Douglas Mercer
October 6 2024
History is England and now wrote T.S. Eliot and he is right; history is England. By far the most crucial country in the time span of the planet is that great Island Nation, the demi paradise set aside by fate fate herself of her own purposes; having William Shakespeare alone would be enough to justify a people to the heavens; Isaac Newton as well or Charles Darwin; those three would be enough; but there was also James Clerk Maxwell and Lewis Carroll and those late entrants into the Pantheon, Lennon and McCartney; and of course T. S. Eliot as well, though he was American, but then that amounts to the same thing. And also Drake, Hudson, Captain Cook and the colonial offshoots of Canada, America, New Zeeland, and Australia. All in all this is more than enough for dead men's deeds to never die. And then there was the ringing of the planet itself with a technological consciousness and that was England too. When the first trains began to run anyone paying attention knew that the Aryan race was on its way; and here to stay. Yet for some reason all of this history (with the exception of the Beatles who ushered in the time of “love”) is now verboten; more than verboten, it is cast aside as evil. The picture now is Colonial Overlords abroad and a gruff pipe smoking John Bull at home living off slave labor in the tropics (which at least put the darkie to work and got him somewhat productive, you have to earn your keep in this life); they say it is a history of toxic Whiteness and evil; that’s why they let those small crafts in at the Cliffs Of Dover; that’s why they put them up in expensive hotels; they are dreaming of a black England, one where nobody has ever heard of Vera Lynn, or on the off chance they have, think she was a vicious racist; and no one cares who fell in Flanders Field. They have to struggle to play Rule Britannia at the Proms but that won’t last for long; because Rule Britannia is beyond the pale, long outside their ken, their ken being scratching their fuzzy heads; it was an abomination that they once ruled the waves. Now of course they have some sable skinned creatures who kick a ball through the goal and loads of gnats with diplomas and black scum who take to the BBC and wail and whine about Whiteness. It’s nothing to write home about but then the way things are going it’s no longer our home.
“Join us this Black History Month October 2024 as we embrace the theme Reclaiming Narratives. It’s time to take control of our stories, celebrate our heritage, and ensure our voices are heard. Discover how you can get involved and make a lasting impact on how Black history is told and taught.”
Yes you heard that right October 2024 is negro history month in Albion; London is maybe a third White and you can be sure that no one is going to pen the equivalent of Macbeth now; more likely they will pen an op-ed on why the negro should rule England because the White man has it coming. Now they talk about reclaiming the narrative but it occurs to me that you can’t reclaim a narrative unless you had it in the first place; and the only narrative that the negro had in England was being wicked interlopers in the land of the Great White Man; oh maybe some African was brought over in the 18th century, dressed up like a White man, and danced a silly jig for Queen Anne’s astonishment; but then you can dress up a monkey in a tuxedo and put him roller skates so that is nothing to be proud of, and no accomplishment; if the criteria is greatness (and it always is) the negros have nothing at all to crow about; no narrative to claim or reclaim; nothing of note they did; their awesome deeds are a blank, my Lord: other than destroying the very notion of greatness itself. But when the media swoon woozily over them this month they will hide that fact if they even have conceptualized it; that is greatness is no longer the popular opinion; it no is longer focused on at all. And so a few negros strung up some beads in an art gallery, or intruded in the game of cricket, or bitched about White foot paths, or told them to de-ma-colonize the curriculum; or bleated and brayed about “luxury communism” as one inferior negro does and got a paying gig to be a talking head on the telly; but then as for that one she is so damn ugly that if my dog looked like her I’d shave its ass and teach it to walk backwards. All in all these are not the fame of dead men’s deeds; their deeds, such as they are, will die like cattle, but at least cattle are noble animals unlike the race goulash and genetic potpourri who inhabit Cuck Island now and besmirch and soil it with their very presence.
“This theme is not just about revisiting history; it’s about taking ownership of the stories that define our culture, our contributions, and our very identity. It’s a call to action for Black communities across the UK to step into the role of storytellers, historians, and custodians of our heritage. For far too long, our histories have been narrated by others, leading to distorted portrayals that fail to capture the full breadth and depth of our experiences.”
I have rifled through their vile propaganda and I am here to tell you what the tally is of negro accomplishments in England: squat and squat is being generous. Indeed their most grandiose accomplishment is taking scissors to history and using the cut-up method and inserting the picture of flat nosed gorillas in King Arthur’s court or turning Anne Boleyn into a purple assed she boon. Those Angles and Saxons had a large contingent of spear chucking Zulu warriors in their ranks by their dim lights; and Beowulf never could have dealt with the dragon unless some jiving and shuffling went on in the Mead Halls; the War Of The Roses ended when some lazy tar monster belched loudly about his kingdom for some bitches and hos; and you know the orangutans in ruffles and hose were quaffing malt liquor when the Armada was turned away in 1588 and the bells tolled in Thanks Giving; if this were not such joke I would take it seriously but then for all the desecration of my august and noble heritage they are enacting a Nigger England is so risible that all one can do is laugh up one’s sleeve and utter Next! For there will always be an England, we will forever remember Vera Lynn, and history? Well History is always and always will be: England and Now.
“October marks the beginning of Black Futures Season for Black Cultural Archives. This is the season where the charity celebrates and commemorates Black British legacy and look into the future of Black British identity. The highlight of the season this year is a new exhibition – Race Today – Black History is British History.”
That good and great man Enoch Powell went to New York City in 1967 and was appalled by the racial mishmash he saw on the streets, coffee colored and dark cretins the kind which haunted the imagination of HP Lovecraft, a festering sore and open wound of “humanity” come home to roost in the former Dutch Colony, that green breast of the new world. In his hotel room thinking about the hideous and troglodytic faces he saw he shuddered in horror; he shuddered to think that the regal city of London should meet the same insidious fate; and he told the world that in his mind’s eye he saw the Thames flowing with torrents of blood; he was naturally reviled for such “inopportune” statements and called a racist and an alarmist; in fact he vastly underestimated the scope of the problem. The Windrush generation who came aboard that ship like plague carrying rats had swept the Winds Of Change into England and soon like the death dealing Black Death jolly old England was no more. Prophets are rarely honored in their own country and Powell’s name is still mud among the upper-class twits, soiled gentry, and Hooray Harrys who run England alongside various odor laden criminals from the subcontinent. But his words live on and time carries its own proofs and his unending eloquence flow likes a swift clean smooth-running stream.
“As Black History Month October 2024 approaches, we have a unique opportunity to make a lasting impact. Reclaiming Narratives is not just about telling our stories; it’s about taking control of the narrative itself. It’s about ensuring that our history is told with the respect, dignity, and accuracy it deserves.”
Trust me, accuracy is the last thing they want when it comes to the yellow eyed negros. Accuracy would talk about leeching, and knife crime and the lowering of the cultural tone to a heretofore unknown sub-basement of the sub-basement. Accuracy would call for a list of the murders and the rapes and the 1981 riots when the chimps chimped out for the umpteenth time; accuracy would notice the devastation of a black power fist in fireworks over London on a New Years Eve; for despite Sir Paul’s protesting way too much ebony and ivory may live aside one another as piano keys but in reality you got to get the niggers out your life; or keep them to the other side of the tracks and keep them in your gun sights. Anything less is not flirting with disaster—it’s making love to it. If you don’t believe me go to Picadilly Square and see the dark monstrosities with big lips milling about or an Arabic wail on the loudspeakers. That is English history now and it’s an anti-climax to end all anti-climaxes; it’s not any England I will ever recognize the borne from which my family came, the country that my people built; it’s a malarial swamp inhabited by voodoo cultists and towel heads and practitioners of a base and bastard and bizarre non-culture. That is the visible minorities of the “global majority” are all too visible and if you should take your life in your hands and venture out you will see them sticking a shiv in a White man. And oh yes in our minds’ eye we see the water flowing crimson red, we see all the sea run incarnadine, and we see all pell mell and helter skelter; but that is their problem now; we keep ourselves serene; and we know that Shakespeare will always sing, and one day we will fly through space on the wings of Isaac Newton, and flights of Aryan Blood will bring us the rest.
