A RIOT OF THEIR OWN
The Priestley Riots, Johann Eckstein, 1791
Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. It is a good job that the people who don’t get angry don’t get angry, because if the people who don’t get angry did get angry at the people who do get angry, then the people who don’t get angry would get very angry indeed.
After a couple of months during which the long-suffering English public have danced around on their hind legs like costumed performing Jack Russells at a circus, judiciously donned their corona hijabs, kept an exact distance from one another on pain of arrest, been told they cannot see their loved ones even if they are dying or have, indeed, already died, been kept from work even if it cost them their jobs, been forced to clap an NHS that spends millions a year on diversity officers and was only doing what it is paid to do when it wasn’t making Tik-Tok videos, and been grassed up by neighbours who have been given a government mandate to settle old scores, they now had to watch thousands of posturing ninnies showing off in Whitehall with no heed given to any of the things they have been hectored by drones for doing. Veins are almost certainly standing out on foreheads from Land’s End to John O’Groats, assuming that John O’Groats is still called John O’Groats and hasn’t been changed to George Floyd O’Groats.
There are, in Merrie Englande, three categories by which the yeomen and yeowomen describe someone who has taken liberties with their good natures: Taking the piss, taking the right piss, and taking the right royal piss. You don’t need to be Immanuel Kant to realise that another category is now required.
The police loved every minute of coronavirus - which will soon be old news as America’s Civil War 2.0 kicks in - barking orders at the elderly, putting the dampers on sunbathers, warning people not to get cocky and complain on social media. Even the editor of this very magazine was banished from a park bench, where he sat alone in the weak English sunshine enjoying one or other of the pearls of world literature. The police instinctively distrust any book which is not sold with an accompanying pack of felt-tip pens, and probably saw him as a dangerous intellectual. Which is not to say he isn’t.
Yesterday, all those erstwhile prisoners of a police state by any other name were treated to the site of police officers kneeling before their new masters, those who are using the admittedly disgraceful killing of a fraudster and armed robber 4,000 miles from Whitehall and Downing Street which is – or was, until yesterday – the locus of power in the mis-named Great Britain. Very heaven it was to be alive.
It will be a big ask to keep the lockdown in place after that fiasco. And, as the smug and witless media keep reminding everyone, it will be onwards to the ‘new normal’. Given that the old normal was a ragged dystopia of pantomime queens teaching 6-year-olds how to twerk in their classrooms, Muslim grooming gangs, political prisoners, anti-white advertising, police with rainbows on their cars who call at people’s homes to ‘check their thinking’, lies, deceit, inauthenticity, calumny, rap music, humourless comedy, the banning of office banter, a decaying transport infrastructure, a record national debt, boatloads of immigrants who hate us arriving under the umbrella of an EU we voted to leave four years ago, and Piers fucking Morgan, the people who don’t get angry may be contemplating a career move and become the people who get very, very angry indeed at whatever the deep state has in mind as the new normal.
The British did everything that was asked of them, however excessive and heavy-handed it appeared to be. They complied, something which goes against the British grain and shows St. George of Orwell to be right, as ever, when he said that the British don’t really ‘do’ fascism. And their reward? Their reward, gentle reader, was to have their noses ground into the dirt, to be humiliated by a bunch of clowns running around ‘protesting’ a dead felon.
This has, of course, been coming down the pike for some time. The West is lazy and flabby, morally incoherent, hyper-consumerist, anti-Enlightenment, and with a ruinous political elite hell-bent on destroying whatever vestiges of civilization managed to survive the Great Purge.
There are riots, my mistake, protests against the vague and convenient notion of white racism planned today in Birmingham, tomorrow in Manchester, and on Sunday in London, when the great unwashed and brainwashed will continue to complete the job the Luftwaffe started. From Luftwaffe to Leftwaffe. One group of our great diverse nation will be worth keeping an eye on.
Some young Muslims, of course, ape the street gangs and nihilistic anti-culture of British yoot, but the wiser elders in the Islamic community may not be so keen on having their shops and livelihoods smashed up and burnt down. One thing people forget about Muslims; unlike the current British government, they are conservatives. Yes, they may wish to whisk us back to the 8th century rather than 1956, but they will not take kindly to the promiscuous Left interfering in their plans for a caliphate. We shall see.
In the meantime, it only remains to quote noted social philosopher Henry Rollins.
Freedom? You can’t handle freedom.