I Shut the Laptop, Walked Into the Woods and This Happened...

This is no ordinary English town. Some of the richest folk on earth buy homes here; I recognised several this week. You see hundreds of wage-slaves too, mostly very small, lightweight types. I breakfast at seven with online news and email bingo, then shut the laptop and walk the dogs that are my reason for being here. The house is a cyborg: half thatched-roof cottage and half Starship Enterprise. A vast country estate is yards away, near the stud farm where retired racehorses live in luxury. Next door is a Count Dracula-scale mansion owned by a gangster from the middle east. Yesterday as we passed his iron gates a wild hare leaped from the shrubbery, giant ears erect, and roared off like a rocket. The dogs went skittering after him but he spun them in circles until suddenly a magnificent roe deer sprang from the trees, bounding towards the north. The hare went left, the deer went right -taking a dog each- and in 20 seconds all four of them vanished. I laughed and sat down on the ground to wait.

Time is not motion. We may be beggars or billionaires but our lives are all ticking away at the same speed. The average British adult spends four hours twenty minutes online each day -on their bum, sitting still. With a bloodthirsty dog in pursuit an adult British hare can hit 45 mph within four seconds -believe me. Watching that very spectacle, I was catapulted into an experience as old as England and as pure as a crystal stream. Not that I would dare drink from a stream in this country, given the amount of chemical fizz farmers are ordered to stuff into their animals and crops by the control-freaks hell-bent on stealing their land.

Civil war, we hear, is coming to our land whether we like it or not, which is how most things come to Britain nowadays. Professor David Betz of Kings College, London -the poster-boy for this fashionable theory- believes it will be a town vs country conflict, with a spicy ethnic edge to the hostilities. [SEE HIM HERE] I can’t argue, having submitted to my own survival instinct and fled the city of London 25 years ago. Fields, farms, animals and open sky have been my pleasures ever since. I would never again inhabit any city although I was briefly held hostage in one during the covid siege.

Back in the winter of 1999 I wasn’t consciously anticipating a civil war although I had been waging a turf one for several weeks. Home was a council estate in south-east London and diversity had come to enrich the flat directly above my own. Being a shopkeeper at the time I was working an average 100-hour week in a suicidal bid to feed the government’s vampiric tax-lust. The deafening Rap-Around-The-Clock antics of four idle african weed-hoovers turned out to be the last straw. Tired of juggling peanuts, paperwork and ear-plugs I felt London and my neighbours deserved each other and got the hell out.

My first refuge was a farm in Kent near the south coast. I spent that glorious summer of freedom in the year 2000 exploring the seaside towns, bars and beaches. These were peaceful, sleepy places and a blessed relief from the inner-city slums of London. Not even a raving lunatic would have suggested that a couple of thousand anonymous black guys in rubber boats could get away with invading that coastline -ever.

In 2025 that “impossible” invasion happens every week. Last Tuesday -April 15th- a total of 705 freeloaders arrived in 12 boats -the all-time record for a single day- and were “escorted” into Dover by helpful traitors employed by the British state. It is calculated that each man (they are 98% men) will cost the taxpayer upwards of £50,000 per year until they are “processed” and available for work -if ever. This week’s invasion total is 1,312. That’s over £65 MILLION stolen from taxpayers in a single week -taxpayers in a small, very nearly bankrupt nation where half the public are already living on the brink of poverty. And another £65 million will be added next week, and the week after that, and every week until…well, that civil war I suppose.

Easter Week April 2025

Newmarket -where I’ve spent the last three weeks- is the official headquarters of British horse-racing, a unique town that sprang up around the royal cavalry of King James the First over 400 years ago. He liked the area and had a palace built. Last week at the racecourse there were, as always, a few royals to be seen. Every spring and summer they drop in to watch their million-dollar horses race for -and often win- the glittering prizes. Top of the guest-list and every other list wherever he goes is Sheikh Mohammed bin Rashid Al Maktoum, Ruler of Dubai and President of the United Arab Emirates, also head honcho of a hundred other affairs and owner of pretty much anything he wants. He and his family are heavily invested in the area and his helicopter has been buzzing overhead on sunny racedays since the 1980’s when I first noticed him at the track. I won’t bore you with his astounding CV but will mention in passing that back in the day (pre 9/11) he used to travel into the desert to hang out with Osama Bin Laden, eat simple food, talk philosophy, ride horses and fly hawks and so on. (A snippet persistently overlooked by UK and US media).

Anyway, whenever I’m at Newmarket races (as often as possible but never enough) I can’t help reflecting on the mysterious power middle-eastern royalty seem to wield almost unnoticed. Sheikh Mohammed has colossal real estate holdings not just here in Britain but all over the planet. Nobody really knows how much or just where, but trying to find out is probably not compatible with keeping your kneecaps. In his trillionaire eyes, Britain is a small island where everything is for sale and dirt cheap. The idea that the huge mosques appearing in cities the length and breadth of the UK are not being quietly financed from places like Dubai and Qatar is utterly ridiculous, but nobody ever mentions it.

Equally absurd is the topsy-turvy way Islamic expansion is reported in our media. Every British election now sees more and more muslim MPs added to our parliament -25 at the last count- almost without comment. [SEE DETAILS HERE] Some are supposedly Labour, some Tory, but this is irrelevant; their true loyalty is always to Allah. Thus, we have a rapidly-growing muslim party in Westminster which is never, ever identified as such. Instead, this blatantly political phenomenon is always discussed as if the gradual islamification of our government is a consequence of Islamic mass-immigration, when it is, of course, the purpose. First you import the voters, then you can elect your chosen candidates.

I will return to this issue in future posts, but suffice to say we underestimate these new royal globetrotters at our peril. The Maktoum family alone owns an unknown quantity of British land, and controls an unmeasurable number of British politicians. The real invasion began long ago, very discreetly, and the colonisers came in Lear jets, not rubber dinghies.

THEY CAME BACK

It’s not every morning the beloved pets placed in your care vanish over the horizon but after 20 years of dogging you know it’s going to happen now and then. There are worse ways to pass the time than sat under the cloudless blue in golden fields and sunlight, not a breath of wind bending the corn. I had a little think and time passed. The bitch returned first, tongue dangling, ribs trembling from the unwinnable chase. The exhausted dog loped up a few minutes later, coat stippled with twigs, paws muddy; that spring-heeled deer must have led him a right old dance. We toddled home in the gathering heat. In the afternoon I went down to the racetrack and saw a colt named Indian Springs win the 1:50. His owner wasn’t there to collect the trophy and the winner’s cheque. But the race was only worth five grand and it’s fair to say Sheikh Mohammed has his eyes on much larger prizes.

Ian Andrew-Patrick