It is St George’s Day, and England’s frog is very nearly boiled. #England #StGeorge #Molotov

England has been virtually destroyed over the past fifty years.

If you doubt that then let me offer the following – when you saw this blog post with the Flag of St George displayed, read the title and copped even just the first line of this text, your first, sneaking, shady thought was “far-right” “nationalist” “fascist” and – probably – “look, Mr Policeperson, I’m reading this but before I even do so let me affirm and virtue-signal that I don’t believe any of it, really…”

Can any of us even come up with positive things to say about England and the English these days without there being some negative label attached to it? Your social training – my social training – in the “correct” way of thinking runs deep… for I am actually not fascist or far-right or any of those things, not even close – although you’ll never quite be convinced of that ever again now, will you?

You and I have been taught not just what to think but how we should think.

At the risk of “virtue signalling” in the current vein myself, I do believe in fluffy laissez-faire social bunnies, in individuality, in self-expression and in a form of benevolent socialism. Within the framework of a caring, minimally-sized Establishment, be who and what you want to be, pay your dues and do no harm – in a society that values and safeguards all of its individuals and their various freedoms… so nuts to your thoughts of far-right and fascist and wotnot just because I mentioned England.

I am not stupid, I am not some “demon” and I do know well enough to correct for nostalgia and other cognitive ailments-of-the-thinking-gland. Intelligent thought and opinion, whatever we have been taught for these years, is not the sole preserve of the metropolitan hive mind.

We own nothing – all of our industry and National assets, our entire infrastructure is owned by either faceless individuals, faceless groups hiding under the anonymity of layer upon layer of corporate identity, or by foreign bodies be they national or individual.

Everything is mortgaged to the hilt. Everything – everything – is available at a price. The Pound Sterling is, both at home and internationally, nought but Monopoly money. Show me a business (larger than the “family owned” sort) and I’ll show you a workplace ethic of maximum-hours, minimum-wage, and a management that is intent upon blood-sucking its annual profit from each and every transaction and bugger repeat business because the customers are a captive audience. Banks are trying to be bus companies, bus companies are pushing religion, builders stick up ticky-tacky at a hundred to the acre, the big three (two, now?) “super”-markets are crushing the lives out of the last of the non-pension-fund-owned farmers.

Pension funds – all except those of our glorious masters, the Members of Parliament – aren’t ring-fenced. Money is drained from them left, right and centre by the companies supposed to be putting money into them, and then when they collapse leaving workers with nothing to retire on it is somehow the fault of those retiring-employee individuals.

Don’t even get me begun on “our” politicians. I laughed at ‘Merica when presented for choice in their previous presidential elections were Trumpington, “you’ll never convict me but everyone who opposes me has an accident” Clinton and whoever the other clown was to make up the set. Well, those clowns have been eclipsed now, by England’s politicians. Wholly eclipsed.

A bigger nest of self-serving, self-interested, navel-gazing, thieving, lying, cheating, small-minded, arrogant (&etc &etc) bastards you will not find. Did I list incompetence? It is perhaps the one thing that they excel at, and there’s a paradox for you. They don’t even bother to hide their corruption these days. Out of some six hundred and fifty members of Parliament (“Parliament”) and eight hundred in the House of Lords and – what? – seventy odd in the European parliament-ish-thingy there are perhaps two that I would trust to walk a dog and come back with a living dog.

I am afraid, as Basil Fawlty once remarked, that I am going to have to mention “the war”, and I don’t think that I am going to get away with it. The rot, methinks, set in when England lost World War Two. We didn’t just lose that very, very expensive war to our obvious foe-du-jour, we lost it to the United States of America (and a bigger, more bullying colonial power than the U.S.A. there has never, ever been). We were doomed from that point on, although like most illnesses, it took a while before it began to show. In effect, Western Culture has been killed to death by Western culture. It’s not the foot that we’ve shot ourselves in, it’s the fundamentals.

The English do nothing. We are barely allowed to even refer to ourselves as English these days, and if we do then we must also immediately offer an abject, grovelling apology for the sins of our forebears and the crimes of the Empire. Political “correctness” silences all opinion other than the alien zeitgeist of maniacal matriarchal marxism. Everyone who is still allowed a voice screams incessantly about rights – with not one whisper about concomitant responsibilities.

This tactic of gagging any and all dissent is merely “belt and braces” social engineering, for the population is, anyway, thoroughly anaesthetised and sleep-walking into submission. I just know that Fritz Lang is somewhere just out of view, directing this farce and about to shout “Cut!”. Neaten up your uniform, shuffle forward quietly…

The news presented to the masses is carefully chosen and edited – terror. Terror everywhere and not a drop of life to be celebrated. For example. Par example. Riots in France for six months, and “our” mainstream media mentions it occasionally as “motorbikes burned in Paris” or “President Marcel Marceau cancels lecture (oops, I mean of course “speech”) to “Yellow Jackets”.

As though a “Yellow Jacket” is some sort of pestilential wasp rather than a thoroughly and quite reasonably disgruntled Frenchman.

We no longer have the balls for the necessary rioting in England. The public were neutered long, long ago. Do you know that in English law you no longer have the “right to silence” when arrested? Silence is taken legally as an admission of guilt. You can now be tried over and over and over again for the same offence. Fewer and fewer “crimes” are put before a jury, and more and more are now heard in secret courts – I even heard the word “tribunal” bandied about last year.

Jebus H. Christ Almighty (expostulated the atheist in exasperation).

No-one seems bothered. They all totter off to “claim” “their” almost-out-of-date but-it-will-fill-you-up tat from the local “Food Bank” (Food Banks run by charities with offices in Mayfair and whose executive team all earn circa six or seven times the national average wage – for a sixth or a seventh of hours worked, while local volunteers do any of the icky stuff such as actually working).

Shout ‘Police! Help!’ and these days, if you’re very, very lucky indeed, you won’t be answered by a panda or a crime car squealing to a halt and two big and burly coppers coming to your aid, you’ll get a “Crime Number” and be told to call the Samaritans to get assistance with PTSD. In some areas, the wealthy areas, you might, just might, see a Plastic PC – i.e., has the uniform but not the powers, has not had the training, doesn’t have the backup or the work ethic and costs less than half of what a real policeman costs.

Tweet the wrong tweet though and you’ll find yourself on the end of the Assange Manoeuvre, cable-tied and horizontal, heading for the back of a van.

It’s all very sad indeed. The seeds were sown long ago, and they were sown generously. I haven’t even mentioned the tiny little grindingly-annoying seeds of dissention, those “divide and rule” wonders, such as that in England a medical prescription from our “free” (!!!) National Health Service costs £9, while in Scotland and Wales – £zero – da nada. Look around you and you will see a million such irksome little tactics – right up to and including the fact that while the other countries of the “United” Kingdom have representatives in England’s parliament – Westminster – the English do not have representation in theirs. [Yes, it’s complicated, but that is the essence of it.]

Nota Bene for those foreign chaps among you, the “free” National Health Service is anything but, with each worker contributing a percentage (something like 8% between limits) of their wage towards it, and the employer contributing a higher percentage (again, between limits) from the company coffers. It is not free, never has been – it was though, a wonderful thing. On top of this contribution via tax there are now charges for almost everything – dental work costs between £20 and £250 per treatment, for example. Free? I don’t think so – unless you’re a politicians, to whom £250 is small change.

So, St George’s Day eh? Well, for decades now the public has been trained (like poodles in a show) to be ashamed of history, to apologise for supposed white/male/Western/whatever “privilege” and to embrace an un-named, ill-defined nebulous something else instead. That the past was the past and that social mores were very, very different in the past has been whitewashed (oops!) from the textbooks, we’re all supposed to base our new-found guilt on judging the foundation of our existence using modern (“modern”) standards.

Well, bollocks to that.

Bollocks to political correctness and bollocks to the Orwellian nightmare that has trampled not just England, but most of Western culture.

When I look around me on this St George’s Day all that I can see is the ghost of a tired old country, a ghost gripped by social disease (no, not those sorts of social disease! Although… Parliament… probably, since they can’t one of them keep it in their trousers/skirts).

Where once we were a people we are now a farmed resource counted by the profit we make for mindless, faceless, unaccountable masters. This husk of country, over which Money is Lord and Master, is nothing more now than a vehicle for profit. If you doubt this then ask yourself when and why the old familiar “Personnel Department” morphed universally into something quite deliberately re-titled as “Human Resources“.

Coal is a resource. Iron ore is a resource. On farms shit is a resource. When did humans get put into the same category? Ask yourself the reason for the change.

Has England – and most of the rest of Western civilisation – descended too far into the pit to be recoverable? Probably. Whatever happens, it is a hell of a long way back now to any semblance of sanity. There are many of us who have been stockpiling milk-bottles, but only a very few who could actually afford to fill them with the necessary petrol.

England’s frog is very, very nearly boiled.

Happy St George’s Day.

p.s., if you have read this then may I say that I hope that you appreciate a little of the self-restraint and control that I ordinarily exercise by avoiding such political expressions on the other three-hundred-and-sixty-four less political days of my year! 😉