My first thoughts on hearing news of the (inevitable) retaliatory attacks by India on Pakistan were not on the many unfortunate victims (with many more to come) but on my hometown of Leicester. Although I have lived my entire adult life in Ireland, my childhood within an Irish immigrant family was spent in that middle-sized English city, an affably monochrome but tolerant little place with a rich history. Since that innocent post-war epoch, Leicester has been suicidally transformed by mass immigration, mostly from Pakistan and India, and whenever tensions erupt over cricket or Kashmir, they are riotously re-enacted on the streets of that poor English city. More broadly, Leicester serves as a maquette for England, which now gives all the outward signs of an irreversible moribundity. The simple lesson is this: mass immigration will, within three generations, spell a nation’s death.
Recent days have laid bare the stark realities of what has happened to Britain (though most of my observations really apply to England: Scotland has already gone over the edge and is hurtling to cultural perdition, and Wales will go wherever England’s far greater gravity leads it). The excruciating epitome of all that is dire about Britain was the manner in which it “celebrated” VE Day, a tawdry fly-past of about half a squadron over Buckingham Palace. Uganda would have done better.
This was the “climax” to a three-hour programme on BBC television that must have been dreamt up in the moronville from which the national broadcaster recruits its producers. These idiots clearly know nothing of Britain’s history, even of the relatively recent episodes such as the Second World War, which of course the BBC refers to as “World War II”. This term was invented in the 1960s by Time magazine, and its subsequent and wholesale adoption by the BBC is emblematic of everything that is culturally imitative about that station, as if Britain was anchored just off Rhode Island.
So naturally, the BBC’s three-contemplation of the Second World War made no mention of Canada, Britain’s most faithful ally and friend, while declaring that the battle for Normandy ended with Patton’s breakout south. This was only possible because the British and Canadian Fourth Armies were confronting 90 per cent of German armour. The American General Bradley later said he could think of no greater example of self-sacrificial strategy in war than that. So, naturally there was no mention of the brilliant British/Canadian thrust through the flooded northern polders of the Netherlands and the rivers Elbe and Rhine. Nor any mention of the BBC’s initial refusal to broadcast Richard Dimbleby’s “famous” broadcast from Belsen, because its details were so graphic that the BBC managers assumed he must have been drunk to have concocted such horrors. That is one of the key episodes of the war against the Third Reich: only in its concluding months did the genocidal realities of what Nazism really meant become evident, and the BBC’s ultimate triumph in revealing this truth was simply lost in in the archives.
So too was all the wonderful material the BBC had accumulated over the decades. Instead, we were treated to the recollections of minor media celebrities: such as the newsreader Angela Rippon, aged six months when the war ended, which means that she had no recollections whatever of the war, and Derek Jacobi, aged seven on VE day. Naturally, a West Indian veteran was wheeled out to offer his recollections, but since he only enlisted in 1944 and was RAF ground crew, his contribution could only be of a limited use. There must have been thousands of ordinary British people whose recollections of the war would have been more interesting and informed; however, since they were fatally afflicted by the double disability of being white and unfamous, their recollections were not sought.
Since no such commemoration can ever come our way again, this was an opportunity for Britain to show what it once was, and what pride it has in the people who helped defeat the Third Reich. Both the BBC and the lamentable Starmer government squandered it, their joint achievement almost amounting to national treason. Which was the worse? The government, but narrowly. Five years ago, its leader Keir Starmer went down on one knee in abjection to those fraudulent thieves of Black Lives Matter, and on the wholly fictional and fantastic issue of “trangenderism” he later declared that women could have penises. Though this was not why last year he acclaimed the courage of the “men and women” who had landed on Normandy’s beaches on D-Day in 1944. No women – none – landed on D-Day.
However a biological woman named Lucy Powell last weekend made it perfectly clear what the government she serves thinks of the rape-grooming scandal that has maddened popular feelings in Britain. The Oxford-educated Powell MP, a loyal party apparatchik and the Leader of the House of Commons, responded on-air to criticisms of Starmer’s government over these gangs, by declaring. “Okay, we want to blow that little trumpet, do we. Yeah, okay. Let’s get that dog whistle out, shall we?”
“Dog-whistle” in Britain’s political vernacular is a coded signal indicating something far larger and more sinister: in this case, she was implying that raising the issue of the rape-gangs – all of Pakistani origin – was implicitly racist. Yes, and she probably really means that. After all, the girls who were raped – all under-age, most of them troubled, usually from dysfunctional families – were generally white and underclass, making them officially both beneath contempt and beyond all care. Even though they probably numbered in their tens of thousands over the two decades that the Pakistani rape gangs toiled so manfully in defiling them and ruining their lives, politicians, the police and the social services did nothing whatever to protect them, because to do so would be racist.
Naturally, Prime Minister Starmer replied to the subsequent outcry not by sacking Powell for her heartless comments, but by denouncing her critics. He issued a statement, saying that it was “disappointing” that some people were “weaponizing” the issue of “historic” child sex abuse and were using it to make “political points”. A later statement declared that Starmer was focused on taking the action “to deliver” for victims rather than on political point scoring. Asked who was scoring political points, Starmer’s spokesman said: “I think any political point scoring on an issue such as this is disappointing.”
Disappointing, was it? Disappointing? I suppose the gang-violation of tens of thousands of under-age English girls does need a powerful term of condemnation: yes, disappointing probably covers it. And “historic”? In what sense is this mass rape “historic” As in the Middle Ages? Or recently, while Starmer was in the Crown Prosecutor’s Office?
The latter.
Starmer, Powell, and the rest of the ghastly crew in power in Westminster are culturally identical to the people who run the BBC. If possible, readers should watch BBC catch-up or YouTube of the broadcaster’s recent ambush of Douglas Murray on Newsnight. This took two forms: the first was a recorded interview – big mistake, Douglas – which was mutilated before transmission, and then a four person-panel denouncing Murray for his (non-existent) racism, but with no defender to speak up for him. This was not a coach and four through the BBC’s code of conduct, but a rocket-powered tank-transporter through a chiffon sheet.
This was further evidence of the refusal of England’s ruling caste to confront the ruinous consequences of mass-immigration. This caste will find any excuse to blame the English for the world’s woes while exalting people of coloured stock – even to the point of importing meaningless American linguistic taboos. Thus, calling a person “coloured” is racist, whereas referring to a person “of colour” is not, i.e., meaningless twaddle. Not merely are British television adverts now disproportionately full of coloured people, BBC’s historical dramas are now being studiously repopulated by people of African origin. Even Highland lairds have been played by coloured actors, and of course, almost the moment that Hilary Mantel died, and therefore could not direct her vigilant gaze on the BBC’s dramatization of her superb Wolf Hall series, the producers introduced actors of African and Indian origin: yes, in Tudor England.
However, the BBC is being genuinely representative of the world it inhabits: state-subsidised drama is now routinely rewritten and re-cast to suit the politico-racial requirements of the cultural needs of the elites. Naturally, the National Theatre was captured long ago. I have grisly memories of a production of Macbeth at the Barbican in London, in which the three witches were played by three little black girls. So, unsurprisingly, the National Theatre’s newly-appointed artistic director is Indhu Rubasingham, who has the insuperable advantage of being a woman and (as we say these days) of “Indian heritage.” Included in her coming season is a “rap” version of Euripides The Bacchae, by Nima Talenghani, his first play. Yes, directly onto the National! His Wikipedia entry declares that he is “a queer actor of colour.” Well, there we are: nothing more to be said, and a standing ovation, if you please. Another treat in store is Hamlet, featuring the Sri Lankan actor Hiran Abeysekera. Happily, in this production he does manage to declaim, “To be or not to be,” but then adds a sardonic “innit”, with a wink – I think that’s the word I read in the preview – before slipping a pair of hipster-shades over his nose.
Wow, man, cool.
In a similar vein, we learn that Britain is prepared to lead a “coalition of the willing” against Russia. What with? A handful of actors pretending to be soldiers and both of the RAF’s aircraft? Why not? The difference between fact and fancy has long since been eradicated within Britain’s official imagination, while reality is somewhat more sobering. My hometown of Leicester, once one of the wealthiest cities in Europe, is now a dreary horrorscape of the unemployed, a rundown city centre of charity shops surrounded by grim Victorian houses inhabited by immigrants and their stock, who now amount to 60 per cent of the city’s population. The remaining 40 per cent population resemble the Wampanoag Indians of what is now Massachusetts, who rather foolishly tolerated the arrival of the Mayflower pilgrims. There were 40,000 of them when those strange white people landed from England. At the last count, they numbered 901.
In other words, as a coherent identity, Leicester is probably doomed, while in the longer term, unless people wake up, so too is England, and with it, Britain. This is why I am so very happy to be living in Ireland, but not in the least happy to see that it is, in the full knowledge of the catastrophe that has happened to the neighbouring island, repeating the same irreversible errors. Likewise Germany, likewise France, likewise Spain: but not like Poland, Hungary, Czechia, Slovakia, namely the Visegrád Group that Brussels naturally deplores. And it is Visegrád, as a template, that is perhaps Europe’s last and only hope for survival. But not poor Leicester’s….
Kevin Myers is an Irish journalist, author and broadcaster. He has reported on the wars in Northern Ireland, where he worked throughout the 1970s, Beirut and Bosnia.
Build a welfare state and your men become parasites not soldiers