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Post-Post Brexit:

Life in Peacetime

Presidents’ Month 2020


About 6 years ago, I chanced to engage in learning some real-life news in sad-sad-England. My knowledge was gained during the next two years through a series of very friendly and heart-felt business transactions with a leather artisan who lives in the Midlands. She was going through a rough patch, and had been doing so for the previous 7 years. No, it was 10 years. Actually, the rough patch was never-ending.


Tales of horror about the NHS and the obscene bungling of the hospital care of a parent who unexpectedly died just before release from the hospital; nervous worries about a rather humble Christmas gift that I had sent to her being too expensive and she feared having to pay Customs; EU appliance wattage regulations; a rampant inability to find real work; an ever-increasing dearth of decent clothing and shoes to purchase; a profound hostility to Internet technology that I could feel through the ether-sphere; and a general sense of dread about the future, interspersed with the dry British humor about life.


Brexit and the election of Donald Trump occurred not long after I chose to bid goodbye to someone who was in so much mental and emotional anguish that my increasing happiness in my own life became yet another unintentional wound to a person in an almost chronic state of grief.

Life in peacetime England post-post Brexit in many ways emotionally approximates life in post-World-War-Two England, without the rubble and the ruination of most cities and towns. Jubilation over the freedom of this island nation from the blob bureaucracy that sucks away freedom and money as if there is no tomorrow (because there is not much of a tomorrow for the EU) — that euphoria must be tempered with the somber acceptance of 7 decades of socialism rotting away a country that never fully embraced capitalism as a means to individual freedom. In a rather macabre sense, post-Brexit England finds itself confronted with chronic shortages that the fix of post-WWII socialism was intended to fix. Socialism doesn’t fix anything, but don’t tell a socialist that reality. He, or she, might get violent!


Group-think is too strong a term for how the Brits have done business, but the small-business model has been somewhat lacking in terms of starting-from-nothing to building a brand based on market demand. In America, Ralph Lauren did it. In England, there is no Ralph Lauren, the man, or Sir Ralphie, as I call him.

Entrepreneurship is a rare find among the English. The Irish have a natural knack at selling, but they are genetically superstitious about money and land, so there you go! The Scots, well, they ought to know better, having produced Adam Smith; but a Scots is so typically cheap, that he squeaks. The EU regulatory-resentment scheme was therefore tailor-made for the Scots temperament!


The shop-keeper/artisan was rarely valued in merry olde England. Charles Dickens used Scrooge, and all of those ghosts, to at least encourage a sense of conscience toward the virtue of money, used wisely and with mercy. In the 19th century, corporate success was not yet the ogre eating away at the soul of England. Nowadays, the big corporate heads flash a lot of cash, in other tax-sheltered countries!


There has always been a struggle, a tug-of-quid, over the goodness inherent in building great wealth in Great Britain. Acquiring wealth has usually been the norm, down the centuries, through inheritance. The more recent transfer of wealth has been achieved through being bought off by the Globalists, be it in Parliament or through succumbing to peddling Chinesium, or exiting a Royal Family with a hefty nest-egg and a golden parachute into a Dominion.

The class-system that has long been the basic structure of English society is not to blame for the lack of fluidity in finances among the populace. England in the early 1900s was a thriving nation, perhaps due in part to Imperial colonialism, but at least the spirit of individual enterprise was not under assault. That war on money would occur with the shift of the Labour Party from the trade-union labourers to the “social-conscience” parasitic overseers of the workers, and then, ultimately, to the Woke Weirdos, feasting off of the cadavers of the labor union heroes of yesteryear, such as Keir Hardie. The oppressed eventually become the oppressor, and we need not look at the wizened, bitter and pompous face of Jeremy Corbyn to see which side of the equation he squats on.


The other day I was reading a blog written by a former fashion model who lives in rural Southwest England. Such leisure activity is part of what I do in between my brain-intensive periods of work. Decades ago, I used to buy The National Inquirer and read it from cover to cover to veg-out my weary brain. Currently, the entire “media” is the Inquirer, but boringly without the frivolous fun!

One of the more fascinating posts, put up that very day, detailed her hell in procuring Internet speed and performance in her rural hamlet in England. Cost is a punitive factor, as is an utter lack of options. I read the entire lengthy post with wide-eyed interest because I have only just recently procured my own high-speed Internet in my rural location after nearly two years of Hot-spot Hell.


(For further information on this exercise in frustration, please see: My Hotspot, and for a happy ending, please refer to the January 2020 post contained in How I Work.)


This intelligent and savvy woman wrote in all seriousness, albeit it with extremely comical similes, about her energetic quest to locate a high-speed Internet provider. Below are some of the more astounding aspects of her search, which remains ongoing. Please bear in mind that this Englishwoman speaks of the 4G network. The current crisis in British tele-coms concerns 6G. Whatever happened to 5G??!


The residents of this hamlet had been promised FTTP — Fibre To The Premises. I actually laughed out loud at this phrase. I mean, Womb To The Tomb Coverage is more realistic! To keep the hamlet-ers on the line, the Internet line, the hucksters insisted they were at 99%, ALMOST THERE, to launch the project of connecting subscribers. Just one more household and we’re there! Only less than 1 household to go!

Maybe the dog could sign up!


The blogger was reduced to using the basic Hotspot method that I was forced to use for almost 2 years. Your computer is basically tethered to a mobile device. After one month of high-speed Internet connection, I still find myself reaching to charge my phone for whatever precious minutes are left to me. Some habits are harder to break than others!


For me, the obvious lack of advertising smarts in England is almost as bad as the lack of technology!


Prior to perusing this website, I had spent a sunny afternoon completing the translation of Chapter 49 of THE DAWN into L’AUBE. I’d taken the previous day off and had to go back to translation work to take a break from life-work: laundry, cooking, yoga, and research! In an attempt to find relaxing reading, I “visited” this former model’s website. It revealed to me the humongous effort, time, and energy that she routinely expends in trying to live life in an England that has fallen very far behind the United States in (ha!) connection with communications technology.


It’s even worse in France.

Oppression of the Internet by l’État is nothing compared to the ill-will of the French government toward the actual purveyors of online businesses!  The mail rates in France doubled just before Christmas 2014, causing those waiting in line at La Poste to nearly “fall out of their shoes.”  The ever-increasing animosity of my dear friend toward La Poste was caused by the ever-increasing postal rates imposed by the State of France on any anyone shipping — or mailing — anything, anytime, anywhere — out of France, or in it.

Many of my purchases from the online shop of my dear friend in southwestern France arrived in California via Book Rate, often with certain items “tucked” into the goods.  We shared a rebel stance, and still do, twixt Heaven and Earth.

Just prior to the November 2015 terrorist attacks in Paris, I’d been conversing through email with a Frenchwoman living in the north of France, not far from the escape route of the terrorists. This woman had purchased my e-books, downloading them through an arduous and complicated process for online data in France. It took her almost three days to complete the download. She’d been profoundly moved by the first chapter of THE GHOST. Her computer files, however, during the French government’s frantic search for the terrorists, were completely wiped out. Along with all of her online business information, poof went the downloaded fiction by Debra Milligan. And she wasn’t the only one whose data were zapped.


“Not sure what’s up with that,” she wrote to me.


I had a pretty good idea.


Really, there is so much going on in these countries of the Euro-ized Western Europe that the citizenry there do not even dare to suspect: it is almost painful at times for me to form a critical opinion of their betrayal by their own politicians. Something dastardly is always afoot in the midst of the exhausted ignorance of citizens who are just trying to make a living and stay safe.

While the over-40 group in France believes in government of some sort, they have not yet arrived at defining that precise type of charlatan. The under-30 citoyens, however, lack any belief in government, of any kind. They are not nihilists, but when I was informed that the son of an over-40 mother in France thought that the Charlie Hebdo attacks were an inside job, I found the opinion credible.


“You wouldn’t believe . . .” started the shocked statement. I believed.


Further clarification of the Youth Opinion was that the inside job was inside the Hollande government. Not to get too conspiratorial here, but I can with confidence say that the prevailing theory among the under-employed-20-somethings was that the Hollande government knew the terrorist attacks were inevitable, but did nothing to prevent them, as a way to teach the free-speech radicals a lesson. And the Macron government is even worse.


This fear-filled mother, a Dutch woman who had lived in southwestern France for almost 30 years, had just walked by the Charlie Hebdo offices a few days before the terror attack there. She’d had to journey to Paris to renew her passport in early January (2015). “One passport office in all of France,” she stated: “In Paris.”


You see, the legal citizens, as well as green-card holders, are harassed by the governments in France and the UK, while the illegals roam at will, at random, and at large. It’s no wonder these fonctionnaires haven’t a clue how many of the barbarians there are! And this dear friend of mine had been a fan of the EU: “It’s great. No borders. We can go wherever we want.”

“So can the terrorists,” I opined.


Such statements are not easy for me to make, almost flippantly, to people who cannot face the appalling truths about what has gone on, behind their naïvely trusting backs. It is precisely because such truths are difficult to state that I state them.


Eastern Europe, however, experiences virtually no terrorist attacks and, quite connectedly, no problems with attaining high-speed-Internet. Lithuania, Romania (including Bucharest, or Little Paris), Bulgaria, and the Czech Republic all boast of ginormously higher-speed Internets than do rural England and most of France. Iceland, Norway, Sweden and Finland, perhaps due to a lack of trees and an arctic atmosphere that has beckoned digital testing, also enjoy the rapid rate of truly modern communications. Life, however, outside of the house in Scandinavia has become a bit more perilous at an ever-increasing rate of immigrant importation.

The latest news from the UK regarding the National gone to Hell (Health) Service is the training of nurses as surgeons! The very last thing any nurse anywhere ought to be handed is a scalpel. Historically, there has thrived a love-hate relationship between doctors and nurses. One too many a nurse wants to either supplant the doctor, or seduce him, or both!


Yes sirree, handing the knife to a know-it-all nurse is one sure-fire way to SHORTEN WAIT TIMES — by shortening life times! Socialized medicine is the ultimate path to decreasing the surplus, or the surface population of any nation. The writing of post-surgical scrip by non-doctors logically follows as the next atrocity against physicians. Surgeon-shortage anyone?

There’s a lot of catching up that Great Britain and Western Europe have to do in order to compete with the European nations they still hold in derision as un-civilized and backward. One huge wave of the future is broadband. I hope the Brits get to ride it. Their mere quest to achieve a high-speed Internet may, in fact, be more rewarding, with regard to liberty, than their realization of that path. The French citadins will also ride that wave, one day, but I do believe the rural Anglo-Saxons and the provincial French now lead the way toward the liberation of the power of the individual.


I wrote a book on it!