“To all men of humble disposition be of good heart and show deference and kindness in your ways toward them, for no one in all of England is the greater or the lesser than one of they; to those of an elevated breed who cultivate lies and seek to pass them off as the handiwork of custom or the chaste etiquette of Kings, Queens, Jews, Bishops or other absurd Grotesqueries, be they crowned, robed or otherwise so fraudulently anointed, a Freeborn man owns a moral duty to act in a foulsome and contemptuous manner, to smite their courtly arrogances with the Revenger’s sword, to take back from them the land that was once his and which they stole by sleight of hand stained with the blood of his forefathers, and to push back into their puffed and pampered faces their lying tongues so that he may not repeat those satanic deceits; or better to separate tongue and sinecured Parasite and cast it into the fire of Albion’s rage, that we may no more hear its trickster words, for such lies are transmuted into the flesh and Englishmen may forever be condemned to live as Lies Made Flesh, subject to false authority that would set itself over and destroy a Republic of the Free and equally appointed, wherewith circumstance of birth be the determining instrument of everyman’s place in the Death March against Reason.”
– The Libertarian Jacob Tilley in an address to Cromwell’s troops on the eve of the decisive Battle of Naseby, 1645.
Time was, I could divine salt from sea air, snatch it down from the North Sea winds and rub the sticky crystals across the palm of my left hand with the fingers of my right. I was able to perform such magic because my grandfather showed me so; and my grandfather was a magician par excellence.
My grandfather worked underground, conjuring up the coal that kept the furnaces glowing, that gave us warm winter evenings, that kept the lights burning. I remember one night looking out across Newcastle from the high point of our little village in Whickam and seeing all the lights below me stretched out like a fallen galaxy: and my mother said: “You’re granddad’s being working overtime the night.”
“Is that the whole of England?” I asked my mother.
She smiled. “It’s the best part of England,” she replied. “It’s your home, and home is where the heart is.”
I love my mother, and still do. I particularly loved my grandmother’s Bovril sandwiches, my Uncle Billy’s Newcastle Brown and the stolen Woodbines I filched from my grandfather’s cigarette case. I went rabbit chasing, stole apples and fell in love with a freckled-faced, red-haired girl called Heather, who belittled me for being too skinny and convinced her elder brother to beat me up for being too clever.
“You read too many books and soon you’ll waste away,” she haughtily announced. “One day you’ll have to learn to fight.”
She later apologised and showed me things she shouldn’t have. It cost me a penny. I was shocked.
Then one day, my grandfather coughed up a lump of coal – or so it was said – and there seemed little point in his having to go underground anymore to fetch it up. He got very tired after that and stopped snapping salt out of thin air; in fact, he stopped doing anything at all, because, shortly after my seventh birthday, my grandfather performed his last magic trick by coughing up an entire sack load of coal and the effort transformed his lumbering frame into a couple of tablespoons of greyish powder, which my grandmother maintained in a little brass urn that she kept next to a wedding photograph on the mantelpiece.
When my father, a captain in the Merchant Navy, returned, from his many forays in far away lands, my life changed quite radically after that. Gone was the idyllic hinterland of wooded vales and mysterious, freckled-faced urchins reciting Geordie poetry in tree-dens. No more the tatty-hash bakes, the stolen kisses from distant aunts eager to ply my emaciated frame with fatted milk, bacon and lard, and full-cream chocolate.
Behind me I left a world of moth-eaten newspapers that bore grim testimony to the gruelling struggle of the Jarrow marchers, upon whose blood-soaked River Tyne Banks in the Danesfield I had been born, and the artfully crafted cricket parks hewn from disused quarries, the toy town post offices with backward ticking clocks, left unadjusted lest amnesiac German paratroopers still be at large. And, of course, the left over chips, fried beyond the point of human consumption for the hungry children who desired nothing less than a free cholesterol-rich nosh beyond the exigencies of their parent’s straightened circumstances.
Before my father and his seafaring career took me far away from the hearth and home and coal-fired toasted crumpets for which I lived and breathed, my grandmother took leave of her perpetual chicken stew (that I suspected had been warming the cauldron long before the outbreak of the Black Plague) and pressed into my hand a book entitled, “Havelock The Warrior Prince Of Denmark, King of The Geordies”.
My obsessive Auntie Elsie (despite her somewhat contentious relationship to my equally sherry-addicted grandmother) had spent the best part of seven years in Newcastle’s central library and the Town Hall’s Registrar of Births, Deaths and Marriages, proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that I was, as the firstborn in my family, the only surviving heir of the Good King Havelock, an heroic figure of yore who had left his mark on Jarrow and Blythe while in exile. Not that such a claim stood me in good stead. So, I’m the rightful King of Denmark? Into how many beers does that translate and do I still get to claim the divine right to hang the child-killer Tony Blair from his right testicle or his left? Or both? It’s a question his lawyer has yet to answer, but I’m a patient man.
“Vergannen, ye Nae and Nenner,” my grandmother reminded me in a Geordie dialect that is uniquely German to the British Isles. “Yeas a Havelock, me Bairn. A Havelock, yeas hear me. And King Havelock yeas always will be.”
I am not alone, of course. Every Englishman is a king, and every Englishwoman a queen. Believe me when I say this. If you are English, my friend, you are royalty, and let no one tell you otherwise.
But I, like too many of my generation, eventually listened to a world that spoke only the language of the Jews, and I forgot who I was. That’s what the Jews do. Hypnosis was their coup de grace.
And so it was that I grew up into an a planet of asinine platitudes, of quintessential inanities and Judaic fixations and nihilistic imbecilities, despising my own kind, scurrilously decrying the essence of my very being; the self-lacerating, ultra-hating Englishman whose raison d’être amounted to nothing less than the total abnegation of a culture that had spawned everything worthwhile in a world increasingly devoid of all meaningful creativity.
How we loved the Jews. How cool. How hip. They were our fellow destroyers; and we lived for the joy of their creative destruction, hating or own culture. Here they were in all their many smiling and comely guises: the Dadaists of anti-creative venom; the satirists of the wholesomely benign; the exponents of the outrageously blasphemous; the liberators of repressive bourgeois thought; the darlings of the awfully oppressed; the living antidote to the vile matrix of stultifying conformity: the sneering generation writ large on every billboard from Broadway to Piccadilly circus. Bring one home to mommy and buy a bagel on your way to the holocaust museum. You know it makes cents.
It bespeaks great tolerance on the part of the English people that we almost without the slightest murmur pretermitted the venerable 1290 Edict of Expulsion and allowed those ever so wily treacherous Jews, such as Jack Straw, Greville Janner, the ridiculously pre-pubescent and supercilious David Miliband, and a rapacious host of other pro-immigration Jewish lawyers to circumvent the natural laws governing the demographic equilibrium of our nation state to legislatively spawn an immigration disaster of such proportions that it will take nothing less than a civil war or an ethnically selective virus to rectify the damage done to the welfare of the true ancestral people of England.
I speak not, of course, against those whose only ‘crime’ was to accept a legitimate offer to seek work and domicile within our hallowed shores. No injustice should ever befall those men and women who are resident in the United Kingdom wittingly or unwittingly at the invitation of Jewish legislators or Jewish lobbyists. They are here at the invitation of evil men and women who do not have our (or their) interests at heart. Yet they deserve our protection for the way in which they have been deceived and used as pawns in a power game only a few of us are able to grasp.
Having lived and worked with Muslims in East African, let me assure you that I have nothing but the greatest respect for their culture and religion in their respective localities. But I will not tolerate Mosques or Synagogues on British soil. The Jew and the Muslim is quite at liberty to practice his or her own spiritual beliefs in the privacy of his own home; but the streets of England are not to be given over to implacably strange cults that uphold the bizarre divinity of a nonsensical Semitic god that is as unproven as the hypothesis that six million Jews are able to pass almost seemingly unnoticed through the eye of a needle and yet live to tell the tale.
This is England, and England shall forever belong to the true church of Jesus Christ the Celt form Galilee, libertarians and agnostic freethinkers.
How dare a foreign folk with a strange and culturally alien religion enter my land, my Father’s green and pleasant land, and demand to be afforded the same privileges bequeathed by Divine Right to my own kinsmen, assigning to themselves the right of worship in temples that resemble nothing more than whorehouses of Satanic idolatry. How dare the Jews and their fellow Islamic Semites despoil the fine symmetry of England’s architectural splendours and gently undulating landscapes with their obscene phallic protuberances and architectural Talmudic incongruities?
Mr Rowan Williams, who apparently passes himself as some sort of ‘arch bishop’ (whatever that is) should be reminded that there’s a rope for all seasons and always a neck to match, a fact of which I’m sure his demonic masters in the House Of Windsor and their cohorts of chinless parasites in the City of London are only too aware.
Sharia law in Oldham? Whatever next? Will Hindu widows be enjoined to self-immolation upon the funeral pyres of their deceased husbands in the suburbs of Manchester? Will Jews resort to their medieval practice of drinking the blood of Christian children in the sequestered covens of Golders Green? How about a witch-hunting dunk and drown shebang to keep those old-time Catholics in shits and giggles?
There is something about a true Englishman. I speak not of the generation lost to mobile phones and television and pornography and the mind-numbing propaganda taught in state schools, or the unremitting politically correct garbage mediated by the prostitutes who present themselves as journalists for the mainstream media. I speak of an Englishman who is of the blood. It is a blood that is pure in its genealogy. It is a blood that is as incorruptible as the virtue of his forefathers and those who came before, settling the isle beyond the farthest reaches of Saxony and Old Germany.
I speak of a holy people, devoid of perverse Semitic religion. Fair of skin and blue or green of eye: somewhat freckled and rough-hewn, swarthy, bellicose, aggressive, and yet consummately humoured. Slow to anger but swift to avenge. When the Father of all that he had made looked down on all of his creation – and let us not for one moment compare the True Father with the fictional evil god of the Semites, the genitalia-fixated Jehovah and his penchant for instant bloodbaths – it was in the English people and their Celtic brethren that he found his greatest pleasure.
And he still does, though his very heart is rent with sorrow. For a speck of dust on an English dirt-track is immeasurably more sacred in the eyes of the True Creator of the Universe than the entire Temple Mount in Jerusalem, which is nothing more than an empty shell devoted to a now vanquished tribal god who met his match in a humble man from Galilee.
Many years ago on walkabout in Kilburn (1986, in fact), I found myself in an Irish drinker. I got to talk with an old boy from Mayo and we touched on all things general before settling down to the world at large and English things in general. His history came to me in tabulated pictures of struggle torn from the pages of unauthorised works, and, when I told him that the pages in my book and the book of my forebears were not dissimilar, we chewed over the weariness, the pity of it all, and agreed that there was something peculiarly sick that attached itself to the English elite mentality.
“Tis a bitter thing when you hate yer own,” he told me. “Thing is,” he continued, “the British are no more the English, ‘cos you lost your history, you gave it to them and they’ve been writing it ever since. Tis not your fault, nor that of your ancestors that yers and had it all stolen from yers.”
The Irishman was half-right. In fact, he unintentionally referenced the ‘British’ — a race that simply does not exist outside of the confines of Whitehall strategic planning. There has never been a race called the ‘British’. The Scots don’t call themselves British. The Welsh take deep offensive when they are so described, and even the English would now rather avoid the term and all its unionist connotations.
This is no longer about the United Kingdom, which is itself a fascistic and artificial administrative construct. I speak only of England: for Britain is finished. Within ten years, Scotland and Wales will be fully independent regions within the European Union – and good riddance too. (But thanks for the beer.)
England will be an independent non-presidential republic, free of the European Union, governed by just laws that bring war criminals, lying politicians, murderers and rapists swiftly to the gallows, untrammelled by the financial parasites and sexual perverts in Buckingham Palace, devoid of Jewish and Muslim lobbyism, a wide-open and crime-free environment for culturally ancestral English children to explore without fear of racial aggressors or sexual predators, a beneficiary of a near zero-tax system and a nation wealthy, secure and free beyond anything you can possibly imagine in today’s twisted, anti-human world.
It will be an England my grandfather would recognise as the home he had envisaged for his great-grandchildren. And it will be an England fit for a king. Even a Havelock.
If you truly wish to save this land of ours and build a future for our children and our grandchildren, you have a war to fight. The enemy is not your neighbour or the Muslim gentleman from whom you purchase your groceries. Nor is it the elderly Jewish lady who brings tea and comfort to the homeless sleeping under bridges.
The enemy lives in Whitehall and also sits ensconced on benches in the House of Commons. They have names and addresses and telephone numbers, and each and every one of them is a traitor whose profile fits snugly in the crosshairs of a standard army issue rifle.
Make no mistake, my fellow Englishmen and Englishwomen. This is not a game, but the final act in a drama that will forever determine the life or death of our nation.
Where will you be when the curtain drops?
Mike James is a retired ex-journalist and translator who left England in 1992. He now lives alone in an isolated log cabin directly on the border of Switzerland and Germany.