Nice Government Ya Got Here, Shame If Something Happened to It

Guest Post by Revanchist

The dust of the snap election hasn’t settled though it no longer chokes me as it did on the day. I didn’t care to read the cheering from liberals and the jeering of the rest of the world, so disconnected the landline and did useful things like stacking firewood and tending the garden.

The air up here on blustery days is like being popped in the chops with a wet mackerel, but when the sun appears the breeze is sweet and clean and scented with fifty-thousand shades of green. From this height I can peek through my fingers and watch the world unspool. From this remove I can take the consensus experience of life just the way I like it: in small, controlled doses.

My shelter is a stone cottage with rising damp and falling plaster. My sitting room door is older than America. I heat one room with a cast-iron wood burner and dry my clothes on a line strung above it. I don’t travel. Don’t dine out. Carry no debt. Take no dole. Own no mobile phone, television or alarm clock. I earn below the poverty line so pay nothing to Inland Revenue; this suits me since I won’t contribute to a system which exists these days only to self-replicate like slime mould.

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I live at a pace that would drive a barnacle to join Netflix, yet a fortnight and change ago some very determined men drove up my hill in lowest gear, knocked on the door and accused me of inciting racial hatred on the Internet. Come to think of it, something similar happened to another contributor here but I heard they freaked out and stopped posting. Lightweight.

Privacy online is now only a matter of degree even for a troglodyte like me. My question is why it took me so long to see that. My loss is that their visit has knocked a little luster from a cherished axiom, obscurity is the new security. My gain is that I lost a little more naïveté.

Blame’s never held my interest. I play the hand I’m dealt and strive to be the dealer as often as I can. The hand I dealt in the previous essay yielded one of the more compelling cris de cœur I’ve ever read and I pondered it while dressing blisters and mending holes in work clothes.

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“An honest question… why can’t the queen criticize the destruction of her country? Why can’t she urge her people to rise up and repel the invaders? If it’s because she’s following some rules or tradition, what do those guidelines matter at this point, when her people are being murdered, displaced and made strangers in their own country?

If she won’t do it, who will? Because surely, someone must. In the USA, Trump has become a rallying point for nationalists. He’s not doing everything we want and he’s being hampered at every turn, but at least he stepped up. And he’s not even a monarch—meaning someone ordained from birth to protect and defend his homeland.

Does no one in the royal family have the guts to say, ‘Screw it, I’m speaking out?’ Maybe it’s just my American nature, but I don’t get it.”

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Kings are problematic things. We have killed monarchs before—it could be said we got rather good at it, particularly when they were hole-and-corner affairs of knives in the dark, poisoning, slow starvation in dank cells and on one rather fraught occasion, a red-hot poker inserted rectally. Only once was the killing of a king conducted in the open, after a trial and with every ceremonial detail scrupulously observed. It changed the realm forever.

His name was Charles I. Much like our most famous monarch, Henry VIII, Charles insisted upon the right to rule absolutely and without consulting lesser mortals. He was the Kim Jong-un of his day; spoiled, pedantic, quick-tempered and convinced of his own divine infallibility. Crucially, he lacked Henry’s charisma. This, along with poor judgment, repeated betrayals of his most ardent supporters and hiring French troops to subdue his English subjects ultimately doomed his reign. His worst mistake: dissolving Parliament and demanding taxes be raised on everything not nailed to the floor. These were paid directly to him; he had French soldiers to feed, arm and shelter whilst also indulging his propensity for lavish comforts and entertainments.

Civil war was inevitable, and Oliver Cromwell arose to lead the way to the promised ideal of establishing a true republic in England. Despite many reversals of fortune his New Model Army triumphed and royalist forces were defeated. After the trial and execution of Charles I, the new government installed Cromwell as Lord Protector. On the occasion he wore Puritan black, eschewing any hint of monarchical regalia, though it wasn’t long before he began to sign his letters Oliver P, in the royal style of R for Rex, and to encourage the honorific Your Highness. Eventually he acquired a throne, granted audiences and added purple and ermine to his wardrobe. It was when he bequeathed his position as Lord Protector to his own son Richard that people really got uneasy.

Upon Cromwell’s death a quick meeting was held and it was decided that the five-year experiment had been interesting but if the people of England were going to have a monarch it may as well be one with a lineage. They invited the son of the executed king to return from exile and ascend the throne as Charles II.

First, though, a document was hammered out that described the terms of a constitutional monarchy and this was presented to Charles as a take-it-or-leave-it deal. What it boiled down to was, “You can be king but you’re going to behave. Sign here.”

He signed, and it was party time. Theatres reopened and bawdy comedies were the featured attraction. The King decreed that actresses would portray the parts that men had formerly claimed and the public flocked to see the spectacle of a woman on stage. Restoration literature was in the ascendancy, the arts blossomed, coffeehouses opened, taverns re-opened, libertines were celebrated and, not to be outdone, the king set about siring illegitimate children—fifteen at last count. It made The Swinging 60s look like a Quaker Meeting.

Speaking of that, appalled by Merry England and its even merrier monarch, the Puritans fled to the New World and passed into the history of what became America.

The ideal was to maintain a sense of the divine without allowing the divine to set policy. In codifying this desire our constitution was born.

In his 1867 essay, Walter Bagehot wrote—Whoa! Are you okay? Can I get you a coffee? No? Then I’ll make this snappy—he wrote that the most elegant way to apply the British constitution is in two components, the dignified, which is symbolic, and the efficient, which is the practical way of getting things done. The efficient has the power to make and execute policy and is answerable to the electorate, for what touches all should be approved of all. The dignified gives significance and legitimacy to the efficient, and is answerable only to God.

“Why can’t the queen criticize the destruction of her country? Why can’t she urge her people to rise up and repel the invaders?”

Because she took an Oath that she holds sacred to remain the dignified and never to attempt the efficient. Unlike most people, she keeps her promises.

But why all the fuss and bother? Why all the pomp and circumstance and panoply?

You may not like it but the human heart yearns to exalt a living, breathing, corporeal representation of the divine. When this is removed from the human experience it creates a vacuum, and what rushes into the void is usually statism.

When Bolsheviks marched Tsar Nicholas II, his wife, his daughters and his only son into a freezing basement in Yekaterinberg, lined them up, shot them and dumped their bodies in a trench, the way was cleared for the iron-fisted expansionism of the Soviet State.

When the Emperor of China was forced to abdicate, emerged in Manchukuo as a puppet ruler, deposed a second time and imprisoned in a re-education camp for ten years, he was freed as a private citizen in the People’s Republic of China dominated by the secular emperor and personality cultist Chairman Mao.

France wiped out its monarchy, most of its nobility and tortured and banished their Protestants, flirted briefly with old Boney as Emperor, then banished him to the middle of the Atlantic and settled on the stultifyingly secular French bureaucracy driven by a liberal agenda. In one of the classic turns of irony, France presently faces an invasion by the world’s most poisonous totalitarian ideology posing as a religion.

I would never presume to promote any constitutional monarchy as the best form of government, it was simply for Britain a vast improvement upon what came before. The next monarch may be a doofus but because of a system formed over a thousand years and reformed for the past three hundred, they are officially harmless.

Something else that occupied my thoughts—no matter how much some people objected to the eight-year reign of America’s former commander in chief, I kept hearing the same thing, “We have to respect The Office of The President.”

This guy works his way up the ranks, makes the right connections, cuts the right deals, bends or breaks every principle and all the time he’s doing this he’s just a politician. Then he attains the Oval Office and in the coronation of inauguration he is exalted and transformed into something other. The career politician is eclipsed by The Office, and The Office must be respected. He also gets his own jet and theme tune though these perks do not belong to the man, but The Crown—sorry, I meant The Office.

I’m sure you get my drift. We are not so different, you and I.

When we refer to the forces arrayed against us, I know you know precisely what we mean. The enemy’s prime directive is first to denigrate, then excise and substitute every instance of the sacred in this dimension.

It begins with the youngest among us. They are sacrificed when they are sent to taxpayer-funded schools, when parked in front of a TV to keep them occupied—it’s called programming for a reason—when they consume food altered and processed for profit rather than nourishment, when they are drugged from the age of two or three after a diagnosis of psychological and attention disorders by state-licensed physicians.

The enemy makes these youngest humans trust them, rely on them, become completely convinced they cannot live without them so they appear at protests bearing signs hand-lettered with I LOVE EU, ready to kill but willing to settle for maiming at the behest of the enemy. Though Islam is the ultimate iconoclast, the brainwashed young of the West run a close second.

The enemy seeks to debase the currency of physical love between two people by encouraging them to film and upload it for attention. The enemy encourages women to kill their unborn children in the name of personal freedom. The enemy twists and bends and perverts any remaining sense of the sacred so that it seems natural to the young to align with violent ideologies posing as religions.

It is inevitable the young will inherit the world they think they want. The tragedy is they will have to live in it.

If you are reading this it is likely you are one of the last of the fully sentient and curious humans on earth, and surely know by now you are being replaced. The young embrace the elaborate structure of lies that enrage the rest of us because their discernment has been destroyed by relentless bombardment of blinding and deafening corporate input. They can no longer hear the pure silver tone of their own sovereign souls. This transformation is nearly accomplished, the sacred disappearing, or fled entirely.

What can you do when there’s nothing you can do? When there’s nowhere to run and hiding only postpones the inevitable? When you tend the garden and the soil between your fingers still feels like sacred ground? When you know in your bones that today might be the best day you’re going to have from here on out and the sunset spreads like a bloodstain on the far horizon?

One thing still brings me hope: the human tendency to place an entity or ideal on a pedestal with every intention of exalting it, then set immediately to work bashing the base with a sledgehammer to see it topple.

On bad days everything I write reads like a eulogy; on good days a sort of pragmatic rage. Then I step out my front door and remember I am a child of a freer time and that love’s the space between the lines of bars that cage us in.

This essay is dedicated to gxg. Hope I answered the question.