The Newspaper Delivery Boy

By Mike James – 8 March, 2013

I began working at a very early age. I had just turned eleven. Against the protestations of those who knew better, my early morning newspaper delivery round, later to be extended to the joys of a pre-homework evening delivery jaunt around a myriad of estates in my vicinity, opened my eyes as to the machinations of the men who decided what was newsworthy, and, of course, what was not.
Without any due regard to the weather, come rain, sleet, snow or force-eight Irish Sea gales, I was never late for work. I relished the challenge and braved the elements (and ferocious dogs) with glee. My sandblasted skinny bare legs and the comforts afforded to me by lonely old widows in the form of delicious bacon butties and the wisdom imparted to me by elderly war veterans made my endeavours all the more rewarding. They taught me more than all of my scowling Grammar School teachers who hid their incompetence behind the wafture of a cane or the sarcasm born of loathing for the young and aspiring mind.  
I earned my own pocket money, from which, much to my father’s discomfit, I purchased my first pair of Wrangler jeans and my first packet of No. 6 cigarettes. I was never fatigued, remained top of the class in three subjects and the fastest 800 and 1600-metre runner in my school form, hardly slept (preferring to read obscure novels by torchlight under the sheets of my bunk-bed) and, though quite diminutive in size and gentle by nature, always found the strength and the requisite anger to beat the living daylights out of any bully who was foolish enough to encroach upon my personal sovereignty, my right to be plain old me: a wee Geordie lad blazing his own trail on hostile Lancastrian Terra firma.
I was a Sixer in the Cub Scouts, carried a Bowie knife responsibly, learned to fish eels and also hunt, skin and cook rabbits, built my own tree dens, led my own gang and strategically raided and destroyed enemy hideouts in the forest by stealth of fire and military-grade catapults, striking fear in the most fearless of hearts. I was elected the youngest ever president of a students’ union, not on account of my populist political leanings, but because I meant what I said and said what I meant. I knew no fear. I was an uncompromising and naturally charismatic orator, yet elevated (and thus disarmed) with grace and good humour those who opposed me to the highest of positions constitutionally availed to me.
I had already left home at the age of sixteen, worked my way through university-matriculation A-levels by labouring evenings and weekends at a local garage, illegally tore up the tarmac atop an uninsured BSA 250 motorbike without a crash helmet, cheating the cops to the chase on their new-fangled Honda 500 superbikes by drunkenly kissing by millimetres the barks of trees on every coppice on the Moss Side country lane and surmounting insurmountable hillocks that would provide the fastest way to the backstreets of villages unknown to Her Majesty’s Constabulary, where I was shielded from detection by the daughters of farmers who had no truck for government and its agents of enforcement.
I was no delinquent in the modern sense of the term. I respected the police for their audacity in their believing they could actually catch me and I sincerely prayed for their welfare should they be silly enough to do so. Though I had long ago dropped my Cub Scout allegiance to God and the Queen (for one cannot pay homage to God and Satan in the same breath), I still loved my country, England. Despite the all-too-obvious internationalism of the BBC’s culture-change propaganda, most of us saw through the bullshit and cherished the values of our grandparents. We recognised the difference between the Marxist international socialists, who had begun to infiltrate the national socialist Labour Party, and the neo-liberal conservatives who were subverting traditional One-Nation traditional conservatism.
They had done their best to twist our young minds to accord with their New World Order mindset, yet we laughably rejected Esperanto as a One-World language, expressively despised Hippiedom for its New Age easy-believism and cultural decadence and, whether Punks, New Romantics, Mods, Rockers or Hard-Timers, we celebrated the eccentricities and vainglorious quirks of Englishness in all of its bizarre manifestations. We thought we were free though, deep down inside, we all knew that we were being manipulated, conditioned to accept the unacceptable. The anger-driven creativity and self-destructiveness of young people who blazed the trail of New Wave popular culture in the late 1970s and early 1980s was informed not so much by a desire to destroy the loathsome and suffocating British class system but by an unwittingly subversive agenda formulated by the Puppet Masters to rip asunder forever the fabric of everything that held together Englishmen and Englishwomen from all walks of life.
We thought we were having a party. It was a wake. We were dancing on the graves of our grandfathers and the Celtic Elders who had defended our culture from the machinations of the Serpent Bloodliners and their globalist cohorts. Some of us stepped aside and warned of the strings that made dancing fools of our compatriots, twitching to every nuanced tug of those who directed the show. At first we were reviled, then co-opted. Anti-fashion became the New Black, and the strings slung quickly into place. No matter who you were, they made sure you were someone they could control. And it all happened two decades before the mass-murderer and terrorist Tony Blair made official everything that the British Crown’s “United Kingdom” had always been, furtively from its very inception — a micro-managed, multicultural, corporate-fascist and politically correct Antichrist Big Brother police state.
During my early teens, I remember, while playing scrabble with a school-friend, a BBC Radio Four broadcast featuring two elected representatives who vilified Enoch Powell for his prophetic “Rivers of Blood” speech. That very week around 80,000 Asians, mostly Indians and Pakistanis, had been expelled from Uganda by President Idi Amin. The British Crown was only too pleased to take custody of such aliens on account of their “Commonwealth” citizenry. I asked my friend: “To whom does our common wealth belong? And since when did they, the Asians, become citizens while we, the English,remain mere subjects of the Queen?”
My friend (now a well-known media entrepreneur) looked at me askance, yet pondered my question thoughtfully. “That’s interesting,” he replied. “I’ll look it up in a book. There must be a reason.”
We now know there is a reason, but no natural reasoning, only dissonance. This I learned as a newspaper delivery boy. I was often stunned to find the same front-page news story presented in different ways by different newspapers. “The Confederation of British Industry Fears Economic Slump” according to The Times or “CBI Buoyant on Economic Recovery” according to the Daily Mirror. Google any economic forecast today and you shall find such dissonance within the top five cache stories.
Everything you read is bullshit. I’ve been offline during the past four months since moving from the south of Germany to the north, but, with the exception of sites such as Rixon Stewart’s thetruthseeker.co.uk and Mike Rivero’s whatreallyhappenned.com, it now appears to me that almost everything you read on the Net these days is controlled disinformation or deliberated misinformation.
Whether it’s TV or the Web, the bastards still have you by the bollocks, and their grip on your mind is so hard there’s no way you’ll have the courage to move. England is now, as ever it was under the British Crown, an occupied colony: an imploded microcosm of a former geographical empire with the indigenous English as a disfavoured and despised minority in the land of their forefathers and the Parasitic International Elites running the shop from the City of London, which is an unlawful state within a state.
Who gives a fuck about hard-working or unemployed indigenous English folks? Not one single toss-pot you’ll see French-kissing Elisabeth Windsor’s cancerous arsehole, that’s for sure. Not one single member of the treasonous Labour Party, the Eurogay Liberal Democrats or the Common Purpose Marxists who have vitiated Cameron’s New Conservatives. There are no Enoch Powells left to represent the aggrieved and the dispossessed among you, and, though I am truly sorry to say this, you only have yourselves to blame.
Do not pour your scorn upon the immigrants who have turned your churches into nightclubs and your pubs into fashionable ethnic take-aways. Do not hate them for depriving your ailing parents of much-needed healthcare and social services. Do not lambast them for ostensibly stealing jobs that should have been awarded to your sons and daughters. Blame yourselves for choosing to watch TV while stuffing your faces with junk food instead of observing and chastising your elected representatives for passing legislation designed to make slaves of the English within the nation your forefathers gave their sweat and blood to defend, sustain and ennoble.
A conspiracy to defraud can only succeed when those to be fooled are gullible or lazy. As a whole, the English, who have allowed themselves to become foolish and slothful in their ways are co-conspirators in their own demise. Because you have turned your back on God Almighty and can no longer hear the voice of the One who died an excruciating death on the Cross for your own salvation, or, indeed, sneer with worldly disdain at those who have consistently tried to remind you of the consequences born of the errors of your ways, so has God turned his back on the English people.
Cause and effect. Turn a blind eye to the millions of indigenous British kids who have been industrially murdered in their mothers’ wombs, and your sight shall be forever blighted. Speak not one word against those who profess to tell you the official version of history and the monstrous lies propagated by Zionist shills, and you shall be forever mute. Raise not one fist against those who would destroy sovereign nations in the name of “freedom and democracy” for profit, and your hands shall be forever lame.
A man who has turned his back on Jesus Christ is a man who has abandoned himself unto the hands of Satan, and by default. What was claimed by the Good Shepherd but which was lost to the wolves shall be ravaged asunder, flesh stripped from bones. And so it is with entire nations that go astray and take to themselves all manner of fanciful delights and perverted notions that set them apart from the redeeming Grace of God.
Within two generations your towns and your cities shall be governed by non-English people, and within three generations England shall cease to be. Your great-grandchildren will be mere chattels of the Jews and the Muslims (for they work together while feigning hostility toward one another) and their lot shall be lower than the pigs they are permitted to eat.
Laugh at me you may, for what do I know? 
I was only a newspaper delivery boy.

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Michael James, an English republican patriot, is a blacklisted former freelance journalist resident in Zionist-occupied Germany since 1992 with additional long-haul stays in East Africa, Poland and Switzerland. He advocates a Leaderless Resistance to destroy the Soviet European Union and prays for a free and independent England, shorn of all alliances with the EU, UK, NATO, the UN, WTO, IMF, Israel and any other treacherous international cabal or entity. 

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Mike James, an Englishman, is a former freelance journalist resident in Germany since 1992 with additional long-haul stays in East Africa, Poland and Switzerland

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