- "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 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?
-
- --------------------
- Michael 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.
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