A Nation In the Accident and Emergency Ward
What a wonderful thing is a taxpayer. I gather from online sources that the British taxpayer is currently stumping up to pay for the most expensive funeral in world history, although the deceased woman's family is one of the richest on planet earth. The same taxpayers who stumped up nearly £4 BILLION to buy weapons and 'aid' to support NATO's unwinnable war with Russia. The same British taxpayers who bankrolled a National Health Service that cannot supply even ten minutes of a doctor's time to the people who pay their ever-increasing wages.
And even as taxpayers are fleeced yet again, the cartoon crooks called politicians are reminding us to forget about whatever silly little problems we ourselves might have, and concentrate on what really matters. In other words, we must (a) mourn for the dead billionairess as if she was our mother (b) freeze ourselves this coming winter to support the unwinnable war, and (c) take our sick relatives to the local Accident & Emergency ward and get in the queue behind 200 migrants who haven't paid a penny for the NHS.
Everything's an accident or emergency now. The trouble is, the emergencies come so fast on each other's heels there's no time to help the accident victims.
At what point does a taxpayer become a slave to the machine? Are we there yet, daddy? The relevant term is, I believe, "No Taxation Without Representation" - some of the the words that launched the American revolution. In other words, if goverment takes the public's money, that dosh must be spent on the public good. Yet the lesson of the last five years is that far from being prioritised, the needs and wishes of the British public are always ignored and dismissed. Indeed, delivering the opposite of the public's wishes now seems to be the sole function of our government.
It is a fact that a large majority of British people want the insanity of unlimited mass-immigration to stop. This has been clear for years. But instead of honouring the people's wish to preserve their country, the machinery of government has been used to turn a river into a flood, a border-breach into an invasion. In a breathtakingly short time, the Conservative Party has become the Far Left, indulging an across-the-board sweep of collectivist agendas that Blair and co. never dared to attempt. Preserving the United Kingdom is the last thing on this government's mind.
Bankrupting the society, however, is so important that the forgers running the Bank of England have money-printing machines rolling around the clock, churning out bales of imaginary cash guaranteed to collapse the tattered remains of our post-covid economy. We are spectating -in real time- on a flat-out race to be the next bankrupt country in europe. The chancellors of Germany, France, Spain and the UK are sprinting into the abyss of unpayable debt as if medals and prizes were waiting -and perhaps they are. [Read our 2021 article THREE STEPS TO GLOBALISM: click here]
Dead Queen? Blow couple of billion on that. Russia still fighting? Sling another wedge to Zelensky's stash in the Cayman Islands. Gas too expensive? Print another billion. Three thousand new benefit tourists paddling this way? Print another few billion. And all the time the taxpayers sit on their hands grumbling, when we should have torn this sham of a democracy to pieces ten years ago when they first pissed in our faces and claimed it was raining. You can have a NATIONAL health service OR unlimited immigration. They know it and we know it. Where you get both, your nation sinks beneath the weight of the world's freeloaders.
THE BIG SINK
We've already had a taste of the Big Sink, of the endless queues, the gang warfare, the empty shelves, the joy of food banks and black markets, with matching bribery and corruption for the dupermarket chains. The next phase begins with the dark nights and the cold rains: watch your winter Britain stumble and fall as the rungs begin to break on the quality-of-life ladder. A meek, dejected population of tv-addicted taxpayers, inching their way towards a shrunken existence of charity-shop shoes and missed meals.
Keep your eyes fixed on the flickering screens and forget about the neighbour's hungry dog, the abandoned cars, the lights going out, the do-it-yourself dentistry and the quiet cremations which nobody attends. Chant the dog-eared mantras of lockdown: it's not happening -it'll be over soon- one of those things...can't be helped. How very reluctant a taxpayer must be, to switch off the sounds and visions, the reassuring voices and the brightly-coloured pictures.
In the houses of the radio and tv users, switching off is postponed until exhaustion demands; silence and darkness rejected to the bitter end. Too frightened, perhaps, to arrange their own thoughts around their actual experiences -how much easier to swallow the official taxpayer's ration of sound and visions. Perhaps next time I should vote for the other lot...
A clock ticks on a shelf of plywood in a room with no hearth. Sirens whoop nearby, muffled by double-glazing. Tiny LED spots glow red and gold at dusk; reminders of the digital companions forever by your side. The children of covid have learned the art of low expectations; they won't ask for much. Something sweet to chew, a roof and a bed, buttons to push and screens to watch. Tomorrow's another day and what's the hurry anyway? When the dog bites there will always be a place in the queue at Accident and Emergency.
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