All Aboard the Dopamine Express - Next Stop Hell
This week I heard some news. TV footballers are tweeting social commentary and Oxbridge students are moonlighting as online-bookable hookers. The US President is brain-dead and a dog caught monkeypox from the gay men with whom it sleeps. A rubber dinghy will get you into Britain faster than a passport and English hotel rooms are free if you're an Albanian gangster. The world spends billions on missiles to help Ukraine fight Russia, but Zelensky sells threequarters of them and fires the rest at eastern Ukrainians. One 87 year-old Brit was beaten to death in the street and another left lying on his porch for 15 hours awaiting an ambulance.
Pass the brandy and fetch my revolver, Cedric. I travelled to England last week to hang out with horses and dogs. It occurred to me, after driving about 400 miles, that I no longer have to sweep dozens of insects off the windscreen every half hour, the way I used to. I don't know why, but that makes me uneasy. To cheer myself up I researched the history of the small village I was visiting, and discovered that parts of the church dated from the tenth century. I was impressed, partly because I'm pretty sure at that time my ancestors were building mud huts, not stone chapels.
History's not what it used to be, though. The modern barbarians are not rewriting the story of our culture, but inventing a new one. Such is the intrusive nature of 21st century carnal probing, there is no longer even a safe space in the grave. Hundreds of years after they popped their clogs, kings, queens and historical heroes are being exhumed and press-ganged into the alphabet-people's fantasy Hall of Fame.
Not content with re-imagining Queen Victoria as gender-fluid, the 'artistic community' is now serving up Joan of Arc as 'non-binary' -a bit of a blow to those women silly enough to think they could keep the Maid of Orleans for their own hit parade. {CLICK HERE for details} It's surely only a matter of time until Boadicea is revealed to be a Viking trans-warrior and Winston Churchill outed as a pole-dancing drag queen.
In similar vein, a memorial plaque now stands at Beachy Head, commemorating an anonymous ancient lady who was almost certainly born in or near Eastbourne, because a shameless race-hustler called David Olusoga -aided and abbetted by the Black Broadcasting Company- decided it would be great if in fact she was black. Although subsequent analysis proved this idea to be nonsense, the BBC went ahead and installed a memorial plaque anyway, declaring Beachy Head Woman to be from "sub-Saharan Africa".
As the TV programme concerned was called "Black and British" the implication was as clear as it is deceptive. Here lies an ancient black Briton. If the BBC plaque is not removed, the lie it promotes will be endorsed by generations to come and fold seamlessly into the new, fictional history of Britain. From the glory that was Rome to the civilisational peak of the late twentieth century, the truly incredible achievements of white europeans are being rubbished, reviled and replaced with imaginary black people. [Details about Beachy Head Woman HERE]
In support of this fantastical future history, the anti-white movement has spread like a pox into every institution. Notwithstanding the astounding accomplishments of the 100% male caucasian fliers of WW2 (without whom Britain would have been invaded and enslaved) the RAF, it seems, has recently been so determined to avoid recruiting white men they find themselves with more planes than pilots who can be trusted not to crash them. Progressive or what?
Struggling to remain relevant after getting slung out of the Tory leadership short-list, Sajid Javid, the Minister for Something Different Every Year, appeared on TV to say the RAF is being 'ridiculous'. It is, too - almost as ridiculous as the spindly beard and moustache Sajid himself is now sporting, in an apparent attempt to appear more likeable. Unfortunately he'll always be an ugly, leering eight-ball, bearded or not. [CLICK HERE to see the new model Javid]
POLITICAL PUFF
Javid apart, the entire political class is clearly passing the summer twiddling their idle thumbs on Twitter while the two goofballs who want to be Prime Minister have a pretend 'contest' they are dragging out over ten endless weeks. It's a monumental waste of time because everybody already knows we'll be getting the scrawny white bint with the facial twitch and not the Asian billionaire with the scary grin.
The 'real' Prime Minister, meanwhile, is dividing his time between foreign holidays and bacchanalian dinner-parties at his country retreat where (sources tell me) he is crafting various deals which will (a) ensure his future prosperity and employment and (b) guarantee himself yet another decade of the wall-to-wall multi-media promotion for which he lives. Naturally, the BBC are, I gather, preparing to invest in a major Boris Johnson production. Bet you can hardly wait.
Of course, as we said earlier, when the Beeb isn't brown-nosing political fairies, it's toiling around the clock to re-programme the televisually addicted. As my temporary English residence came with a gigantic television, I admit took a quick canter around the channels as I do about six times a year. It was even worse than anticipated.
I had been advised that from diverse dawn till dusky dusk, the Voice Of The State pumps out non-stop news reports from an entirely fictitious Britain - and so it proved. Exploring the alternative world of the BBC, I saw white people and heterosexuals portrayed as a tiny minority of the population -dull, insignificant lowbrows, forever on the fringe of a serene, affluent society held together by a flawless network of lesbian police chiefs, Jamaican brain surgeons, teenage billionaires and trans professors of Climate Science.
YOUNG GUNS
Television, however, is losing its grip on the youngsters who could once be relied on for slavish binge-watching. 'Engagement' is what the sprogs want now -preferably in the form of an emoji, as complete sentences put too much strain on the brain. Is there any sight so wretched as the spectacle of a shuffling horde of brainwashed juveniles chasing dopamine on their smartphones? The nectar of youth so easily becomes the habit of a lifetime, but what kind of dufus wants to spend their best years in an electronic pram throwing toys out for likes?
How they revel in destruction, these bitter, miserable fledgelings. Every defaced statue, every 'cancelled' icon of a byegone age is celebrated long into the night in moronic but immortal chat-room exchanges. Infantile acts of amateur vandalism, captured for posterity with the click of a finger, are treasured like medals and broadcast with the prideful glee of trophy-winners.
Unsurprisingly, the clickbait junkies are mostly the product of broken homes, fatherless victims of outsourced parenting, loveless because they are unloved. If you don't even know your father or grandfather, what possible interest could you have in the world their ancestors built? The tenth century might as well be in the twelfth dimension as far as you are concerned. Instead, you wander blindly past the brick and mortar miracles, untouched by enduring wonders because your 'reality' is the flickering lights and beeps of the plastic comforter clenched in your paw.
SOUND THE RETREAT
After a rather harrowing week on the smelly old mainland, yesterday I returned home to my own alternative reality -this curious offshore island where somehow it is still 1975 and not a single soul is swinging a machete. How grand to hear once again the familiar gutteral grunts and street-slang -tis music to my ears; the stacatto banter of the Scottish underclass at work and play. Absolutely nothing happens fast. Even the gulls are gliding, too lazy to flap their wings. Harmless dogs roam, builders chatter as they build, shopkeepers lounge on the pavements, smoking straights and swapping gossip for laughs. It's almost as if nobody here has heard the news.
Comments
Post a Comment