Books for Everyone!

17 May 2022

Not Enough Nooses

The one-issue election is a scenario for which the typical political party lusts, provided that the one issue is their issue. The can of worms known as Brexit prompted a one-issue election in the United Kingdom in 2019 — to finally get done the elected will of The People.

The winner of that election turned out to be a liar — about all of the other “issues” on the political plate; and he nearly botched the finalization of Brexit. He also quite vulgarly betrayed Northern Ireland. He was with the DUP until he wasn’t with them. That tacky tactic is his personal credo, inasmuch as an amoral person can possess any core belief.

It’s entirely possible that Bojo is the Trojan Horse of the UK, except finding a horse large enough to conceal the girth and ego of this Prime Minister may have posed too huge a challenge to the highly-paid, image-maker Achaeans of modernity.

Still, the fix was in, or, as the Brits say, it was a stitch-up.

What now?

The economies of every country in the United Kingdom of Great Britain are in a catastrophic shambles. The commoners, who are so mockingly overseen by the Ruling Class (and I highly doubt the citizenry is seen much, if at all, until Campaign Season arrives), they are paying the price, in immeasurable costs, for the lunatic lockdowns mandated by the Tory Party and, subsequently, lucratively supported by all of those other official blood-sucking parties. Another stitch-up.

How do the peoples of the United Kingdom rally to the cause of living this one out?

There inexorably persists the lethargic and corrosive condition of politicians who do not represent the People, but who slavishly serve the moneyed international interests. Those globalists feed the big, thick wallets of the Government-men and women who obscenely claim to understand the Working Men and the Working Women. And, oh, The Children.

There also exists, almost in perpetuity, the chronic problem of Northern Ireland. The Irish Catholics (a breed apart from the Roman Catholics, and even more from the French Catholics), those adherents to a doctrinal faith apparently no longer wish to kill the Protestants because of that doctrinal faith.

The bad Orangemen are no longer Orange-Man Bad!

My observation and study of the English rulers, in terms of historically dealing with any real estate, is that the landowners are in for a hellacious time. Ulster Plantation is where the bloody mess all began, with King James I, starting round about 1607. Conflict, rebellion, and The Troubles ensued, but all rebellious eras do come to an end.

I am grateful to my Northern Irish, Scots-Ulster forebears for many of my artistic gifts, including my unyielding spirit of rebellion. It’s what makes me so American!

The Northern Irish of today might not be as dyed-in-the-wool religious as were previous generations; and they’ve been accused of becoming secular. I trust they’ve discovered the sanctity of spirituality, an intimate communion with their Maker that mystically transpires outside of a church. That fortitude of the true faith of their fathers, and the strength of a soul yearning for liberty and for law, based upon the natural rights of man, as derived from God — those magnificent forces comprise the powder keg of revolution.

Not a violent coup d’état, but a living, breathing revolution against anarchy and the annihilation of a civil society by the elected legislators of that land.

There could be an Irish Referendum, which would set the Scots off to demand another referendum. And then both Kingdoms would be happily off to the sovereignty races.

That necessary eventuality, however, most likely cannot take place while Queen Elizabeth still reigns.

Many crucial eventualities cannot even begin to occur while the 96-year-old monarch still draws breath upon this earth. The monumental consequence of the ascension of her son, Charles, to that long-awaited throne is an historic moment up for Vegas odds. It’s become obvious to me that for every long overdue action that must be taken in the United Kingtom, there’s a situational and structural reason for it not to be taken.

They’ve got too many nooses and not enough heads!

The Parliament of Whores used to include the House of Lords, a body that became neutered during the insanely popular reign of Boomer Tony Blair, Lord of the Globalist Slush-Fund Rings. Three times this grinningly sly and mercenary guy got swept into 10 Downing Street. The first time in a landslide of immense proportions.

The MPs of the UK established their own Uniparty during those years. Very few citizens seemed to have noticed this parliamentary purloining of the people’s rights, monies, jobs, livelihoods, industries, freedoms.

There’s just the House of Commons now, and the members are common, quite common. To paraphrase a delicious line of dialogue from Gigi, the classic Hollywood film of 1958:

They’re ordinary common and coarse common.

Here in the States, the sleight-of-hand but systematic formation of the Uniparty was sensed and smelled and suspected during the past few decades, but no well-known public figure adequately enunciated with exactitude the dirty deed, along with its whyfors and wherefores and how-fores. And, then, like a miracle from Heaven, the hoggish existence of the Uniparty was smashingly defined during the blessed year of our Lord, 2016.

For the patriots, there’s certainly been hell to pay for that spoken truth!

The history of America changed course that year. The history of the UK was also believed to have altered course during that same year with the victory of the Brexit referendum. The vile smug face of Theresa May serves as a reminder not to trust a vicar’s daughter!

The citizens of the United Kingdom of Great Britain appear to be in a perpetual state of political naiveté that is pre-virginal. The likelihood of the initiation of electoral reality, and the final act of consummation of the hard truth, gets kicked down the road at regular intervals. Perhaps the wistful holding-fast to a monarchy that no longer serves a practical purpose has blinded the peoples of a once-formidable empire to the PR royalty-fantasy that their politicians have cynically and cruelly used against them.

The reverence, loyalty, and passionate regard for the British monarchy are admirable emotions and attitudes. The sad truth is that the role of the Royal Family, as it stands today, is a vanishing actuality in a world that no longer exists, and has not existed since the end of World War II.

The splendid history of one’s homeland must be alive, every day, and not a dingy matter, relegated, and recorded in dusty journals of lost time.

Ceremony, tradition, history, continuity of rituals — they all have their superb place in a nation of stalwart individuals who yearn to be fully free to practice, or practise, those rich cultural customs in an every-day routine. It must feel self-defeating, watching the aristocracy perform in public the most basic of undertakings and functions, while the commoners are dictated to by the profane political class. Fealty to the Crown has been manipulatively used against the people by the charlatans in Parliament, in much the same way that patriotism and duty to a sitting President got exploited by the traitors of the U.S. Government.

The UK needs its own form of FJB.

The truest crisis of the here and now is the suffocation of everyday life for the peasants by Parliament. The COVID-fraud brought the noose tighter around the necks of the populace. That noose, however, has been in place, though not overtly in force, for decades, particularly in England.

I am touched, at times, by the profound love that the British hold for their Queen; she is richly deserving of that fidelity of allegiance from the citizens of the United Kingdom of Great Britain. She has been the moral authority amidst decades of immoral pretenders to governance. The Parliament of Whores has been using, and continues to utilize that scepter of morality, and the manifest loyalty to her, as a means of protecting their own ill-gotten gains and payola-spoils.

The dastardly foxes have been guarding the public henhouse until there are no more living fowl, just foul deeds. The perfidy runs deep. The first obligation that any citizen has to himself, and to his nation, is to face that awful truth. The second duty then is to resolve to overcome that treachery, without permitting your blood, sweat, tears, and fears to overwhelm your resolve for action.

If Winston Churchill could bulldog his way through many dark nights of his own soul, and domineer the brutish aspects of a very willful self toward combatting the threatened destruction of his beloved Empire, then the current crop of Brits can bravely plow their furrow into tomorrow. I understand that, presently, your blood is either boiling or it’s clotting, but the bloody moment calls for moving forward, whilst never forgetting. Both steps can, and must, be taken at once.

Command your blood, that vital fluid, to flow steadily and surely, with at least a semblance of serenity, to the source of the solution. That ultimate answer resides within you; indeed, all the answers to your own questions lay within you:

You, and you alone, are the repository of your will. You own the heart that must answer to its desires, to its dreams, to its demons. The Lord cannot, and will not, lead an unwilling soul to her own paradise, on earth or elsewhere.

Yesterday, I read, twice, an online article by a person who deems himself a writer, a professional author. The misplaced modifiers and sloppy sentence structure convinced me otherwise; but I plowed through the nasty verbiage anyway. The “article” was a lengthy diatribe toward life, blaming the Thatcher government for causing the drug addictions that ran rampant through his hole-in-the-wall village, a mining town that died.

My disgusted response to this mantra of self-pity was:

Why did you not get off your butt and go somewhere to where the Jobs are! Were you umbilically tied to the lamppost?

The life philosophy of “I’m gonna rot in one spot and make you pay for it” is not the path to independence, self-sufficiency, autonomy, maturity, or sanity.

Fundamentally and furiously, I have enormous difficulty with any person who froths at the mouth — years later — about the personal problems that he very well knew were there, during his adolescence, but then he chose to coast through drugs and alcohol and parties and high times, while countless other blokes and babes were working two, three jobs to scrape enough together to survive.

Why is the spotlight never shown on the survivors of the ungodly messes made by the prostitutes of Government? Why does the reading public not have a chance to partake of the uplifting, inspirational tales of the anonymous no-bodies who made somebodies of themselves during the worst of times?


Because the ghastly greedy globalist media are in charge of the electron flow of sucker-sob stories and point-the-finger philippics and infantile insults to the rest of us.

Let’s pour more poison down the poisoned-pen well!

Despicably ignored are the Adults, the hearty and hardy individuals who truly are in charge, in the moronic midst of this crumbling of the corruption at the top, and at the bottom, of a presumably Civilized Society.

There’s a vast middle, hordes and hordes of hundreds of millions of people, awaiting their rewards here, upon this Fruited Plain. They’re not the silent majority anymore. They’ve been vilified by their own Governments, attacked financially, morally, and physically. They’re not putting up anymore with the putrid perfidy and the barbarous devastation of their nation.

The dispirited and depressed in John Bull must look across the pond at the sons and daughters of liberty. They can gain some pluck along with enriching insights into how freedoms are wrested away from the tyrants who stole them. It doesn’t matter if the tyrants are dinosaur-parasites upon the Body Politic, or newbie panty-waisted cowards, or big fat double-crosser troughers.

I’ve been told that Tony Blair got rid of the death penalty for treason, and I think I know why!

We Rebels in the States who refused to bow to the fear of COVID-death have learned the language of “treason”. We’re speaking it fluently!

The parlez-ing arises at school board meetings and at county supervisor confabs. The gab is going on mouth-to-mouth and house-to-house, all behind Their Backs. Not fitting into Society is the latest Thing to Be In!

Revolutions begin at the bottom and work their way upward. The foundation of patriotism is still there, in your ancient grand countries, stabilizing them, saving them from further ruination. The elected poltroons cannot turn to rubble the rights that you can, and will, defend to the death. Death is what the imposters in Parliament fear the most. Money cannot buy them out of their fates; they’ve fully earned them.

Hard times are ahead, but hard times have been here; they’ll always be with us. Such struggles and privations have made men out of boys, women out of girls, and louder whiners out of losers. There are straightaway, in the making, future heroes and heroines. Those conquering champions are the victors of tomorrow to defend and protect the rights of men and women. They are the winners of life, and they count, in so very many unexpected manners and means.

The winners of life are also counting far too many moaner-mouths and not enough gags for shutting them up!