DAY OF THE DEAD
SJWs looking for the Cenotaph, earlier today
Every picture, as Sir Rodney Stewart reminded us, tells a story. What crippled narrative, what tale of ingrate woe, does the photograph of the vandalised statue of Sir Winston Churchill tell us? Churchill, Britain’s and, by extension, the world’s saviour during World War 2, besmirched and degraded on his lonely plinth, spray-pointed by oiks and oikophobes, branded a racist, erased and debased by cattle protesting the death of a black felon 4,000 miles away. It is a spectacle without dignity. Can we take any solace from this maudlin vision? Perhaps.
Of course, Churchill was hardly flawless, making howlers during World War 1 that unquestionably cost lives, but we English do not require the Stalinesque air-brush of historical revisionism or Mao’s willow-pattern version of his own macabre career. We’ll take our heroes the same way Cromwell told his portrait painter to render him; warts and all. And even when the likes of Peter Hitchens, increasingly about as much fun as the Ancient Mariner at the wedding, tells anyone who will listen that Great Britain was involved in an unjust war and that Churchill was practically a war criminal, one is tempted to say; put a sock in it, Eeyore.
The way Hitchens is going, he is going to end up in a stained dressing-gown, hobnail boots and Max Wall trousers, shuffling around in the basement of the Mail on Sunday, a real-life character in a Beckett play, a late one at that, saying ‘Gah! Forward! Backward! On! Off! Eeny, meeny, miney, misery!’ and looking at old, rat-eared postcards of Malta.
But back to Churchill. Why are we all aglow here in the memorial bunker at British Intelligence Towers? I’ll tell you, for it is to talk of the future that we are gathered here today…
The ‘protestors’ who flocked into Whitehall like cockroaches in a furred and scabrous drainpipe are the future of the nation. They are the next generation, generation zero, the shuffling zombies the elites have created, far more dangerous than the COVID-19 scam and uglier than cancer. They think tomorrow belongs to them. Think again.
We have a working maxim here at BI to the effect that, if you want the voice of the common people, you ask Barry Shand the security man, our monstrous equerry, ex-bouncer and current factotum at the Towers. Barry, not to put too fine a point on it, doesn’t really ‘do’ news. He is pissed off just now because the police in America have killed someone out of Pink Floyd, and he likes to listen to Dark Side of the Moon when he’s been smoking his industrial-strength skunk.
Anyway, when queried over his thoughts on yesterday’s shenanigans in and around Whitehall, Barry opined that ‘these little fuckers are going to grow up in a shitshow. And they made it’. Well, there are idiots savants, and there is B. Shand Esq. He’s right, of course.
The current generation of SJW cock-bots face a bleak future, and it will be nobody’s fault but theirs. With no intellectual life, theirs will be an egg-bound, sterile mental landscape devoid of the beauty of literature and art. Knowing no philosophy as it was written by white men, they will not be able to think. While we are certain there is much merit in Winston Um Bongo’s thesis on the transformative hermeneutics of the slave trade in the Belgian Congo, and it is a fine piece of work in its own right, you have to have a grounding in the Western philosophical canon.
As for the greater glories of love and friendship, to these they will also be strangers. With a stunted, Leninist emotional range, and a compulsion to judge potential friends on their response to ideological quiz-night, they will end up lonely and frightened. Their mental health will be irreparably fractured by a fault-line they can never knit up, a lethal combination of drug abuse and cognitive dissonance spooking the horses in the top field. Suicide rates will spike. Mental health facilities will proliferate like Poundstores of the mind.
And we, we happy few, will sit back in our Chesterfields and sigh and smile and blow smoke-rings from our colossal Havanas because we, my friends, have lived through the best of times, the rich and rolling sward of humanity’s green hills, peak history. For us, it was the best of times, it was the best of times.
So, when you see the next footage of a dysfunctional Marxist (who will never have read Capital; much too hard) throwing a bicycle at a police horse, after you are over the hump-back bridge of your initial rage, imbibe the honey-like succour of knowing that he will grow up miserable, suicidal and utterly alone. We put this scenario, in suitably Bowdlerised terms, to Barry Shand while he was doing the bins and drinking Benylin from the bottle. His sagacious response?
Photo credit: Carl Campbell