Nobody asked Kelvin
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If you’ve got nothing better to do, like Kelvin, find me on AMAZON/KDP
https://www.amazon.com/author/jameschanel
Nobody asked Kelvin if he wanted to live in “multicultural UK”, whatever that meant.
Trouble was, it meant different things to different people. And Kelvin was determined to be very different, by the time he got to the end of telling his side of England.
By beginning at the end.
The crap he had to listen to in the back row at school. The way they wrote him off. The red biro through paragraphs his beardy, woke teachers disagreed with. They sent him with a sigh of pitying despair to an “Awareness” class. Re-education on a rainy Tuesday afternoon. Re-thought. Repent. Repeat after me… For the accident of skin pigmentation, being young, gifted and white, he had been excluded.
That was perhaps when he started collecting old margarine tubs. Asking his mother to wash them, save them. For “recycling”, he told her. Kell, where had that alarm clock gone from the bedside table? He didn’t know. He shrugged.
His father would have noticed. Noticed the nails and rusty bolts missing from the garage. If he had had a father. Wire clippings scattered on the floor of the shed. Red, white and blue plastic stripping in the attic of his obsessions. The attic of the anonymous semi where his life was in cardboard boxes. Discarded collections of toys and trains, his father’s curled up porn magazine, the past. All no longer seemed important. Relevant. Revenge was OCD. Hypnotic. Reliable. Ordered. Unlike the Liberal Dictatorship outside, outside his head. As if he wore Left wing propaganda noise-cancelling headphones. They would call him “sad”. A loner-failure. But like the idiot MI5 “Liaison Officer” who would ring the doorbell two weeks too late, they were asking all the wrong questions. How had their society turned a Patriot into a pariah? An enemy in a GAP hoodie.
Not on this Summer night before The Day. There was the timetable even the thicko police might find, 24 hours too late for “lessons to be learnt”. The neat circle around the 07.31AM train to London, pressed a little too hard, leaving its’ mark on the page underneath. For those who had eyes to see it, the Future, was always hidden in plain sight. But the so-called authorities and the agencies were too busy being, Race Aware. Too obsessed by “ethnicity” and inclusion to notice The Invisibles. The Sleepers. Kell and his shared collective imagination. They couldn’t lock up 30,000, 40,000… once they decided not to cooperate in The Erasure, the self-destruction. A cell of lone wolves circling, sub-dividing, metastasising.
Alien-nation UK. A page he turned by chance in the Baghagvad Gita, turned the swirling colours of an illustration into an action. Self-doubt. Mass stupidity. Western society’s final act of self-immolation. All this, destiny had turned a Family Size margarine tub into death. The headlines, the BBC as usual, would miss the whole point. The Avenger, Kell, the destroyer of worlds… wouldn’t get to even 18, but would get even. Whoever believed revenge wasn’t a dish best served cold, had never had it cold enough.
Patience was a virtue. He had learnt that much at Scouts. He was tired of acting nice. Having to be “reasonable”. Being open-minded to the brainwash. Agreeing with what he knew was wrong. Being force-fed tolerance like some goose fattened for foie-gras. Time was on their side. They only had to be lucky once. The powers that be, the Liberal Dictatorship, the state had to be lucky every time. Every time someone like Kell left the house for the last time, promising to be home in time for tea. Remembering to wipe his feet if he had been down to the quarry, if he returned.
Do-Gooders like Mother, and her monthly £10 Gift Aid for refugees, couldn't’ see it, get it. Ever admit they might be part of the problem. Society, like his mother, was dying of naivety. Of Good Intentions. As one tribe, one idea of civilisation, overlaid another in tides of History the Proles couldn’t understand. The Barbarians never were at the gates. They were within. Liberal Extremists sitting round an oval mahogany Cabinet table, not deciding. Asking the wrong questions. The Elites wouldn’t do anything. Not until minibuses of fear and baseball bats heading the for coast, decided for them, at the water’s edge.
Kell was, and wasn’t, nostalgic for the England his father had known. Olde England. They had visited castles in the air, National Trust country houses smelling of the past and Earl Grey tea. The past was indeed now, a foreign country. Where butchers and bakers drew down striped awnings in the village where his father had been born; in the shadow of a war, they had won. But then lost the peace. This England, that England; where cats stretched sleepy on hot tarmac; his father straining to hear the cricket Test score. But you could not live in a cliché. In a pastiche of Miss Marple land. “Diversity” didn’t get you a job. Just another dead-end in Granada TV Rentals in town. Social mobility, a Bus 33 ride downtown. A facsimile of a dis-United Kingdom.
The media might pretend the Great Multicultural Experiment, mass immigration and all it brought in its’ wake, had succeeded. More and more enthusiastic, delusional like a gambler piling on the bets, double-or-quits, even as it failed. Kell was the boy in the Emperor’s New Clothes, shouting at the top of his voice, no one heard for the applause. You had to travel ever farther and farther West to find England, or what remained of it. Ironically, even to Ireland as his father had done. Even if there was a God, he didn’t live in Newingstoke.
They had been displaced, rehoused in a New Town on the edge of the edge of the city. Neither urban or country, Newingstoke was like everywhere and nowhere. Plasticine people and lollipop trees on some architect’s model, had translated into a kind of comfortable, hum-drum hell. For that is what hell must be, repetitive. Too easy to stay. The Sunday lunch pings of a thousand microwaves in a thousand homes. The hum of the motorway through the double-glazing. The sound of people getting away from it all to The Country. Or the idea of a country that no longer existed. The 1AM grunts and moans from neighbours’ bedrooms. The sound of a thousand new suckers, another Generation XYZ being conceived into multi-faith, multi-multi UK. “Radicalisation” wasn’t as obvious as the white-and-red cross of St-George’s flags, rising and falling in the summer breeze from bedroom windows. As if signalling for help, Kell thought. Perhaps without realising they were. An unseen, unspoken despair. In the midst of what nameless government Ministers, who had never had to live in Newingstoke, called “relative wealth”. Or was it relative poverty. It was the poverty of opportunity.
There weren’t any Summer schemes encouraging white boys to “university” they couldn’t spell. No mentors wanted their media page photo taken with someone too male, too pale. Alien-nation wafted with the faint smell of half-emptied bins. Despite the weekly wage from the night shift at the supermarket “Fulfilment Hub”, where every other parent worked. Poverty, despite benefits rebranded as “credits”, to which whole streets were made addicted. Streets named after English writers no one had ever read, unless they had to at school. Schools renamed after BAME Heroes no one had heard of. Everyone spoke Eastender. Estuarine English. The tell-tale twang, along with white socks and slip-ons, that caught you out at interviews for jobs where you wouldn’t fit in. The dialect of failure. Kell didn’t want to have to learn more than there was to know about convicted terrorists like “Nelson Mandala”. Or football he was supposed to be obsessed with. Every fifteen-year-old knew everything there was to know about the Atlantic slave trade, but not how to write a sentence. Or divide ten-by-two.
Before Dad left, the world seemed the right way up. Kell repeating the lines to a multicultural play he did not want to be in. The obese “benefit sows”, pushing prams along The Parade to the shops. Who littered five mixed race children by four fathers. Whose latest tattoo was his Father said, subsidised by men like him with overtime… The Liberal-Left woke elite. Their Agenda. Their media. They, and your Left-wing mother would wear out his arteries. He would die of old age, a decade early. The Agenda… The EU. Kell inherited his father’s quiet hatred. It was their little secret. The revolving door of spiralling immigration. Britain was now simply an extension of Terminal Three, where Kell’s father worked in a living irony, baggage-handling. Until They took over.
The most effective brainwashing was gradual. The Lib-Left mantra, repeated willingly, or else you weren’t being reasonable. Open-minded. Kell was a heretic at school. A teenage Luther in white socks, blu-tacking his Britain First sticker to a toilet door. “Left” or “Right” were as naïve as they were equally to blame. Fighting among themselves to be the least right, or wrong. Kell, a fugitive in a country which no longer existed. As he would have said, if anyone had bothered to ask, he had not left his country: his country had left him; floundering like a fish on the shore, gasping for air. Gasping for the opposite of Equality, whatever that was. Now that difference, nationality had been erased. That mythical unicorn of equality, tolerance, sameness, he was told everyone believed in. Wanted. Needed.
That was why he wound the red wire and blue wire together. Setting the alarm hand to 8.45. He could not think anymore. They had given him every choice, and no choice, in life.
But this was his choice. His only choice. To reach for the timer. Or not reach for the timer.
https://www.amazon.com/author/jameschanel
It’s honestly absurd at this point. I’ve been warning people for almost two decades that the media, all of it, is being run by the same people, using the same tactics, to keep us exactly where they want us. You might’ve heard the term “Hegelian dialectic.” If you haven’t, just know it’s the game of creating a problem, controlling the reaction, and then offering a pre-packaged “solution.” That’s how they work. And they control both sides. Left, Right, mainstream, alternative, it’s all curated.
They tell you what to care about, what to be angry about, what to buy, where to buy it, and who to hate while you’re doing it. Some people eventually started catching on that the big TV networks weren’t telling the truth, so they ran to so-called “alt-media” and influencers thinking they were escaping the narrative. They weren’t. They just got funneled into the next controlled lane.
Even the most learned of us typically have no idea how deep this goes.
The people behind this—these billionaires—aren’t even at the top. I’m talking about trillion-level money. Old world money. The kind of money that existed before the United States, before the British Empire, before Rome. This is Babylon money. Sumer money. The kind that passed through the hands of Genghis Khan, Napoleon, Hitler. Money that doesn’t just buy yachts and football teams—it buys nations. It starts wars. It builds technology that would fee like magic to the rest of us (if we even knew it existed), the kind of stuff you only see soft-disclosed in movies. I have seen a few examples of this sort of stuff over the years. Weird science. Stuff that should not be possible. Stuff that is hidden and remains hidden, sometimes in plain sight.
The Forbes list of the world's wealthiest doesn’t talk about these people. The 'world's richest' lists are for show. The Saudi royal family alone makes Bezos look like a garage-sale eBay seller. Gaddafi had hundreds of billions tucked away when they offed him. And even those names? Not the ones at the top.
Not the ones calling the shots.
There is someone—or something... on this planet that holds so much wealth and power that the rest of us might as well be insects. This isn’t some comic book villain. This is someone ancient. Someone who knows things that were lost to history on purpose. Secrets erased from books, banned from religion, hidden from science.
I used to be a skeptic. I didn’t believe in God. I thought religion was a coping mechanism for people afraid of death. But when you peel back the layers of fake civility, democracy, and capitalism, what’s underneath looks a lot like hell. I’m not exaggerating when I say it feels like Satan himself is running the show.
I don’t know if it’s a fallen angel, an alien entity, or just a bloodline that figured out how to hand off the keys from one heir to the next like the Dread Pirate Roberts character in The Princess Bride. It doesn’t matter. The end result is the same. Evil runs the world. It owns the minds of the masses. It whispers into the ears of presidents and CEOs and kings. It’s pulling the strings while everyone scrolls, shops, and sleeps.
And if people don’t wake up soon, really wake up, there’s not going to be anything left worth saving. Because that yellow bastard will have bought it all up and left the world with nothing but dust slipping through the cracks in our fingers.
Mate, and I hope you don't mind me calling you that, this read was fantastic, no it was remarkable, no it was brilliant. I loved it.
You captured the thoughts that see the obstacles of our British youth, and although most wouldn't be able to articulate those thoughts of contemporary white British youth, you illustrated their predicament in HD.
Thank you for a great read.