By Mike James in Berlin — 17 July, 2013
Have you ever found yourself sitting on a park bench in the middle of a big city, all alone with your thoughts, only to be asked by a concerned stranger as to why you are weeping, though you had no idea that tears were streaming down the cheeks of your face?
Did it come as a shock to you that you were a human being mourning the loss of something precious, yet now beyond your grasp? Was the embarrassment yours or that of the stranger, for, in your own timid way, you felt obliged to apologise for having given outward expression of something that troubled your soul?
“Nothing to see here,” you say. “Alles in Ordnung.” Heuschnupfen, hayfever.
You may find yourself in Berlin, as I do, or in Paris, New York, Sydney, Nairobi, Zurich, Warsaw, Rome, Mombasa, Florence, Copenhagen, Amsterdam, as I have in the past. You may even be sitting on one of those park benches in England dedicated to some local non-entity whose life was dedicated to making of you nothing more than a municipal statistic after the nature of his own imagination.
There appears to be little point in going on. Nothing changes; everything remains the same. Within you there exists a huge chasm of despair, upon the edge of which you are of faint lest the echo of your questions haunt and hound you during both your waking and sleeping hours.
You know that deep down inside, as a free-born child of England, the future that belonged as of right to you and your children was stolen by conceited men in suits and hard-faced culture-change career-women who strutted unashamedly the power halls of neo–liberalism and Fabian socialism, swapping roles as proponents of fast-food “freedom and democracy” with the abandon of whores, their legs wide open to the penetrating thrust of the international Zeitgeist and the nuances of the script handed down to them by Bilderberger grandees.
I know who you are and how you feel. I have seen you and I have spoken to you. You were the girl who turned up on my doorstep in Highgate begging for help. You were the war veteran sleeping under a starry night on the inclines of a hill in Galloway. You were the lady on the Northern Line, all tatters and rags, clutching a plastic bag that contained the last of your nearest and dearest. You were the old man who died unnoticed in a block of flats vandalised by those who hate the English.
You are me. And I am you.
It is exactly twenty-one years to the day since I left England to live and work, for the sake of the woman I then loved (and still love), married, divorced and almost re-married to reside in Germany. What kept me here was complete liberation from the stultifying British class system. Though I achieved much during my post-graduate time in London, I was boxed into a corner as a hard-drinking, self-destructive Northerner by those only too keen to stick fancy labels on those perceived to be outsiders, lightweight and entertaining distractions from the ever-so-important deportment of everything it meant to be in the riding-saddle of the British Crown State.
The German people were only too pleased to see the back of the Saxe-Coburg family of imbeciles, exported to Britain as the royal family we now refer to as the “Windsors”. Only the deliberately ill-educated people of England would go down on all fours like fawning hounds and worship such a dim-witted brood of chicken-farm yokels as “royalty” and sacrifice the lives of their most cherished sons in futile wars against their own Teutonic cousins at the behest of the City of London, the Shylock master of the chinless wonders who continue to mesmerise the most hopelessly beguiled of my people with their nonsensical Thames Valley woo-woo, poo-you, iggy–wiggy–pabble-babble, BBC accents.
No serious English patriot who truly loves his own people should ignore the subtle nature in which the British Crown (the “UK Manifest”) has hypnotised almost every Briton into a state of knee-jerk servitude. Nor should we ignore the Crown’s role in assenting to every piece of legislation that has made of our nation a hunting ground for foreign predators and the evil machinations of European Union bureaucrats.
It is about time that my people desisted in their behaviour as children. It is my desire that the ordinary people of England recognise who they truly are: uniquely chosen and sovereign individuals empowered by God to re-take control of their own nation and be masters of their own house. The Hebrews, whom we, as Phoenicians (ancient sea-faring Britons), spawned and whose language derives from our HEBRIdean ancestors (who also devised the Sanskrit language of Aryan North India) were canny enough to advise us: “When I was a child, I spoke as a child. I understood as a child and I thought as a child. But when I became a man, I put away childish things.” (I Corinthians 13:11).
I have zero respect for those who boast academic excellence. I give not one toss for those who pass themselves off as “expert” talking heads on any of the British Crown’s newscasts. Those who shall lead and redeem my nation are currently the men and women who now find themselves penniless, disenfranchised, of low esteem, lacking in self-confidence, anguished, lonely, sad and disillusioned. Those of you who sit alone on park benches, unaware of the tears you shed for things of which you consider only fleeting losses; those of you who are unemployed or weary with the burden of age; those of you who have suffered the yoke of illegal taxation and the oppression of foreign impositions; those of you who sleep in damp bedsits attuned to an alarm clock that bespeaks the hour upon which you must rise to work for the wages of hunger ….. to all of you I say this:
You are true royalty. Every Englishman is a King, every Englishwoman a Queen. You were long Chosen before the foundations of this material world, but you know it not. You have the power to determine the course of your lives simply by loving one another and refusing to bow down to the alter of false gods, manifest in the form of consumer materialism, celebrity worship, monarchy, television, drugs, globalism and the soap opera of “parliamentary democracy”.
You are a self-governing people. Take control of your own lives: firstly by turning to God, who desperately cares that the English turn their backs upon the misery of both self-defeating capitalism and international socialism, and humbly seek a change of heart. Take control of your neighbourhoods. This is your territory and you owe fealty to your neighbour, regardless as to the colour of his skin, though you are the master or the mistress who draws a line in the sand. Then take your nation back. It is your birthright.
Do not pour scorn upon my words. You, who are denied access to everything for which your grandparents fought for and earned by the sweat of their brows, have been robbed. You, who have been told that you must suffer the guilt of the White Man’s Burden and feel beholden unto those who come begging from shores afar, have submitted to political correctness. You, who must carry the weight of taxation imposed by an illegal Crown system of government, itself in tow to foreigners in Brussels, must feed your children on a pittance. You, who live in abject poverty in pre-war tenements and struggle to survive on two or three part-time jobs, are slaves to a demonic and unnatural system of anti-human economics.
All of these things I too have experienced, though I was young and resilient. That my people continue to suffer is unconscionable to me. I shall not stand for it. Though I am abroad and, at the forbidding “advice” of the British Consulate in Germany, debarred as an exile from ever again returning to the land of my fathers, I love you. In the twenty-one years I have been residing in Germany, I have never truly laughed myself sick as I did when living and working in Durham, Lancashire, Dorset, Bristol, Oxford, Scotland, Yorkshire and London.
If God has a politically incorrect sense of humour – just read the Bible and laugh at what He says about the non-English – his favourite scriptwriters are Britons. For irrefutable evidence of the ancient British Celts having devised the celestial calendar light years before the so-called “dawn of civilisation” (as Zionist “historians” will have you believe), take a look at this. Everything our Darwinist, pro-abortion, “Out-Of-Africa”, anti-Celtic and Jewish-influenced teachers taught us actually turns out to be a pile of shite bigger than the biggest pile of shite since George Bush told Tony Blair, “Let’s go shit some stuff, buddy.”
I’ve been around, somewhat travelled. This I have learned: there exists on this planet no greater race of men and women than the English People. You are superlatively imperfect, maddeningly paradoxical, eminently nonsensical, infuriatingly obnoxious, fiercely independent, insanely empirical to the point of empirical insanity.
You are the Scum of the Earth. The vilest of the vile. You scare the crap out of me. But I love you, even to the point of tears.
Albeit from a park bench in Berlin.