Last Post from England

For some a “Trigger” Warning. For others, a Spoiler. If you don’t want to know or cannot accept what awaits your grandchildren in the next 19 years, read no further. Sometimes it is best not to know.

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Last Post from England

For some a “Trigger” Warning. For others, a Spoiler.

If you don’t want to know, or cannot accept, what awaits your grandchildren in the next 19 years, read no further. Sometimes, it might just save you. Sometimes it is best not to know.

Is it “1446”. Or 2025?

The British people, not Governments they haven’t voted for, or Judges who cannot judge- each person, must decide.

Welcome to EUrabia…

It Couldn’t Happen Here?

“The suicidal, post-war Western malaise. Enoch Powell, who had been commissioned to advise on Communal Riots in British India in WW2, told me his recommendations were diluted- then ignored. That disguised Mass Migrations would inevitably import the internecine tribal conflicts of the Punjab, Shia and Sunni and Balkans.

A little piece of “Afghanistan” and Bosnia is coming to every British market town and forgotten village off the A34. It will move in, Next door. To England’s “Green and Peasant Land” of shady golf courses and smoky bacon crisps and ALDI car parks.

My question is this- one you won’t hear on BBC Question Time. When The Collapse comes, as come it must, ask yourself, “Who are you going to call- when there is no one left to call?” …

2044- Somewhere in England.

“Who are you going to call?", laughed the Sudanese-Canadian, waving his Belgium EU passport under my nose.

He pulled the green head bandana tighter and grinned. Not sixteen. He showed me the date of birth inside. “2028”. I guessed right. He saw my hidden shock.

“Old men- 45”, he grinned again, wider. “Must be dead”… “Gone”.

Holding the cocked Kalashnikov, slung low over his bony shoulder, as long as he was tall. So close, I could smell the hot oil from a recent firing. An execution. For no crime. No reason. Just because he could. Because those fools, back in 2025, made it this impossible, possible.

“We are the police now” … “Masters”, he kept repeating. “Masters”.

Not noticing, as I did, the toe of his Vans dipping in the red-brown pool at his feet. Blood of the female interpreter by the open door of the brand new BYD EV pick-up. Bangla muzak, overdubbed with some scratchy Techno-Koranic chant, if that is what it was, blaring.

“You all weak, Man. Weak” …

This New England, “The Euro-Emirate”, began in Woking. In Sevenoaks. Everywhere and nowhere. In cul-de-sacs. The “dead-ends” of England. The one-way that the lazy, naivete of our grandparents, in the 2020’s, had driven us all down.

Outside, “17 Churchill Close”. My home. Yours. Never where you would expect.

The first “Islamic Freedom War”, as they called it, began in the hot, hot Summer of 2033. England ended- in Leicester. (“Allahabad” as it is now must be known). Groups of “God’s Vigilantes” outside the Co-op. An “Islamic Community Police” blocking the pub forecourt, in case it dared to open.

When the last two “Community Support Officers” in the town, armed with Hi-Viz and some leftover “Rainbow” leaflets on “Diversity & Inclusion” approached. Doing their best with miles to undo 80 years of migratory insanity.

The headman smiled at them. Then at the gathering crowd.

“We don’t need you”, he said with a kind of steely, artificial politeness. “Not here. We are the police now”.

We never saw “Jill” and “Sammy” again.

Another version of “New England”, gathered in preparation for the night. On the Mandala Trading Estate. Armed with long homemade lathi sticks and curtain poles, still with their B&Q price tags fluttering in the summer evening wind.

One “Protestor for Allah”, proud with a crossbow and bright, white Pumas “borrowed” from one of the shops in the mall. Joined soon after, by an Elder with a 9MM Glock pistol he’d looted from the armoury of the burned-out TA Centre. The letters, “Roy--L Ang-ia- Re-iment”, still visible in the hazy distance.

Smoke rose across the wrecked allotments. The smell of burnt wood and plastic that, in other times, might have been mistaken for BBQ’s. I didn’t like to look too long. I knew they weren’t “bin bags” left to bloat in the sun. The bodies of two gardeners who came to help the policeman, who himself had rushed to see if there was “Anything he could do”, when the squaddie lay writhing, bleeding-out on the strawberry beds. Wiping the sticky straw from his white, white face.

There wasn’t. That had been decided, twenty years before. Perhaps in 2024. The last Election before The Islamic Party fell into power. When no one stopped to think, about why they never were going to “Stop The Boats”.

We had to find new names. Rename everything it seems, these days. Just as men, by law, can no longer shave and women must wear ever more “modest” clothes. (The full veil became Law by Islamic Council in 2036).

It shocked you, everyone, how quickly you got used to living in a kind of European Middle East. You comply. For an easy life. For your family. To get a job. The people, drowning, reached for the only Order left.

The “UK” we knew. That other life. The freedom we did not know we possessed or valued if we did. Until we lost it. That world seems so long, so far, ago. As if it never was. “A dream of England”, as the last King, in exile in Canada, described it.

You get used to anything in the end. Even normality.

The end of England began in an Aldi car park. On a long, July night. Lit by burning wheelie bins. The acrid plastic smell drifting into those leafy, quiet cul-de-sacs. Where people still thought, “This can’t be happening”. And carried on jet-washing the cars they could not use. There was nowhere to go. No “Authority”. No police left. No army, to call in. Asylum for everyone: except the British.

How could it happen- overnight? The number for the police in Sevenoaks was “Unavailable”. The line to the MP’s Constituency Office was dead. Now the Zamidar, the “Islamic District Leader”, was the only Authority. He used verses no one could understand in his Arabic, to justify his Justice.

The Goons and the Fools of 2024 had handed him Power. He did not have to steal, let alone take it. “His hands were clean”, he said and said again. It was the “Will of God”, the Europeans had lost their Europe. Inshallah. We all had to learn what was Haram. To say, Inshallah… to our old lives.

How could 5 million dominate 65 million. “10.1%”?

The British had forgotten their own history- and so were Destined to repeat it. The Mullah laughed at the assembled Press. “Did not just 30,000 British and Europeans rule 300 million in the Raj? When the Will is gone, it is gone”.

Lives. Half-lives went on. Until the pick-up trucks and shiny 4x4s arrived in our “Close” one evening.

Young men in black. Kafia-masked. Waving the homemade Victory flags their sisters had sewn overnight. Blaring horns and bear-hugging one another. High fiving the one with the megaphone, as he yelled “Kaffir Tax, Tax, Tax”, at the top of his hoarse voice. “Protect your home. Wife”, he demanded. From other twenty-somethings in black who had just found their purpose, their Identity in this life, this afternoon.

“Bad, Bad, Gang. Coming in hour” …

Words echoed in all our sleep, I think. The flabby, pot-bellied white men, looking at one another. Blinking and shivering in the warm sunlight. Trying to put on a “Brave face”. This was their individual “Dunkirk”, one said. Another- “For the sake of the children” …

But their “Battle for Britain” had been lost for them, 19 years before. By politicians and Do Gooders. Their sacrifices did not matter in the end. They all died calling for long dead Mothers.

Like sheep, knowing but not knowing, what will be, will be. They had never read “Camus” or “The Great Replacement”, I told them about. What was an “Identitarian”, was six months too late to explain. It was always six months too late. Yet they were living in it. Inside, a “Conspiracy Theory”.

The second gang were students mostly. A trainee pharmacist, too young to not shave, I recognised from school. But I saw in his eyes, chose not to recognise me. Who had once played football with us, now “the Infidels”.

Now they knew better. Refusal meant the “Reading ISIL Brigade” could help themselves to “Contents”. As the Holy word permitted that. Some sons of fighting age, and even daughters, they said, were taken away.

Still The Unbelievers, pinched themselves. Piled hope upon hope, like a gambler knowing he had already lost his last £20.

Hoped, until they tried ringing “the Council”. Then, the Police. (Quiet men, who had never done anything like that before. “Not in this area”). Then tied the longest bread knife he could find in the kitchen drawer, to the broken broom handle.

Democracy it seemed, was “On Hold”. Permanently. The recorded message was like listening to their own Death Warrant. "Your Call is important to us- but we are experiencing a rise in the volume of enquires” …

I bet they were, one of the cul-de-sac residents, a man in his fifties thought. Holding back tears as the black Toyota 4x4 did angry, smoking wheel-spins on the lawn he had just cut. His wife, Janice, lay as if sleeping, incongruous, on the kitchen floor. The blood had already gone thick and black. Two mugs (of tea) still warm on the kitchen table. I noted the words on the cups- “Love One, Love All”… “Sevenoaks Supports Refugees Welcome”.

He came back in and found me. We both looked the hollow words. Even now, he clung to the excuses of the last forty years. Her murderer, “Not 16”, he despaired, must have been “high” on something.

“Khat”. I said.

He “didn’t have one”.

I knew this well-meaning Dodo, a fool’s fool, in a cardigan, would never understand. Even this, his own extinction he had voted for.

So, I said quietly- he did not hear. “They chew it”.

Still inside “The Great Woke Denial”, I thought. What would it take for them to admit, even too late, they got it, got England, so utterly wrong. No one likes to admit they were cammed- by their Governments. By the British idea- of themselves.

They never bought the “Racist” Mail or “Far-Right” Express. They were “Radio 4 people, really”.

He never dreamed life, the UK, would, could be like this. Like some surreal, drizzly Sub-Saharan shanty. The Ukraine. Somewhere and nowhere. Even in the “Lockdown” of 2030, when many people, after just a week of the supermarkets being shut down, began to fight over toilet rolls. In just days, the “well-off”, the “Posh”, roaming the streets in towns in search of food and heating. Water and Energy was limited to six hours per family. The new Digital “Money” that we did not realise wasn’t “Money”, meant you could not use EV cars beyond your “Indvidual Cardon Permit”- the 15 mile “Net Zero” radius.

The first viral outbreak of “Race Insanity” spread, like some confusing, stealthy influenza.

We did not, were not able, to call it the “Civil War” it became. In case it “Incited” one. The “Disturbances” fanned by winds 6,000 miles way and imported into Europe. Between Hindu and Muslim militias bumping into one another on side streets.

The last of England, lingered like winter ice in unexpected places like Woking, and the affluent commuter towns of olive oil shops and golf courses around Chislehurst. It got worse, much worse after the “accidental” tactical nuclear “Hot missile” exchange over Kashmir.

The “Ethno-social” war was not confined to the new, self-segregated Designated Muslim suburbs. Nor even the short-lived, “Military Zone” cordon in major cities; while there were still British troops answerable, or even in contact with the Westminster, “Emergency National Government”. Nothing much mattered that much in the end.

The now forgotten politicians of 2025. The tragic, assassinated British PM Shah. Those who should have listened when the prison population exceeded the size of their standing army.

Gangs and Insurgents, hardened in Turkey, against the Russians in the Caucasus and Middle East, roamed the car parks of Aldi. We all remember the first time we saw the footage- a Sharia Court “Trial”. A decapitation- in broad daylight in Haslemere- of all places, opposite the AGA showroom.

The British school children assembled in the background. Some Primary schools converted into Madrassa with a week’s warning. Boys and Girls, separated by cubicles the builders had to finish overnight.

We had got so deep, so quickly. Panicking only when we realised our feet no longer touched the bottom. As must everyone feel who dies by drowning, before they relax, and know they must inhale the salty, icy water to die.

“Order” and “Anarchy” became one in what some called, The “Kaffir-free”, “Clean Districts” of kebab shops and Halal butchers.

TA Reservists abandoned their uniforms, unworn. However, much money they were offered. Hiding illegal “British Army” literature under their beds. Mercenaries arrived from France, The New Euro-Islamic Army. The Believers, The People of the Faith, splintering and sub-dividing, like metastasising cells.

At first there was a frenzy of “solutions” in search of problems. “Emergency Meetings” came and went. Peace Marches dispersed- for a coffee at Costa. Tea-light “Vigils for Toleration”, with tearful teenage girls hugging and holding hands.

Still the public beatings, the Mass Imprisonment Camps for “Category White” and “Non-believers” went on. Some Indigenous factions collaborated, convincing themselves, if no one else, to “Save Britain”. Of which there was precious little left to save.

It is strange how you get used to living in a “Dystopia”. Existing. Subsisting. A friend, once an Evangelical Christian, commuted suicide before having to attend an “Awareness” Course. “Re-education” at one of the “Quranic Centres” in Norwich. He wrote how he had played all his cards. There was “No God left” to go around.

Some of the first “Theological Police” Enforcement Officers I interviewed, were strangely sympathetic to the “White European slaves”, as described in the picture books children had to know and repeat parrot fashion. The UK Islamic Code and UKRG, Revolutionary Guard-approved school literature.

One, an ever-smiling Asian-Hindu convert, “just doing his job”, with a thick Welsh accent; a former league footballer and Dub-DJ. (He told me fondly about his “last gig” in the last Summer Party in Ibiza). His eyes, almost pitying what the British had let themselves become. The Ayatollahs, imported from Dubai, were not so sympathetic.

Others, under his “Authority of God”, wished they had emigrated from the UK Caliphate sooner. Listened. Made time. Had done their research about “Conspiracy Theories”. That “Population Replacement” wasn’t a theory. It was the reality they had lived within for five decades, without being told.

Rather than hoping “the Government” would find solutions to the problems it was creating. Those politicians, those who talked “Posh”, knew what they were doing. They did not.

A mass “Laziness” not War, had caused their occupation.

“The chains of complacency”, someone, probably me, called it. Most didn’t much care. Anything for a “quiet life”. Their new life as one of The Faithful. As their Educator reminded them. “Liberal Democracy”, had failed them. Their children were freed from posting “Rate My XXXX” on Tick-Tok. “Husbands would be husbands”, not wasting time on Pornhub. Permission for “White pregnancies” had to be sought from the official Religious Office, Camden.

They should be grateful. Freed from the slavery they did not know, understand, they were enslaved. The Addictions of “Satanic Feminism” and “The US Antichrist’s Consumerism”. The pointlessness of lives lived in “Jewish Atheism”. At first, after the Chaos, many welcomed the clarity, the only Order left standing that was Islam, Roman Catholicism and Communism. They all had much to thank China for, bailing them out after the Americans abandoned them in 2029.

Now they could enjoy the freedom with which “Allah The Merciful” had “Blessed them”.

Then he showed them how to access X-AI. The Government-Approved “N-Internet”. How to pay their Islamic Tax- by Direct Debit, in accordance with the Hijri, the Islamic calendar,

They all ended up having to recite the same passage of the Hadif. However, “Humane” and accepting they thought they were. Having to learn the Five Pillars of Islam, by heart, even in Guildford.

The Government Migrant Amnesty was the beginning of the end.

“The Small boats” we remember as teenagers, were now Government sponsored ferries. Invasion, legalised. France was facing its own, “Le Meltdown”- reluctantly borrowing the English terminology. Germany too, ironically, redivided along ethnic lines. Hasty new EU borders of razor-wire and a thicker, more impenetrable “Invisible Wall”.

No small market town, not even in sleepy Somerset, could avoid this New Normal. Places that had side-stepped “Multicultural Britain”, unnoticed. A minaret rose. People complained. The MP wrote. But two years later, the speaker blared the Muezzin call to five o’clock prayer.

Your brother or best friend, could not escape a salivating ethnic lynch-mob, waving lathi sticks in the multi-storey. If you happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. I saw the last two police officers in my hometown. One, with the rainbow tattoo, vomited seeing the corpse of the old lady. Left the scene of a Non-hate Hate crime, with “PTSD”. The other, with pink hair, apologised too much, but had to leave to support a pronoun- “Him, Her and or They”.

Even the massacre in a rural Herefordshire village, chosen because of the SAS families who lived there, failed to change the tide. More, new “Integration” policies to paper over the old, panic, decided in another England in Whitehall.

Sooner than anyone could imagine, “Communities” within communities were forced to decide which “side” they were on. Which school friend was now The Enemy. Which BBC commentator to knife dead, live on air.

Albanian Muslims, who the media decided it was not “Responsible” to mention back in 2025, that they were the largest Islamic population in the EU. Tribes. We all discovered, within days of the London surrender, we were part of one. Whether we liked it or not. Even as many were relocated to the “Westerner” ghetto, in the poorer, West of the town. We were all Migrants now. The White British forced west and west again, into the shabbier precincts, where the Mass Migrations had been settled in the 2020’s. Barricades on streets and in minds, rose in between.

Different Gods and the same “God” split the National Muslim “Co-government”. Between Shia and Sunni, Deobandi and Wahhabi and “Moderates”. No one was allowed, not to believe.

“Mullah J”, once known by his English name “Jay”. “Jazzy” to his friends in his hometown of Bracknell.

Now the de-facto UK Leader since 2031. He had returned for the Second Emergency from Saudi Arabi that night. Said there are no “Moderates”- only “True Believers” ... That The Way must be followed- to the End”.

He rejoiced at the collapse of the Zionist State of “Khazaria-Israel”. “The 51st US State”. The bulldozing of the Last Wall of the Temple. “The Holiest soil of the Holy soil”. Three days of National Celebration were held in The Grand Caliph Mosque in the grounds of Buckingham Palace.

Everyone believed till the last, that the US would intervene. But as we know, that was impossible in a permanent, 15-year long Winter.

You may remember he called for bodies of executed looters and Apostates to be hung from motorway gantries along the M6. My daughter, like many under-25, can still remember the stench in Summer if you were downwind. Most motorways by then, had been closed anyway. Long grass and sycamore soon growing through the tarmac, and the surreal sight of sheep grazing and allotments in the central reservation.

Fifty years of frustration took five weeks to unwind. “Multiculturalism”, “Mass Migration” was now revealed as their Nakba- The Catastrophe- for the decadent, distracted Westerners. For The experiment in failure, it was. Not a “Far Right” Conspiracy Theory, as we were told, or perhaps wanted, to believe.

Then came the six months of “Forced Conversions”. You had to register. Your belief tested on the set passages at a Centre- oddly like a driving Test. Theory and Practical. The thing I noticed most, was by its absence. No smell of bacon wafting from steamy cafes, or the neat rows of terraced houses on Sunday morning. Just compulsory Devotion.

The silence of quiet compliance.

“We are Masters now”. Boys, ten- or eleven-year-olds, giggled as you passed warily on street corners, kicking the football menacingly close against the brick wall piled with black bin bags split in the sun. The Government graffiti reminded me of Belfast, “The Emirati of UK salutes Our Fighters Holy Victory in the Caliphate of France”.

The Taliban fighters, treated as Heroes, were brought on special flights to the EU. The repeated footage on a loop of Propaganda. Crowds cheering at Garwick, carrying them high on their shoulders. Those who had once been “Terrorists”, lifers, excused by “a long history of Mental health challenges”, were now “Political Prisoners of Conscience” released from prisons.

We are currently trying to re-establish connection with a group of “Free British” in Ayrshire, Scotland…

Here the post ends abruptly.

The bodies, throats cut, of reporter and cameraman were found in a nearby apartment.

There were no police to investigate.

The note, written in neat capitals by a foreign Islamic Freedom fighter, with a blood-sticky Sharpie left besides, said simply-

“Long Live UKI-State.

Shawwal 25, 1465 AH”.

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Coming next, “Thus Spake, Keir Starmer”.

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