The Time Has Come
It was twenty years ago today. Robert P's "uncleansed" 2024 Diary discovered in an apartment.
Monday PM. “Armageddon” wasn’t anything like they said it would be. Mostly it was rather dull. Like the Swiss weather on that day of days, drizzly, not quite hot or cold enough. Neither one thing nor the other. Like him, like Switzerland, his life perhaps. Mostly things seemed the same. The surreal normality, but for the empty rush-hour streets greasy with last night’s rain. The snowless mountains behind. But the clue was in the word Robert P. used in his diary: “Mostly”.
Then it was all over. The flash of lightening that lit the mountain at night, then the black, sticky drops on the windowpane. If there had been a window to look through. Or eyes to see, the aftermath. Or read his last notes posted from twenty years ago today, 2024, as if written in a long-dead language of which he was the last native speaker.
When they alienated people like the Robert P’s of this world, simply ignoring then labelling them, they made the future, the now, inevitable. Setting Pleb against Pleb by injecting mass migrations, parallel societies.
It was smart to look dumb at work. To be moderate. Shrug. No point trying to explain what you really thought was going on. Not with your wife’s Wokey brother.
No point telling him, with his narrow-minded, blind faith in “Toleration”. How could he begin to see the nascent World power rising on the horizon? The “Trilateral Commision”, he had never been told about. Creating artificial shortages of resources for the Proles and their dying nations to squabble over in the mud of countries he couldn’t find on a map.
HOMOGENISED FILTERED SOCIETY
The oldest trick in the book- from Pharaohs to chemtrail cloud-seeding, dimming the sunlight to reduce crop yields; the manufactured scarcity keeping the price high and the populous just hungry enough to obey, but not to riot. Eating like farmyard pets out of the generous hand of the new government, the Silicon Valley pharaohs.
“The X-istential, self-destructive death-spiral of the West threatens the very continuance of its skeletal, morally anorexic societies. Trouble is, most dumbed-down Westerners don't care”.
It was smart to remain dumb. Polite not to think about thinking about using crazed Net Zero quotas keeping The Eco-Narrative alive and kicking. The perpetual motion of Civil-Race Wars distracted, the hand deceiving the eye.
In the shadows of Riots, Revolutions boiled dry, while the sun shone, and the summer evenings were long. And armchair Jean Valjean’s punched the air as another policewoman fell backwards onto her own plastic shield and was gone in flames.
We are not “all migrants”.
We bought the narratives, however smart and well-informed, and “balanced” we thought we were. But others, faces unseen, had plans for us decades before we were born; making use of our engorged sense of humanity, the mirror of justice and “Western values” in which we liberal-minded Narcissi admired ourselves. And when that failed, they tapped our anger.
We never did find out what became of him- Robert P. Only that he had tried to cross the Golden Gate bridge. A trace of him attempting to buy a ticket- one-way, to anywhere that wasn’t here. Trying to get “home” to Europe even when home no longer existed. That was ten yours ago. He was the quaintly hand-written notes I found, still in their laminated pouches, dusty with the old-world way of doing things.
Unfortunately, he wasn’t alone when it happened. You should always die alone. It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity. Family and the oldest “loving friends” were overrated, when the time came, he was still alone. Perhaps more so in the crowded room of the ICU. Familiar faces looking down at him in the ant-bacterial polyester sheets. He was dying to see them, suddenly realising he was dying for them. Looking into the mirror of themselves, as they checked to see if there was the faintest condensation of a breath on the polished glass. He had become- a breath. An exhalation.
His life had always been going the wrong way down the wrong street. At any other time, it might not have mattered. But this was The End, wasn’t it, the end of times? And men like Robert P. didn’t, could not, belong in this the bright New, New Age where AI was neither “Artificial” or even Intelligent. But people now didn’t know the difference. Between the aluminium of AI and the silver of a genuine thought, creation. Or why it was important. Signifance.t. They wanted what they believed they wanted, now. The deadly Con-venience of convenience.
Unlike the New Americans he had never been desperate, to live, to suck the last fragment of the chicken from the last awkward bone, until it was too late.
If a faint trace of him was found in the DNA of his writing, who would “understand” his life except his ghost wandering Ward C on the top floor. And his ghost was the last person to care who “Robert P.” was.
Do not bother to read on. Scroll your Dumbphone. Check your Status. Watch the goal and summersaulting cat…
Why he wrote what he wrote was more important than a few words arranged in an A4 laminate folder, found on the floor of his apartment; picked up by the LUCA Misinformation Officer who wasn’t born when he wrote it. But she cleansed it anyway. After all, he was not, for all she knew, “New State Approved”. And she was just doing her job. That was how something of the UN World Order had survived The Crises. And we were all grateful for any order maintained by people just like her, just doing their job.
…“The X-istential, self-destructive death spiral of the West threatens the very continuation of its skeletal, morally anorexic societies. The trouble is most Westerners don't care all that much: Too busy swiping, sexting, distracting. The Others from Asia to- everywhere else are strangely more concerned, roped at the ankle as they are to the inevitable- who sees the decline is the fall”…
Who asked You, if you wanted to live a multicultural, multiethnic paradise?
There is no “Law” until the people take government into their own hands.
We have grown tired of being told how, even when to think by wokey public schoolboys and high-pitched Oxbridge media girlies.
Under the title “Hadeon” he scribbled down the side of the page,
“When there are more prisoners- 80,000 plus in UK jails- than your nation’s standing army- you no longer have a “nation” or even a society to defend”.
He wouldn’t even have the pleasure of being right. IUCA decided that. Decided Truth. Like all Jeremiahs past, Robert P. was condemned, hanged, drawn and quartered by the silken rope of what he could not forget.
That the harvest of mistakes the British and Westerners made in 1966 are now being scythed, pointlessly, in a harvest no one wants to gather. No one left who remembers the fear of not gathering the dry and golden grains in time.
The Westerners have forgotten, or perhaps been made to forget, who they are. Wha they ar. Too dumb, anaesthetized by the future. Europe reinfected by TB and squalor imported by the perpetual motion of migrations. By the worst of all worlds, the epidemics of Stupidity-C19 and by the contagious virus H1N5 Complacency.
Robert P. didn’t need a job, or sponsorship or an MBE, he wrote to himself, adding, that he wasn’t a member of any party or group that would have him as member. A white, male conservative- an endangered species no one wants to save.
Detailing how he had minimized his contact with The Others- women- to all but the essentials- a weekly encounter at the supermarket checkout. His eyes searching, trying to find the only male staffer, nurse and the like.
Likewise, he had given up trying to talk or “mix” let alone “understand” the Lib-Left Wokies and well-meaning, the Useful Idiots who had erased his country, then suddenly evaporating his very identity when he turned to find, lost it like coat left on a peg in a cafe he could not remember. He was sidelined, beyond Sex. With every word they made you feel guilty to use, they took his Meaning. That was a kind of living death. He the Zombie conservative had been proscribed. Flattened along with the curve.
Unseen AI faces carved the rules into an ever-shifting sand of reality. The plasticine Law became interchangeable with “Guidelines”. Helpful handy Suggestions, so few noticed the “safeguarding” noose slipped caringly by the loving state over their heads. The knots of guilty nudges and winks twisting into the soft neck. We were All In It Together.
Eventually, the world made up as they went along of course. Decided what was legal or illegal. And in the end, it didn’t matter what you believed. Being reasonable and humane and open-minded. Even when The Scum electorate realised too late that no “toleration” or “inclusion” would ever be enough. They all ended up under the “diversity” of the Euro Caliph and the Islamic Council of Britain flew the now familiar green and white flag over the Union in Downing Street and Brussels.
Europe sub-let. Divided and subdivided, metastasizing itself and opting for “self-segregation”. The Balkans in the Midlands and Paris suburb and back-street Sicily. For those unseen above knew, knew The Sheeple would agree to anything and everything, if only for “an easy life”. The life their parents remembered.
“I have watched my society, my nation, way and quality of life erode, idiocy by idiocy. By Trojan Horse migrations and promises.
The arrogant, rigid thinking prejudices of the Libby-Left bedwetters won’t save you or your crumbling society. They can’t admit they were wrong about mass migration. Or CO2.
The Plebs aren’t shown too much at once. Not until safely inside the matrix. The dilution of the nation state and your culture and very identity.
The superimposition of a multicultural, multi-ethnic parallel societies over the indigenous, silenced majority.
Who asked you?
The future will belong to whoever reaches the TA centres and barracks first, cracking open the chains and safety cabinets of ammunition. This will be tomorrow’s “Democracy” broken. Whatever the World Accords said.
Your “Governments” will not listen, let alone save you. They cannot face their own death-mask staring back at them. Not even after the EMG burst over London and Esfahan. The revelations and silvery radioactive dust that twenty years on still stirred in the wheat chaff of Ukraine-Khazaria, and seemed to give everyone a permanent migraine in summer and blackened melanomas no doctor had seen before in winter. You will be told what you need to be told and Be Happy. Was it all written in the stars after all?
When will you do something? When it’s the friend of a friend of your daughter whose is hacked to death. When your wife’s schoolfriend is raped in a carpark by an illegal migrant who “can’t” be deported because he has a cat and the “right to a family life” he will deprive you of as he plunges the blade to the sticky silver ferule.
When will you decide to decide?
Your “monarchy”, your patriotism will not save you, not this time on the Dunkirk beaches. Your police will not enforce the laws they have. Too busy arresting the innocent for infringing some non-existent trans law and dancing a rainbow macarena. The Elites will do nothing. Not perhaps until minibuses of the dispossessed British, migrants in what was once their land of sea and sky, reaching the stoney holiday beaches in Kent, with baseball bats and nowhere else to go.
Facing the idea of themselves as “English”, as if it could be seen somewhere on the grey-green horizon where the boats hovered. They came down to the water’s edge where the shingle washed back and forth, as it did when the last “Norsemen” arrived across the channel, before it was The English Channel. Now the invaders and hosts had both outstayed their welcome. The Visitors making the most of their naive hospitality for the next millennium or two.
By then it will be too late to Rock The Kasbah. The minaret’s muezzin wail tells your grandchildren’s future as subject slaves of the new Euro Caliph. Time to pay their Islamic taxes after prayers they may not attend, to pay and forge their own chains. The irony of the fall of the West is a complete irony. Do not teach your son to shave. Or daughters that they can have it all, let alone an education past 18.
Your institutions are impotent, eunuchs. Hollow sepulchres of past power. A citizen’s militia, to seize the day, the only answer. As they say whispering to themselves in the souk, how the Westerners may have all the watches, but the Believers have all the time.
An existential threat to the continuation of the white, native British population. But the Nobodies have been so dumbed-down they cannot spell let alone understand “Existential”. But they will only when there is no will left.
For what was “Conservative”, common sense, a generation ago is no rewritten as “Extremism”. History is now whatever the Woke say it is. Written not a by the victors, but by The Woke. The Lazy unwashed. Tats hooked on sports and welfare, digital wallets of World Coin credit transferred, on disembodied sex, all streamed live for the useless eater livestock to binge upon.
For what is "Conservatism” but the oldest instinct, the will of survival, embedded, silent in grey, helical coils of our DNA. Now “edited” by CRESPA and New Gen MRNA injections we are less critical, we like the warm fuzzy feeling of being compliant not complainants- Good Government Pets.
Freedom- from what? It is the right not to be bludgeoned as you leave your cave, blinking into the dawn light. In search of Eden. The Progs- Progressives- sabre tooth awaits in the ravine to lick your bones clean- of ideas. Just as Socialism is what happens when you do nothing except accept your fate. Running out of other people’s money. Drinking the last of the Victorians’ collective sweat, as the English do.
For what used to be “Equality” is now rebranded “White Supremacy”. Egalite, the right not to be right. Fraternity, for sisters, but not the brotherhood of men.
Who asked you, what country you wanted to belong to?
James Chanel- “Swipe Right”- Not writing in The Atlantic.