are all fossils now, you see, and outnumbered by people who are younger and have no clue what this country was like before the perversion.
Our Enemy claims they want diversity but that’s not strictly true. They will not be satisfied until they have altered all the heights and depths and contour and texture and variety of this world from Everest to the Mariana Trench, smoothing it like a billiard ball on the socialist lathe of hell, just levelling everything so that every human on earth is left standing in lukewarm water up to their nostrils, ‘equal’ at last.
What the Enemy will never understand is true diversity is organic, it’s a man and a woman falling in love and committing to bring children into the world, then devoting themselves to raising those children to know the difference between vanity and self-esteem, responsibility and culpability, justice and revenge. To my mind that is the Enemy’s core problem: they have never accepted that they are unable to enact, legislate, codify and enforce love itself.
So my friends and I keep our heads down, we garden and exchange produce. We are family. We have Thanksgiving together and Bonfire Night, Easter, Michaelmas, Lammas and Boxing Day; we keep the old traditions alive. Half of us follow the teachings of Christ and the other half consistently maintain that axial tilt is the reason for the season, though none of us attend services since the church has relinquished righteousness for self-righteousness and the rainbow flag. People like us are simply not at home there. Or anywhere, for that matter, except with each other. By staying in Blighty I may only be passing the time in Death’s Waiting Room but at least all the magazines on the coffee table are in English.
I have strange dreams of past dimensions when people laughed freely.
Thank you for listening. It was enough to have touched your heart with my past efforts, and hopefully captured and held your attention to the end of this one.
This essay is dedicated to Robert Gore.