Make 2025 the Year When We Force the Last Covidians Out of The Tribe
It’s not politics any more; this is war. The Covidian nightmare dug a hole four years deep into our lives and our hearts. All of us lost something in the covid battle; too many lost everything. Power-junkies gripped our many innocents by the throat and strangled the joy out of lives we loved. Those who didn’t die were abused, beaten or ground down. Now tens of millions are living no dream, waddling in the ruins of what we had. Small towns that died, city-blocks of shuttered shops, boarded-up windows in cemetery-style rows. Children who never knew why their lips were sealed with plastic gags, or why adults hid their faces and split their families in fear. Pretending it never happened, pretending to forget. But we must never forget, and never forgive, Lets make 2025 the year when the Covidian poison is ripped out of our systems for good.
We always counted our lives in anniversaries, years and seasons, chunks of time dictated by the orbit of a sun. Warm summers recalled with a smile, a birthday or a Christmas guaranteed to push us in front of a mirror of memories. But people of the covid era are condemned to remember in a different way, to recall the before and the after. Now we have known two different worlds. The scars are plain to see in the high streets and the ghettos. Stunned by the theft of our time and by mass-media hammer-blows to the brain, while we fought to reclaim our basic freedoms the Covidians were selling the very land from beneath our feet.
Once the masks and commands were discarded and their miracle jabs revealed as sick jokes, we tiptoed out into cities overrun with alien crowds. Schools, hotels, hospitals and housing estates awash with rootless strangers heading every queue. We -who were forbidden to share an embrace with our brothers and mothers- were now ordered to service the needs of countless random nomads and greet them as more-than-equals. Bold, unannounced and uninvited, the freeloaders of the globe were squatting in our streets, demanding our space be theirs. This house of cards must now be toppled or torched. Our ancestors built a glorious civilisation; this free-for-all post-covid globalism offers only a teeming urban swamp of tribal brutalities.
For the twin sins of Brexit and Trump -two votes that stopped the world- we were robbed by our leaders, kettled by their goon-squads and handed a punishment-beating to bring us to their heels. Covid, they called it, but it might as well have been named the revenge. The European Union and its NATO/UN fantasies had been hobbled by the unexpected turning of the worms. We dared to say no -no to the WEF and the WHO and all the other unelected alphabet fascists. No to their Reset and their New World Order; no to their one-world government horrorshow of digital voyeurism, enforced jabbing and hymns of praise to the whingeing, greedy godlets of DEI.
Once again reality has bitten deep into their rotten apple of democracy. This January 20th, like some unkillable thing, the all-too mortal Trump will return, Trump the aged Samson, the spanner in the works. In 2025 we begin the tale of Trump #2, willing it to swell a second turning of the global tide. On the bookshelf of history the Covidian era will stand between bookends of Trump: the before and the after.
But it would be madness to pile our every hope upon his weary head. All too soon he will become, once again, a torn and bleeding bull in the quicksand of the Washington arena, butting his way through the thousand grasping tentacles of the Woke Blob, trampling a narrow trail for whoever dares to follow. This will be a respite, not a redemption; every true leader casts a short spell but a long shadow. The idea of Trump might set us in motion but soon we will have to roll under our own steam. If we learned anything at all in the Covidian years it is that ordinary people drive the engine -when we find the strength and the courage to dissent, resist and refuse.
I know most of us don’t want to confront this -I take no pleasure in repeating it- but we have to get real about the limitations of the theatre we call the democratic process. I understand why the convenience of delegating responsibility to others captures the public imagination. Save us, sweet master! Cometh the poll, I never fail to be dragged into the traditional debate, if only to sling mud and shout hooray like any good spectator. But I long ago abandoned the idea that we can vote ourselves free of anything. The aftermath of both the ‘shock’ results of 21st-century voting -Brexit and Trump #1- ripped away the comforting illusion that democracy works, because the truth is that neither Brexit nor Trump was permitted to proceed.
Eight years after the so-called ‘people’s referendum’, Britain remains clenched in the ideological claws of the EuropeanUnion. The ongoing, unstoppable EU Human Rights farce that Brexit was supposed to destroy has delivered another 1500 illegal gatecrashers onto our rapidly shrinking island since Christmas day (Wednesday). The British global elite continue to mock us with undisguised contempt.
Eight years after Trump was elected to Build the Wall untold millions more have stormed across the southern border of the USA. Neither country has seen any meaningful attempt at the mass deportations which alone can save our western culture from descent into a multi-culti mud-fight between starving paupers.
Voting, in other words, changes nothing by itself. The elite response to the Brexit/Trump double whammy was Covidian terror, a proxy war on Russia, the re-launch of the middle-eastern mass-murder programs, a migrant tsunami and the remorseless promotion of sexual deviance to school children that is openly pedophilic. All of it aimed at destroying the stability of nuclear families that built the societies of the civilised world.
And yet the people vote and vote again, clinging to the myth of the strong leader who will do the hard work for the many, if we just get it right next time. It may be that the true purpose of voting is simply to demonstrate what we don’t want, as opposed to initiating what we desire. Because it will never be enough -and never was enough- to place our dreams in a box, cross our fingers and hope. The struggle for a decent, sane society never stops because evil and cruelty never sleep.
This isn’t politics any more; it hasn’t felt like politics for a long time. This is some form of existential war. I no longer see a struggle between right and left, but a fight between right and wrong. That fight has always been -and always will be- to the death. It doesn’t end in the grave any more than it begins in the cradle; this fight is bigger and older than anyone or any party could ever be.
If we want votes to have meaning, we must vote with our tongues as well, and speak out whenever we hear lies in the mouths of our leaders, neighbours, families and friends. We have to vote with our feet when commanded to deny reality, and reject the coarse immoralities dictated by television and celebrity culture. Above all we must halt the sick abuse of children’s minds by the monstrous obscenity of the kiddie-fiddler gender-cult. In person, each one of us. Donald Trump won’t be there to hold your hand in the schoolroom, the office, the supermarket or the bar. Nigel Farage won’t be there to tell your grand-daughter there are only two sexes and that Africans didn’t build London. Elon Musk isn’t going to halt the trillion-dollar climate-change hoax in his spare time between moonshots. Loud voices of sanity at the top table are bliss to hear, but our voices are the ones that count.
We will, as always, be insulted, mocked and derided, but who cares? It’s in the nature of the beast that it howls and fumes when backed into a corner. The morality tide is turning and the last Covidians can sense it too. They will be shrieking their pain on January 20th and for years afterwards. Let them rage and foam; we’re bigger than that. Possessed by the Covidian spirit of compliance and submission they chose cowardice over compassion; they chose their own damnation.
If we can all just find the courage not to shut up because it’s easier than speaking out, we can recover the territory we enjoyed in the pre-covid societies. That lost world where the truth was something we were proud to speak, and willing to defend with our lives. A culture of wit that smiled but stood its ground, that did not bend any rules or knees to perversion in the holy name of tolerance. So let’s call out the skulking ghosts of Covidia wherever and whenever we see or hear them. They are alive and walking among us: the cheap, the sheep, the meek and the malicious. We know who they are, what they did and would do again if allowed. We have no reason to fear these loveless bottom-feeders. Instigators and collaborators alike, lets recruit them to the ranks of sanity or shove them back to the margins where they can wither in peace. Let’s make 2025 the year when we drive them out of power, once and for all.
Ian Andrew-Patrick
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