`But why then publish?` Granville the polite,
And knowing Walsh, would tell me I could write;
Well-natur’d Garth inflamed with early praise,
And Congreve lov’d, and Swift endur’d my lays;
The courtly Talbot, Somers, Sheffield read,
Ev’n mitred Rochester would nod the head,
And St. John’s self (great Dryden’s friends before)
With open arms receiv’d one poet more.
I remember opening Peter Hitchens’ The Abolition of Britain six years ago. I’d already abandoned the semi-theological platitudes of New Atheism and my mind was like a repossessed house, the bailiffs having carted off the furnishings and changed the locks on their way out. If anything, I doubt that anyone changes their minds based on reading alone. Most changes of mind are preceded by long periods of emotional tumult, often unperceived, in which eddies, tides and currents flow into different channels. Rivers silt up and dry beds rage with torrents and only when the process is finished do we see how the landscape lies.
Nevertheless, Peter Hitchens was an epiphany. I’d always wondered why school had to be so unpleasant. Why were the teachers so dreadful? Why were English teachers semi-literate and hazy about grammar? Why was discipline more or less absent? This wasn’t an unpleasant school. The overwhelming majority of the pupils were white and middle-class, children of the semi-rural and dormitory settlements of Leicestershire. Why was drug use more or less openly accepted? Why were the qualifications so obviously debased? Why were teachers loath to exercise any authority?
I more or less came to the conclusion that the entire system had collapsed, not that anyone seemed to have noticed. Teachers exercised authority on an ad-hoc basis, on a personal level and through force of personality. Those above 50 tended to be more than competent. Teachers in their twenties were more or less as clueless as we were. Most children can smell out weakness like a rat sniffing at a block of Stilton and as a naturally sadistic and cruel person, I was dreadful to some of them.
In any sane society, I would have been caned or forced to stand outside in the rain or have been at the mercy of some Mr Creakle-esque maniac telling me that he was a Tartar. I might even have enjoyed it, in a perverse storing-up-the-anecdotes-for-a-sackclock-and-ashes-memoir kind of way. But nothing really happened and nothing happened to the idiots, fools and morons who delayed and wasted my education. Most primary school teachers can see which 8 year old will end up as Justin Cantuar, or which bouncing boy will turn out to be a rapist and a thief. By 14, most of us are well on the road to perdition, and by 16 and 18 we are struggling like butterflies from the wreckage of our pubescent chrysalises.
It was clear to me that most people ought to stop education at 14 and go into vocational training. Beyond rote-memorisation of poems, decent arithmetic and numeracy, I doubt whether many people can learn much between 10 and 18. But having decided to no longer educate them, the state thought that their presence was still necessary. School had become a sort of mixture between day-care and a warehouse and it was very boring to have to mix with people who should never have been there. An anti-intellectual attitude was pervasive and I more or less gave up.
I flunked my GCSEs and didn’t gave a toss about my A Levels. That’s my fault. I am a very lazy person and whatever failures I have committed are mine alone. I went to a strange university and spent a tolerably happy 3 years reading promiscuously in the library and enjoying the countryside. I found Carlyle, who lead me to Jonathan Bowden, who lead me to Richard Spencer. I found VDARE independently, I stumbled across AmRen by mistake. More websites and people popped up until I had a sort of dot-to-dot puzzle that had been filled in. After a while, I had more or less cobbled together something approximating my present position. This was about 4 years ago.
I became a NEET and then found work. Some of it was banal, some of it illuminating. I spent a stint working at a nursing home and saw what dementia and insanity is like: hilarious and tragic. I moved abroad for a long time, enjoyed myself and realised that emigration isn’t a cure for unhappiness, as Horace told Bullatius. I returned to England and found myself at square one and wondering how to proceed with life. And that’s more or less where I am now.
So why then write? I don’t know. I’ve never written a blog before. I’ve never written a consistent diary before. I’ve never actually written very much before. Lots of people start writing in their teens, probably as a result of puberty – I never did. I never went through a teenage rebellion stage. I’ve always felt detached from most things, in a sort of semi-humorous and ironical way. The essence of youth is un-selfconsciousness. Not about appearance or anything like that, but about death, ageing, love, children, the course of life, dementia, grief, heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to. People encounter all of these on their journey through life, but never know that they exist or see them coming.
I’ve always known that these were on the way. It’s a bit like being marooned on a high craggy rock, watching everybody stretched out on the plains beneath, struggling through bogs and broken ground, some of them magnificently ploughing their way onwards with no help at all and others desperately clinging to their compasses and out of date OS maps as they gingerly move forwards.
There’s a wonderful passage in Houellebecq’s The Elementary Particles where Michel sees his girlfriend wander off with another boy at a dance. He isn’t bothered by this, he feels nothing whatsoever. He isn’t some sort of incipient cuckold, or a weakling. He just feels nothing:
`He had a sudden premonition that all his life would be like this moment. Emotion would pass him by, sometimes very close. Others would experience happiness and despair, but such things would be unknown to him, they would not touch him. Several times that evening Annabelle had looked over at him while she danced. Though he had wanted to, he simply could not move; he felt as though his body were slipping into icy water. Still, everything seemed strangely calm. He felt separated from the world by a vacuum moulded to his body like a shell, a protective armour.`
I don’t feel like that all of the time, nor do I think Houellebecq does, but it is the best description of how I often feel towards life. I’m quite cheerful in person and very sociable with those I know, but otherwise I retreat into uncontradicting solitude and the grotto of my hermit-like mind. People often complain about travelling alone, about how they need a friend in order to appreciate the scenery, or someone to talk to in order to tell them how beautiful something is. I’ve never had an aesthetic experience that was improved by someone else, or seen how talk could improve glaciers hanging like ridged sapphires over silent ravines. A problem shared is a problem halved is nonsense.
So, having told you how silent, hermit-like and unsociable I am, why write? Firstly, because our race is in danger. Leicester is one of the most diverse cities in Britain, with over half of the population being non-white. It functions very well, mostly because everybody segregates themselves racially and partly because the large Indian minority is well-off. Other cities like Birmingham with different racial compositions have fared much more poorly. But the city is a reflection of how the country will be in fifty years: not so much nasty, solitary, brutish and short but nepotistic, segregated, corrupt and parochial. Ethnically divided societies spend so much time negotiating with one another that they have little time for anything else. A majority non-white England will never put the St George’s Cross on Mars, or create another Newton or Shakespeare. It’ll be too busy engaging in petty thievery on a community level, handing out Gurdwara-improvement grants or parish council sponsored Morris-dancing as an harmless and symbolic representation of our identity.
I don’t fear a race war. I’m unmoved by the Day of the Rope. None of this is likely to happen and collapse is a process of decades and centuries and is already underway. What we have to fear is the slow slide into permanent minority status. Once we have internalised the fact that we are a minority, we will behave like every other aggrieved ethnic group. Explicit race-war is fought with barbed-wire camps, machete-massacres and sudden eruptions of violence. Implicit race-war is Malaysia, with quota systems for the Chinese. Implicit race-war is Ulster, with two groups incapable of gaining supremacy and locked into fighting for small advantages; doling out money to flute-bands on one side and farcical Irish signs on the other.
Unless we find a way to wake up our people over the next 25 years, we will have lost. Nobody should harbour any doubts that this will be easy. Too many people seem convinced that our people will `wake-up`, but a cursory examination of South Africa will reveal that whites under an explicit threat of genocide are quite capable of behaving like rabbits hypnotised by a dancing stoat. Nor should we underestimate people’s capacity for self-deception. Not every Pakistani is a gang-rapist and it is very difficult to convince people that Mr Khan at the corner-shop is a direct threat to our way of life. This is even more the case with inoffensive minorities like the Chinese. Even if people have an instinctive understanding that something must be done, they will shy away from it. The most ludicrous aspect of Nick Griffin’s performance on the 2009 Question Time episode was his unwillingness to tell a black woman that she would have to be deported. He was a coward, but it is easy to understand why.
In the mean-time, we just have to keep scribbling and hoping that we can win. Every article is a seed thrown into the air, or a message-in-a-bottle chucked into the sea. Very few people will read this, but some will and if I convince one person to join our movement, then everything will have been worth it. I am 24 now and unless we win, we will all be strangers in a strange land, and I want to spend my retirement sipping martinis and doing the Times Crossword Puzzle. Please keep reading and if you like what I write, please comment.
It is not to be thought of that the Flood
Of British freedom, which, to the open sea
Of the world’s praise, from dark antiquity
Hath flowed, “with pomp of waters, unwithstood,”
Roused though it be full often to a mood
Which spurns the check of salutary bands,
That this most famous Stream in bogs and sands
Should perish; and to evil and to good
Be lost for ever. In our halls is hung
Armoury of the invincible Knights of old:
We must be free or die, who speak the tongue
That Shakespeare spake; the faith and morals hold
Which Milton held.In every thing we are sprung
Of Earth’s first blood, have titles manifold.