Late November 2021
Wrapping Things Up
About a week ago, I entered into one of my longer-term faux-news blackouts. Given the choice between enjoying my holidays this year, and not enjoying them, I chose the former.
It really was a snap decision. That decision’s been a snap to faithfully carry out, at least where domestic news is concerned. It did not deter me from digitally journeying across the Pond to see how the snap/crackle/pop of a much needed snap-election is progressing in the British Empire.
My, my, my. Things are looking dark and gloomy in John Bull, even according to the more accurate and upbeat websites that I periodically browse. Those screen-loads are dedicated to the proposition that their elected, and appointed, traitors are calculatedly and rampantly destroying the UK.
From my perspective, I do not observe the willful and wanton annihilation of those land masses and their resilient peoples as much as the collapsing of their ruling-elites, their choking cackling commentariat, and, most likely, behind the sordid scenes, the gasping of obscenities amongst the cash-spewing globalist cabals.
The loyal and patriotic Brits doing the furious keyboarding are having a composed and literary snit fit regarding the fact that their freedoms of speech have been abridged, along with their freedoms of movement.
Sighhhh.
It appears that many many British think they fought a bloody revolution to wrest a country and a Bill of Rights from a tyrannical king.
It’s long been my observation, and, thus, my opinion, that the egregious problems of England (and to a lesser extent, Ireland — both of them; Scotland, and Wales) descend from the wild ride through socialism that began during the post-World War II years. The citizenry went along with government-funded everything, quite willingly, and, I might add, very enthusiastically, particularly during the Blair years.
Over here, in the States, the sham that was (and is) the Clinton Global Slush-Fund Swindle was noted, remarked upon, and identified as part of a generational get-rich-quick scheme. The Boomer hippies never liked work; and they still don’t. The entire concept of earning a dollar, the old-fashioned way, by working for it and honestly earning it, escaped their greedy gluttonous grasp.
In the 1990s, We Americans had to contend with a Prez-Bubba who is, in reality, a dissipated boob with a criminal mind, by the name of William Jefferson Blythe Clinton. For twelve years (that’s three terms in office), starting during those 1990s, the British voters went for the likes of Anthony Charles Lynton Blair. Tony’s another narcissist who won’t shut up or leave the stage, thereby necessitating more and more and more plastic surgery-ing for a Possible Future Gig.
He was the first successful British version of the Globalist Politico-Pig. This one is straight out of Labour-Legend:
born in Scotland, a wee orphaned child, adopted by a barrister, went to All the Right Schools, and then was glibly hoisted up the greasy pole of politics, but remains snootily filled with the petulant sense of narcissistic entitlement that marks nearly all of the post-Cold War politicians.
The UniParty in the USA and the Village Blob in the UK made a killing off of swilling at the corporate till, whilst singing (slightly off-key) the praises of the working stiff and the farming hand. Concurrently, those blackguards sold out every single industry and job they ever lauded, claiming The Other Guy was doing them in.
It’s an ages-old ploy, and it was not even performed with much believability by those orator-frauds. But the acting world is not what it used to be either. Shakespeare said in As You Like It, “All the world’s a stage.” These venal clowns rewrote the line in their play, The World as We’d Like It to Be: “All the world’s about to end without green energy.”
The eco-fascism spawned in 1991 became all-out medical fascism last year, most of all in the UK. And the citizens are fit to be tied about being hog-tied to a warthog of a Prime Minister.
It is always darkest before the dawn; and the dawn is still a ways away for the British. They are in a furious state of denial, which is to say, paraphrasing the sage old Stumpy in the film classic, Rio Bravo:
“The brain’s just started to work again, and it sees what it done to itself. T’aint purty.”
I’ve read lengthy editorials and articles by well-meaning Brits who expect to exercise the type of free speech that we Americans enjoy, to greater and lesser extents, depending upon the business model in charge of the free-speech mechanism. It does not seem to occur to those in the Mother Country that the First Amendment of the U.S. Constitution is a direct, a very direct, and a revolutionary, rebellious result of a war that was fought to free Americans of the prior restraint exercised, cruelly, by King George III — and by any English monarch.
Perhaps the most fundamental human right guaranteed by the First Amendment is the freedom from prior restraint, a concept derived from English Common Law. American history is replete with violations of this liberty, and with subsequent lawsuits, not all of which ended with the triumph of free speech.
Presently, in the United States, the despicable, hypocritical, and unconstitutional bannings of the expression of IDEAS prior to their publication, and online posting, have unleashed a siege of revolt against the tyranny of censorship on the public airwaves and digital-space. That siege is long overdue. Lawsuits, fund-raising and political campaigns are currently and gloriously going to free-speech-town on these blatantly illegal acts of hubris by the corporate and governmental elites in this country.
This backlash arrives after several decades of the demise of publications in print that ceased to exist in any real, meaningful, and constitutional function. Not coincidentally, the concerted assault by the U.S. Justice Department upon printed journalism began during those nirvana-filled 1990s with retributive lawsuits against magazines and newspapers which mocked, criticized and otherwise printed factual information about Slick Willy and his lovely wife Bruno.
The American Spectator was made the rotten example of Rotterdam of 1940 to other printed periodicals in this nation.
In Great Britain, the free-speech legacy of an independently-minded newspaper or magazine is not even a quaint tradition. Fleet Street has had feet only for the Ruling Class. Of late, the incestuous nature of government and journalism has really exploded into full-blown criminal congress and inbreeding. It is entirely possible that the newer MPs and PMs of Great Britain shall have to come from the lorry-driver class, in the newest fine American tradition of truck driver Edward Durr of South Jersey (in the state of New Jersey).
Ever the gentleman, he offered to help his voted-out-victim-party-boss any way he could, since the crook is now a constituent — just like any other constituent!
You see, we Americans here in the land of the free and home of the brave — we are not unduly hampered and burdened by the restraining customs of civility, or even civilization! It’s a liberating tradition.
Perhaps the undeniable fact that the Members of Parliament have failed to even attempt to ensure the safety of their island, as well as the future of the highly vaunted civilization for which they currently claim credit, as the reason for their smugly elitist places on the world stage — perhaps those woeful facts ought to liberate a lot of Brits from any restraints from tossing the tossers out on their hoity-toity keesters.
Tis I, you vote for — or the blasted reviled Other Guy: is their endlessly taunting dare.
Sir Winston Churchill founded a new party to stand for election whenever necessary to claim his seat in the House of Commons. Surely, it is possible to Winston-it, when, at long last, it comes time to un-elect the pawns and frauds.
The right and proper time shall arrive to wrap things up for the grand old parties that no longer serve a purpose, and are no longer fit for purpose in the United Kingdom.
Wrapping things up is not gonna be quick or a neat-and-easy job for the Brits. They’ve been traumatized, insulted, impugned, and alienated by their own “leaders”. They’ve also been intentionally kept too busy working — trying to find work in a nation where the tacky and crass elites have robbed them of many industries, and, consequently, many jobs. As for a digital revolution, that one has yet to arrive on the shores of England. Scotland is decades ahead of the English in terms of IT, and that advancement has taken place, in my opinion, mostly because that efficiency model saves money, and time, and time is money.
Then there are the British Intellectuals who have roundly succeeded in being the death of just about all of them!
Those eggheads had merely been stuffed-shirt neurotics until the 1990s, when the imposition of PC-speech within academia further emboldened those enemies of original thought, free-thought, comedic thought, rational thought, basic thought, and, with all of it, sanity. By 2020, the institutional idiots and their pontificating sponsors, the BBC and most of Parliament, had a cow, which is not the same thing as being cowed (which we all know will never happen to the dolts in charge of running things in the UK).
The Ruling Class and Commentariat all had a cow because they were forced to bow to China, instead of to their usual payola moguls and despots. Being a covert-client-state has its downsides when the public must be informed of actual goings-on during the fomenting of a fraudulent pandemic.
We sympathize here in America with the oppressed citizens of the Sceptered Isle. A fraudulent presidency is wearing a bit thin, even amongst those rare individuals who actually cast real votes for the perverted puppet.
I suggest the non-over-educated Brits let the Intellectual Idiots continue to indulge in whatever delusional tosh they cling to as the world around them comes crumbling down. Keep your wits about you, with the keen understanding that you’ve got wits, and they’ve long ago lost theirs!
Here in the U.S., the Ivy League universities have followed the examples set by those ancient British institutions of higher learning by not permitting learning to progress beyond the level of juvenile and narcissistic thought.
Riding on centuries’ worth of reputation has begun to come to an end for the ivory towers. Those sites are black holes of intolerance and stupidity. The tragedy of how Big Ivy became Little Ivy, crying wolf — that tale of under-funded woe will be a certified best-seller next year. It will be published by University Press, and shall already be a New York Times bestseller, even before it’s available for Pre-Order at that “A” selling platform. The Slush-Fund Saga might even win a Pulitzer.
The author (and actual ghost-writer) are still being determined. Maybe Dr. Jill can pull it off!
The stupid pills get handed out upon enrollment into those propaganda-paper-mills. The elites who seem addicted to stupid pills are showing no restraint in their consumption of what got to be a freebie from Big Pharma, in the US and in the UK. Maybe the politicians, bureaucrats, and fonctionnaires have worked out some dosage-gifts-with-their-being purchased by the corporations we all know and despise.
Prior restraint is a form of discipline that gets a daily workout during these days and months and years of the world going broke while the banksters go for broke. Methinks, though, that the voting straw that broke their back will be back. One day, to wrap things up.
I try very hard, especially at this time of year, to impose my own prior restraint upon self. During my many years of being a single woman, I indulged that self in purchasing an item of daring luxury during late November. My Dear Children thus complained mightily that, by early December, I’d already bought for myself the sublime special gift they wanted to buy for me. The only choices they were left with were books and practical accessories, or, gah, a kitchen gizmo. Maybe a cardigan sweater, or a hand-made present.
Those gifts were the priceless ones, the ones that last forever, cause they’re given from the heart.
This mother knows what she’s doing.
In the independent tradition of Holiday Gift to Self, I made a startling realization last night. I’d meant to purchase a certain bottle of perfume during the winter of 2009, during my writing of THE DAWN. Somehow, I didn’t get around to it. In mid-October, of this year, I found the product, online, and on sale. I’d honestly thought I’d ordered it, but, last night, I determined that I hadn’t.
I am not a woman who buy things and then forgets she’s bought them. Obviously, I am one of those women (so hard to find!) who does not purchase an item but thinks she has!
I promptly placed an online order of La Parisienne perfume by Yves Saint Laurent. This eau de parfum is not really for Debra: it’s for the Camille in her!
I might wrap it up, though, in the wonderful wrapping paper that was made in the USA and was recently purchased from Home Depot — simply for the fun of opening the box on Christmas Day.
“Wrap Your Troubles in Dreams” is a line from a song of the same name, written by Harry Barris with lyrics by Ted Koehler and Billy Moll. The song was published in 1931.
And, in 1931, Bing Crosby with the Gus Arnheim Orchestra had a hit with it. I prefer the version sung by Dean Martin, released on his 1959 album, Sleep Warm. While no one can literally wrap their troubles in dreams, I avow that during the creation of THE DAWN, which occurred during those trying years of the Great Recession, I sang many sleepy lullabies for liberty in my mind, and in my heart.
Harder times are ahead for the lively
and valiant peoples in Great Britain. They’ve a
bloated laggard jellyfish as PM, with his unelected wife-narcissist running
amok over the Christian ways of life in a venerable land of culture, charm, and
magical lore.
Keep your distance from all that lays ahead as things go down the pan: When two narcissists collide, t’aint purty.
