This Article Is for White People

One for sorrow, two for mirth,
Three for a wedding, four for a birth.
Five for a girl, six for a boy,
Seven for heaven and eight for joy.
Nine for freedom from coveting gold.
Ten for a secret ne’er to be told.

-Upon Counting Magpies, traditional

On recommendation, I downloaded the recent film Bohemian Rhapsody. I enjoyed it tremendously overall—it was charming, and reminded me of the lost dimension we often refer to in this generally genial confederacy that is The Platform That Burns.

What struck me most clearly was the final scene at Wembley during Live Aid, the rolling ocean of White faces comprising the celebrants and congregation—one hundred thousand of them. In this vast multitude there were perhaps five or ten non-Whites present. In real life it was one of the largest and least diverse crowds ever seen, and everyone there—nearly two billion worldwide—participated to raise money to rescue, feed, heal, nurture and educate a generation of Blacks who would then grow up to torture and kill White African farmers by way of thanks, then aim to destroy whatever remained of the White world they could get their hands on.

I could never imagine Chinese, Japanese, Jews, Negroes—any other race or culture—deploying an event that all-encompassing in order to benefit another race, only Caucasian/Anglo-Saxon/Celts would have the gumption to even attempt such a feat, as well as the pathological altruism to follow through. We make up six percent of world population and falling, yet nowadays we cannot seem to organise a single benefit to heal, nurture and educate ourselves, nor even to sustain our culture and genetic line by proposing, establishing or preserving a White Ethnostate.

We were the first to build habitable buildings more than four storeys high, the first to construct bridges to carry the weight of steam trains, which we also invented, and the safe and secure mines that produced the coal that smelted the metal that formed the engines that powered the trains with the coal we mined. We are—in a word—astonishing. In invention and innovation we are elves and everyone else are orcs, and the orcs despise us for it all whilst coveting the things we have created. To all who try to stamp on our spirits, to all who try to say we have no culture I have this response: Look around. Technology is our culture, and art and music and beautiful soaring cathedrals, penicillin and botany, flushing toilets and refrigeration and general anaesthesia and Shakespeare, along with the burning desire to share all these things with anyone in the world who will value them as we do. Ours was the most benevolent and beneficial empire the world has ever seen and our legend will endure even if we don’t.

What was that? Colonising Bad? We deserve everything that is currently unfolding? Tell it to the Chippewa, they might return the lands they stole from the Sioux. Or perhaps the Chinese might finally relinquish Tibet. The descendants of Ottoman Turks may vacate the conquered Byzantine lands and return Constantinople to the Christians, along with Antioch and Alexandria.

We are enslavers of mankind? Let me tell you about enslavement; for more than four centuries one quarter to one third of my family were taken into slavery by Barbary Coast Moslem pirates, snatched from their beds in darkened villages of Wales and Cornwall, loaded onto small vessels and carried to the markets of Tunis and Tripoli to be sold. None of the taken were ever heard from again. As I have asked before, who proposes their reparations?

In a world where even Stalin can be mourned (the Russians really did lament his loss, at least for a time and we are much nicer than Stalin) we—White people—will be legends. The rest of the world may eventually decline to the stone age without us but we will be remembered because we will be missed.

But is that really enough? Are we willing to settle for the status of dead-but-mythological beings? Chances are we won’t be entirely wiped out; in bleaker moments I can envision a time when Western Whites are bred like pandas, the most beautiful claimed by the Caliphate as sex slaves, the cleverest purchased to be high-status servants of Chinese equity lords or ruby button Mandarins. Perhaps the ones who do not make the cut will be kept in animal park-style zoos to be mocked by the hoi polloi unable to afford a White of their own to torment.

One hot-off-the-press example of the rollicking bollocks expressed against my people follows below, the upshot being, You are a visitor on Inuit Homelands. Don’t use us for your résumé. Pay what we ask you for our tourist tat with no attempt at negotiation. Meritocracy rewards White people. Racism against White people does not exist. White people are disallowed to judge whether or not any action they commit is racist or culturally insensitive. In Inuit-only spaces you are to sit down, shut up and refrain from participating. In fact, do not hesitate to exclude yourself entirely. (Perhaps on an ice floe?)

Can you imagine a phrase like, You are a visitor on White Homelands allowed to stand in these times? This article is not an isolated case but rather one of ten billion snowflakes forming an avalanche threatening to carry my culture to the bottom of a crevasse and entomb it for all time. Feel free to peruse it for yourself:

Go to the Back of the Sled

Note how everyone has a name for us—qallunaat, haole, honkey, cracker, gwailo, gora, gaijin, goy—but those terms are an accepted facet of their cultures, so who are we to object? But just try a little tit-for-tat and see how fast they go mad.

Perhaps the new White gene pool will derive from the Slavic rather than the Nordic/Celtic/Anglo-Saxon line. The Russians certainly have the drive, the pride, the skills and self-esteem to survive, along with the spiritual foundation that is the heart of any thriving race and culture.

Orthodox Christianity has flourished since the fall of the Soviets. Western Whites on the other hand presently self-identify as agnostics and atheists in numbers far higher than any other group on earth. I suspect this makes us like a reed with the pith pulled out, causing us to bend like straws beneath the weight of the present day. We are out of balance and I see no way back to where we need to be except through the Word of God, which most Whites now deride or dismiss entirely. As our science and technology bloomed, our connection to a sense of the Divine withered. We have sucked the last drop of juice from the fruit of The Enlightenment and now that we have arrived at its poisoned pit we cannot seem to stop chewing.

Many Britons flinch when one suggests ever needing a gun but don’t believe the lukewarm protestations. As the past few years have unfolded any remaining hesitation is apt to change, and soon. The race memory we are beginning to revive is that for thousands of years everyone on this island was armed at all times with daggers—with swords if you could afford them, with throwing axes and longbows for truly special occasions. Personal defence was not just a choice, it meant accepting full responsibility for individual safety beyond city or castle walls. Defending ourselves with grace and strength and skill was something we once took great pride in.

The seed of our downfall was planted nearly two centuries ago with the passing of The Metropolitan Police Act of 1829, when Sir Robert Peel established a full-time, professional and centrally-organised police force. It was not well received at the time; the public felt they managed quite well with night watchmen and personal vigilance, and besides, who was expected to pay for it? And why hadn’t the people been consulted? As things usually go between governments and those subject to them, government had its way. We turned our weapons over to legally-sanctioned protectors and began to soften as a people.

Despite the name, The Metropolitan Police Act was not confined to cities—everyone in the country was compelled to play along. From one season to the next coach loads of newly disarmed travellers upon lonely country roads provided easy pickings for any bent upon robbery as either avocation or full-time career; The age of the highwayman was born.

I find it endlessly fascinating to consider that the arrival of police also heralded an unprecedented rise in criminality.

Your right in America to defend yourself with impunity is a beautiful, precious, vanishingly rare thing in these times, never let it go. You can almost sense the media in both our countries getting erect at the thought that they may have at last found some incidence of White-on-black or White-on-muslim aggression, hoping against hope to pounce upon one of our people whilst blandly obfuscating the facts of or ignoring entirely the hundreds of daily assaults great and small against Whites.

For myself, I carried a knife, an ash bat and a small bearded axe when I roamed coedwig and cwm, though I always saw the blades as weapons of last resort. I do not have the muscle mass to defend myself hand-to-hand against a fully-grown male, let alone a pack bent upon my rape and mutilation. To speak to the point, the knife I carried was for myself; I had always planned to ask God’s mercy and open my own throat before I let the wookiee win, before I had to endure being used up then ground out like a cigarette butt.

Warning, graphic and upsetting:
https://searchlight-germany.blogspot.com/2015/09/will-image-of-dead-swedish-woman-raped.html

In my country, feral entities like the ones who attacked the woman above have increased from a trickle to a flood over the past forty years—invited, encouraged and in many cases physically transported courtesy of increasingly progressive governments which feeds, clothes, treats them medically and houses them all, along with their multiple wives and large litters of offspring with money extorted from people like me. To add insult to injury, the government enacts laws proscribing any opinion contrary to their population-replacement policies and to the invader’s poisonous doctrine for conquest. It defines the word untenable.

In my country we are graced with one of the most exquisitely accurate modern parables in the form of the Harry Potter series. The story is the brainchild of billionaire arch-lefty JK Rowling who—despite massive cognitive dissonance—authored a tale featuring an evil government colluding with the media to viciously subvert every threat to its power base by slandering, imprisoning and murdering those who disagree with the state-sanctioned narrative of reality. Despite a government-controlled school manipulating the curriculum and a ministry persecuting any media with opposing views, Harry forms his own paramilitary resistance group aiming to exercise the people’s suppressed right to bear arms and defend themselves.

It is also worth noting that Hogwarts is one of the least diverse schools in fiction, allowing only those students who meet certain genetic criteria—namely, magical ability. Hogwarts not only disallows non-magical folk from attending, they strive to keep their world entirely secret and separate from mundane humanity whom they term Muggles. So much for Ms Rowling’s strident appeals against walls, national borders and exclusionary policies based upon genetics.

I digress; Harry’s magical world has its own concept of elitism as well: Death Eaters who execute anyone who disagrees with them and routinely torture and enslave those Muggles and magical folk they deem impure. Not all of the students of Hogwart’s House Slytherin are bad people, but all Death Eaters adhere to Slytherin ideology which is incompatible with a moral society.

As a result of the Death Eater coup, sweeping government surveillance is implemented, draconian policies drafted and certain words and speech taboo-ed. By the time the ministry-in-exile got their act together it was too late, and only the remnants of the paramilitary group were able to resist and eventually overthrow the Death Eater regime.

I honestly don’t know how JK Rowling is liberal, reading Harry Potter made me conservative as crap.

Which brings me to the reason I am writing this today.

Not long after the New Year I was foraging for late mushrooms or early ramsons or whatever I could find when I heard something crashing through the leaf mould headed towards me. I looked up to see two men coming my way and before I had a chance to think I had my bat in my hand. I don’t remember unscrewing the top on the architectural tube strapped to my back, it was simply in my hand and I swung it.

I kneecapped one of them, then hit the other in the head. The one I kneecapped was crawling for the knife he dropped so I clubbed him, too. More than once, in fact. I still don’t know what came over me, but I could not seem to stop. I thought I heard more crashing coming up the hill so I turned, bashed the other one on the head again as I passed him, then ran. I ran, walked, trotted and stumbled the half mile or so back to my car, then drove home.

Upon my return I locked the doors and windows, sawed the bat in half, split it like kindling and gave it a viking funeral in the wood burner along with the clothes I was wearing. The tube was plastic, so I cut it up, and after dark I pushed the pieces into the garden beds. I couldn’t burn it and the only thing I know that completely transforms blood is living soil.

I couldn’t make myself leave the house for three weeks. I could not write or read or even sleep much. After the first week I emailed a friend on Protonmail and told them what happened. This friend never gave up on me, kept writing, kept my spirits up until I was able to trust words again and to order my thoughts. Thus I was healed to the point where I am ready to communicate again.

Where English-speaking Whites of the West are concerned, our numbers are low—out of every one hundred people on the planet, ninety-four of them do not consider themselves White. We are unaccustomed to hardship. Most have jettisoned any connection to the Divine. The two types of humans who should be the closest of allies—White Western heterosexual males and females—are in perpetual conflict. Most alarming is the prospect that perhaps three-quarters of White people are traitors to their own kind—selling the rest of us out for fear of being called racist, or for political or monetary gain, for the fleeting thrill of approval via social media or for the fad of miscegenation for politically correct bragging rights.

Shortly afterwards I was sitting, staring at nothing, vacant expression on my face, probably, when it occurred to me that I didn’t know if I killed them both or just put them on the disabled dole rolls for life. Since I did not linger to do forensics I may always wonder. Or not, if I get a knock on my door. What I do know is in that moment I simply refused to submit.

So, after this litany of despair you have just read, this great list of grievances against the people who hate my people, why did I even bother to resist? Why not give up, lie down and die? It was this: when the moment came, something rose up in me, something wreathed in flame and bellowing fury and carrying the conviction that everyone deserves to live in a place where they are not hated for the colour of their skin, myself included.

I sense something long-dormant beginning to stir in the hearts of all my people; they now know the discontent of the seed just before it splits into new life. They begin to see the choice before them: to rouse that feeling to fever pitch or douse it with drugs or denial, self-destruction or latent shame, but the day is at hand when all must face that rough beast slouching towards Bethlehem to be born, watched by waiting kites and crows turning and turning in the widening gyre, patiently awaiting the inevitable feast.

This essay is dedicated to Gloriously Deplorable Paul

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