I would be the last man standing to tell you that there were times I did not loathe and detest the best part of my schooldays. I did not, at first, take well to my second primary school, Ansdell County, torn as I was from my six-year-old compatriot friends at Whitley Bay Junior to find myself pilloried as a witless urchin and castigated as a linguistically indecipherable outsider by a less-homely, unforgiving breed of fist-fighting Lancastrian children.
The bullies generally left me alone because I was too small and too thin to make a tangible target, and those who did come after me were met by the fierce wrath of a tough-skinned, hard-nosed youngster, Andrew, who watched me defensively from afar, although we hardly ever spoke. His father was my father’s best friend, and that made anyone who dared lay a finger on the most single of my hairs as good as a non-anaesthetized squealing pig about to enter a slaughterhouse of indescribable pain. I made it through the five years of my attendance in Ansdell without the slightest bruise or black eye, although the school matron saw no end of broken bones and punctured ribs suffered by those whom Andrew deemed even the slightest threat to my welfare.
It was when I graduated to an all-boys Grammar school that I was forced to fend for myself, and although I hit the deck more times than a drunken sailor in a Pacific storm, I eventually learned to punch above my weight, sometimes with surprisingly devastating results, for there is no strength greater than that found in the red-misted rage of a diminutive child confronted by the leery arrogance of a sadistic Goliath. My pluckiness, earned me instant respect, shared cigarettes (which eventually put paid to my title as the school’s long-distance running champion), and easy access to the ‘bad girls’ who attended the adjoining all-girls Grammar school, and from whom we were separated by means of an enormous artificial sand dune and the fierce, beady eyes of an ever-watchful ‘boy-hating’ hockey mistress.
In those days, we children were described as ‘pupils’ and those who taught us as ‘teachers’. From what I gather the rules of education have changed in England to such an extent that new titles are reinvented daily to suit the ever-shifting perceptions of what constitutes the transmission of knowledge and the imparting of suitable moral conduct. I hear that five-year-olds are now designated as ‘students’ and those charged with their welfare are aggrandised as ‘educators’ or some other such similar nonsense.
I presuppose a time when schoolchildren in that grand laboratory of England’s new world order of social engineering will be tagged as ‘receptacles’ and their teachers as ‘inductors’.
The process of learning has changed from what it once was, and still should be: the teaching of elementary skills and the encouragement of children to become free and sovereign individuals, fully empowered and able to live independently of the perverse incursions made upon otherwise ignorant individuals by an overly socialistic or fascistic state. It now seems that the opposite is true. I shall give you an example of a time when teachers were men, and pupils their respectful mentors.
I shall never forget the time when, at my Grammar School, I was summoned to attend a sharp disciplinary ordinance at the behest of the rather reclusive Headmaster of my school, C. J. Lipscombe. Mr Lipscombe, a reticent and painfully introverted war hero with a limp, a nervous twitch and a penchant for whisky, who had been shot down in the latter days of the Zionists’ Second Great War against Brothers of the same race, had recourse to insist that I be subjected to punishment for a seditious essay that had belittled the oafishness of his deputy, one Mr Buckroyd, a sadistically vengeful Scot who assumed that every boy incapable of playing rugby to the point of physical destruction was a coward deserving of instant expulsion or open-field blackballing (a practise whereby youngsters were stripped naked in full view of the girl’s school with their testicles smeared in black boot polish).
I had determined at the age of 12 that Buckroyd, a man I had instantly identified as an anti-human entity, was my enemy and that I would somehow, no matter what, kill him in cold blood or at least bring the bastard to justice. However, my essay, which in its fulsome and brazenly acidic descriptions of a man obsessed with a violence I satirised only as a remedial salve for his obvious sexual inadequacies, was privately written and intended only for the eyes of those who understood my own sense of humour. As with all things that are intended to amuse only one’s closest associates, it was read widely and caused great mirth among both pupils and the teaching staff. It hit the Xerox machine. It hit the streets. It hit the town.
Despite the protestations of my English teacher, who held up my tome as one of the finest examples of a classic Platonic satiric dialogue he had ever read, a decision was taken by the school’s disciplinary committee to thrash me with a three-spliced cane. Buckroyd claimed administrative punitive prerogative and lodged a formal petition of complaint against the best undertakings of an otherwise bemused and befuddled disciplinary committee. He wanted blood, and no one and nothing would stand between him and the rightful exactitude of a punishment equal to the intensity of his effrontery. The alternative was expulsion.
“It is a most grievous matter and it extends beyond anything that only I, as Headmaster of this school, am most suitably qualified to deal with,” C. J. Lipscombe informed the committee. Buckroyd was incensed, but was forced to defer to a man who had a far greater understanding of life and all its travails, and who was, nonetheless, his senior.
Some three days later, I found myself summoned by a corps of sniggering prefects into the very high offices of a man with whom I had never personally spoken. C.J. Lipscombe asked me to confirm my name and demanded that I remain at all times standing, while dismissing those who had escorted me back to their duties as superannuated schoolboys. A long silence ensued while the Headmaster took a long a thoughtful drink from a brandy glass filled with a mixture of something that looked like treacle mixed with ice.
“You know why you’re here?” he asked me judiciously. “If you wish, I can provide you with a charge sheet. It’s your right.”
“Yes, Sir, I know,” I answered meekly.
“You do know that I’m obliged to punish you most severely by means of caning?”
“And what, Sir, is your opinion? Do you think yourself worthy of physical punishment, or is this an affair you will someday commit to memory as a most unfortunate culmination of events beyond the control of your rampantly imaginative, juvenile and rather ill-considered imagination?”
I was stunned by the sudden turn of events. “I don’t know, Sir. I’m sorry if I hurt anyone, but I think I told the truth. What I write I write. I cannot help what I write. When I write I cannot stop, and there is no way I can remove words that have found their rightful place in a sentence that simply writes itself. They come in a certain order and if I change the order, the words make no sense. I have no intention of making people laugh. I don’t write things to make people angry. I just write words that come into my head in a specific order, and down they go on paper. I cannot stop writing words. I just write. I’m sorry, Sir, but sometimes I just cannot stop writing.”
C.J. Lipscombe took a reclining position on the half-backed rocking chair that blended with the stained oak of an old Ashley and Benson desk seared by the heat of multiple tee cans, and studied me intently as a subject for further scientific enquiry.
“Give no thought as to the words you write other than the truths you express. Do you know what the truth is?”
I experienced the longest, most searching silence of my life. Here I was, the rebellious grandson of a miner attempting at such a tender age to justify my creative rationale to the son of an aristocrat who had been blown clean out of the skies of a stormy Dover morning. “No, Sir. I do not know what the truth is.”
“You are an Englishman,” C.J. Lipscombe told me in something resembling a conspiratorial whisper. “And one day you shall know the truth.”
When I left his office, without the slightest application of a bamboo lash against my nether-sides, Mr Lipscombe turned to me and laid his right hand gently on my left shoulder. “The purpose of this school is not that we wish to turn out educated idiots for a system that looks no further than fools to supply its needs, but gentlemen, men of character. The time will come when the world will call upon men of character, and few, if any, will answer the call.”
How fortunate for the government that men such as C.J. Lipscombe rest quietly in their graves, and how grievous for me and my generation that I had not acted fortuitously on his sage advice at a time when my country needed me the most and I was both young enough and healthy enough to have made a contribution for the better. For times have changed in a way C.J. Lipscombe may have envisaged in his foresight as a man once given over to adversities less fearsome than those we can now expect in the very near future.
The government’s current crop of so-called ‘educators’, who are well-versed in every aspect of moral perversion, are now more interested in moulding the minds of naturally curious and optimistic children into jaundiced robotised slaves taught only to achieve the quotas mandated by the school’s budgetary considerations and emerge from their formative experience as obedient citizens impressively obliged to watch television, pay their taxes and ask no awkward or troubling questions.
In my part-time, I teach English to German children, propelling them rapidly from the bottom to the top of their classes. I do so despite using the increasingly debased (and formerly excellent) Cambridge ‘English Grammar in Use’ manuals. Those written prior to 1987 taught English in a style fully commensurate with what our language once used to represent. The newer editions however, replete with politically correct grammar exercises featuring aboriginal children with barbecued noses and a strange new diction that bears no resemblance to the English language, and which outline set-pieces in syntax that are riddled with slang, spelling mistakes and false punctuation, long ago found a final resting place in my garbage can. I use only the older editions, obtainable only in second-hand bookshops, or write my own teaching manuals.
The sad fact of life today, and you only have to peruse the pages of formerly well-written broadsheets such as ‘The Times’ or ‘The Telegraph’, is that almost nobody in England is capable of writing good or even adequate English. At no time since the year 1970, has a novel ever been published by an Englishman or an Englishwoman that can make any claim to have been written in a style our forefathers would have recognised as worthy, readable literature. In fact, I now make a point of reading nothing published beyond the late 1940s. The rape and debasement of the English language in favour of the sensitivities of the less culturally attuned races is matched only by the remorseless venom in which ancestral English children are being deliberately shifted in their development as natural human beings into a new kind of creature, one that is a product of governmental bodies staffed by flabby middle-aged women with degrees in sociology who would be of better service to the community by losing weight and bearing attractive, healthy children.
In England, Europe and the United States, unnatural sex education is now becoming compulsory for toddlers, who are, so I am reliably informed, to be taught at an impressionable age about every aspect of physical perversion and its apparent normality. Schools in Germany already mandate that youngsters as young as six play ‘touch and feel’ games to accommodate them at an early age with their sexuality and differences in their genitalia, despite protestations from Christian parents who have been fined and sectioned in psychiatric hospitals for attempting to exempt their children from such bestial teachings.
One of America’s most decadent icons of the pornographic Hollywood crime syndicate, a failed goon of an actor called ‘Governor’ Schwarzenegger, has even seen fit to propagate the wholesale dissemination of lesbian and homosexual propaganda to impressionable young minds, supported by an eager lobby of sodomites who seek to sell their lifestyles as ‘normal and fun’. It may seem wickedly accusative of me to point out that most of those involved in the Californian Gay and Lesbian ‘rights’ lobby are Jews, so perhaps I should shrug my shoulders in bewildered astonishment and suggest that this must constitute one of those incredibly inexplicable coincidences.
As a result of Germany’s enforced ‘holocaust’ school propaganda, primarily designed to traumatise million of youngsters into hating their own nation and parentage, and the twisted methodologies of social indoctrination propagated by the ‘Frankfurt School’, a Judeo-Marxist teaching cult established and financed by psychopathic sociologists as far back as the 1950s, thousands of Germans are now opting to leave their own country for nations where sodomite-free home schooling that allows for traditional teaching methods and the examination of honest, objectively reported history is still an option.
Yet I fear, with the growth of this insidious evil that has infected every aspect of life in schools across Europe and America, such alternatives may soon be hard to come by. Even Gordon Brown, an overweight and ineloquent nonentity who has the bare-faced audacity to describe himself as a ‘prime minister’ of a north European country, is now forcing every intuitively aware, bullshit-resistant English schoolchild to visit Auschwitz, the fantastical Disneyland of fabulist historical deceptions, replete with gas chambers ‘magically’ built in 1948 by artful propagandists and malicious swindlers (as amply testified by Gerhart Schirmer in his personal recollections recorded in his banned autobiography, ‘Sachsenhausen-Workuta: Zehn Jahre in den Fängen der Sowjets’).
France’s Jewish playboy ‘President’ and well-greased open orifice for every passing Israeli huckster, one Mr Sarkozy, is even proposing that French toddlers ‘adopt’ a dead Jewish child so that they may better empathise with the alleged horrific suffering of children torn apart by a war connived at by those whose real agenda was the creation of a fascist Zionist Israel and the destruction of everything noble to be found in European culture. How much lower are these self-styled ‘leaders’ of the West prepared to go in damaging the minds of young children by inflicting upon them such barbaric modalities structured to leverage the greatest possible level of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and should we not look to existing statutes to put these evil bastards where they belong: safely behind bars?
Together with enforced programmes by which the continual assessment of a child’s psychological, sexual and social development (naturally including his or her perceived political leanings) are being implemented throughout schools the length and breadth of Britain, the induction of a culture of spying and reporting on the misdemeanours and social behaviour of parents by means of frank written assessments (essays) and psychiatric testing, the rigorous enforcement of an unquestioned multicultural ideology, and the strict prohibition on the teaching of Creationism in favour of the God-hating monkey-man genesis of the human species all point to one thing: Satanic Ritual Abuse (SRA) by government decree. Satanism is alive and well in every corner of Europe and America, and it is blessed with the state’s official stamp of approval.
Even a new system of biometric identifiers, compulsory fingerprinting and swipe cards are being introduced in British schools for purposes of which the education authorities are remaining somewhat coy in their responses to parental enquiries. We all know why the paedophiles who run the United Kingdom from Whitehall are doing this, for their ability to film each and every citizen on CCTV at least 800 times a day is simply not enough to satisfy what these filthy degenerates have in mind.
Five years ago, a very good friend of mine, a hard-working engineer with two fine sons aged seven and nine, rang me at midnight in a state of tears and distress. His third wife, an unstable woman who had brought into his house an equally mischievous 12-year-old youngster, had left Wolfgang in a fit of pique for which one was pained to find a reasonable explanation beyond the malicious, bullying treatment of this woman’s unspeakably vindictive son toward Pascal, Wolfgang’s younger child.
With an eye to a generous settlement obtainable in Germany by means of cleverly manipulating the authorities, this maliciously devious woman immediately contacted the nightshift of the Jugendamt (Youth Welfare Office) and, in collusion with her loathsome son, told them a pack of lies that had a Jugendamt SWAT team snatch away Wolfgang’s children within less than ninety minutes.
The Jugendamt, created by Hitlerian decree, is the only government organisation in Germany that has the right to act autonomously without any parliamentary oversight. Uniquely, its powers of detention and confiscation exceed even those of the police. Few lawyers are willing to deal effectively with the Jugendamt, for their officers are legally permitted to use lies and subterfuge to discredit anyone who seeks to bring against them a case of false abduction.
Wolfgang was advised that his boys, both of whom loved their father to distraction, and who were subsequently manhandled kicking, screaming and crying into a ‘hostel’ in Giessen, would be kept out of his reach for at least two years. The Jugendamt, which had already played a pivotal role in causing the suicide of his sister, Sylvia, following its illegal abduction of her six-year-old child in 1992 on the spurious grounds that she was not allowing her girl to be educated properly, threw the book at my friend and effectively told him that he was now fatherless and ruthlessly subject to the extraordinary expenses attendant to the upkeep of his distressed children at a ‘hostel’ that had become their prison overnight, staffed, I hasten to add, by state-friendly gays and lesbian ‘counsellors’.
Being a journalist (and a bit of a bastard) not particularly squeamish about using underhand and vicious tactics when faced with unmitigated evil, and armed at that time with many more useful contacts than I have today, it took me less than three weeks to compile a dossier listing all of the sexual infidelities attendant to most of the case officers responsible for my friend’s predicament, including an incriminating itinerary of kickbacks and financial skulduggery linking the local Attorney General with some of the most unsavoury elements in the Jugendamt and three of its most notorious holding centres, complete with photocopied bank receipts. Had I persisted for longer than the exigencies of the time I had at hand, I would no doubt have nailed some of Germany’s finest ‘caring welfare officers’ with paedophilia. But I was not looking for a big-ass story: just the immediate freedom of my friend’s children.
There’s a very fine art of discourse that, when practised well enough, allows one to tread delicately the fine line between blackmail and cautionary banter. Within a month, Wolfgang and his sons were happily reunited.
I tell this tale not as an exposition in evil that lies at the heart of almost all child welfare services, but as indicating an inherent aspect in the education and treatment of all our children: in Germany, England, Europe and America. For your children are no longer yours; they belong to the state.
Teach your children well and warn them that their teachers, although generally well-meaning, are not trained to tell the truth or impart knowledge objectively and in a fashion designed to instil in children a love of learning and a faculty for independent investigative enquiry. Their job is to kill the spirit of potentially free-thinking citizens; and lest they fail in this task, the government is already planning to identify future political ‘trouble makers’ by means of a child-register database, mapping specific DNA genotypes that point to original and creative thinking in unusually talented individuals.
Everything in the sick and twisted minds of the psychopaths who govern us from Whitehall and Westminster under the auspices of their serpent masters has a rhyme and a reason.
You are a child of the year 2019. Although you were born in England, you consider yourself a fitful citizen of EU Region 33; and in Region 33 walls have ears. Nothing goes unheard and even your thoughts are not your own.
If I were to tell you that you, as a human being, were designed from the very inception of the stars that map the coordinates of our local galaxy as a story to be told; a story with a beginning and an end and a denouement transcending any conclusion in its apparent finality, you would doubtless think me fit for a good night’s sleep and one of those measured smiles reserved for speakers of such late night sentiments.
If I were to tell you that you, as a human being and an Englishman, were designed from the very inception of the stars that map the coordinates of our local galaxy, indeed the entire universe, as part of a story that had in part already been told; and continued to unfold still yet without a denouement transcending any conclusion in its apparent, or inevitably perceived, finality, you would look at me askance as a cultural drunkard besotted with history and buy me one for the road; for even a crazy thinker is worthy of a beer and a comely pat on the back.
But if I were to tell you that you, as an Englishman, especially designed by the Father of all Creation to be a light unto the world, and yet, in the story already scripted for you by the one who knows all that will happen, that your own culture and the fate of you and yours, irretrievably bound to the story of the magnificent race into which you found yourself born, was to be thwarted (and indeed has been thwarted) by a malignant, dystopian counter-narrative that would set a serpent of ill-intent between the lines of a narrative originally designed to unfold with a fruitfully unerring charm devoid of the poison of deception and malice, you would consider me mad and humour me on your way to the quickest exit.
Something tells you that the narrative is important, for we are all nothing if not stories in the very telling of ourselves. When we lose the thread of that narrative, the narrative that daily informs our own wants and desires, our dreams and ambitions, our loves and aspirations for those things that extend beyond the material realm and transcend even our known experience, the story falls apart into a loose symbiosis of things that either do not readily understand their apparent interconnectedness, or collapse into a meaningless quandary of nihilist contradictions.
Perhaps in your haste to put such considerations quickly out of your mind, you would remember the good lessons taught by your comely teacher at school: she with the porcine yet motherly-frame, whom you loved, for she spoke so impassionedly against those who ‘hate’ and are to be detested by those who trust the inherent goodness of the state. Something within you, a trigger-switch embedded deep down inside the very membranes of your thinking matter, tells you something is wrong with this man who speaks philosophically of narratives distorted by those who despise the magnificently unfolding narrative of a culture that once claimed its genesis as written in the stars, and you instinctively search out on your mobile phone the telephone number of the good Mrs Goldstein, for only she, and she alone, can tell you if I am in some way suspect, beyond the pale, a potential ‘hate criminal’ to be interred for questioning and even possible execution.
Your education has served you well, and Mrs Goldstein, having already informed the police, thanks you for your vigilance and commends you for the ‘King William Award for Obedient Citizenry’. A criminal placed an idea in your head, and had this idea taken root in a way that may have served to liberate you from everything you had been carefully taught by a state that only cares for your welfare and happiness, who knows what may have happened?
A new narrative, perhaps, free of the Serpent and true in word? How awful. How discomfiting and rudely unconscionable in the perfectly-regulated and technologically micro-managed multicultural paradise in which you live, free from the cares of troubling questions and the forbidden terrain of unimagined and unimaginable possibilities.
Had not the madman who had spoken of broken narratives mentioned the poet John Milton and his English Stones of Liberty, whatever they may be? “Not I,” you say with a shudder. “For Mrs Goldstein had lovingly called me a ‘brick’, and thanks to my education, a brick in my thinking and acting I shall always remain. Just another brick in the wall.”
Yet there is a prophecy existent in the New Covenant of Jesus Christ the Celt, the man from Galilee (The Lee of the Gallic Celts) which speaks of the servant of the True Father crushing the head of the Serpent. If only you can educate yourself to read these Scriptures without allowing the Judeo-Masonic-Christian Serpent to guide your understanding of the written testimony, for such have their perversions, false translations and malicious interpolations despoiled the story that is uniquely yours.
Remove the Serpent (and the Liar Saul) from between the lines and defang the lies he interposes in the mouth of the one Living Author.
It is this one thing, and this one thing alone, that the psychopaths who are desperate to control and abuse our children are afraid of. But for all their financial resources, surveillance technology, legislative majesty, and vast armies of heavily armed paratroopers and vicious mercenary killers, without the Serpent, who lives only between the lines and whose end is most assuredly at hand, their power is as efficacious as a lame fart in a countervailing tempest of freedom.
And the ability to overthrow the demonic power that rules this world and free your children from Satan’s evil designs begins not with a frenzy of religious or political activity, but right now.
In the privacy of your own home. By yourself.
The narrative is yours to write, and yours to write alone. But read it aloud to others, sing it in the streets, proclaim it from the highest rooftops and holler it from every mountaintop in the land. And though many, if not all, will turn a deaf ear, remember this: there is only one to whom you must address your appeal.
Jesus however said, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them; for it is to those who are childlike that the Kingdom of the Heavens belongs.”
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.