Colin Jordan’s Merrie England 2,000Beau Albrecht
Merrie England 2,000
Sandycroft Publications: 1993
In earlier times, there was much speculative fiction about conditions around the turn of the millennium. (We’re still waiting for those hovercars, dammit. . .) Other literature focuses more on changes in society than imaginative technology. The first major example, Looking Backward: 2000-1887 by Edward Bellamy, predicted a wonderful socialist future. This novel wasn’t exactly Marxist, but the teleological utopian concepts are very similar. Despite a high exposition-to-plot ratio, it became wildly popular in its time, inspiring a brief but widespread movement.
More recently, the Dissident Right has made its contributions to the literature. As one might expect, the future in these works doesn’t look so bright and shiny. Naturally, the most famous was The Turner Diaries by William Pierce under the pen name Andrew MacDonald. This urban guerrilla novel hardly needs introduction.
Another old classic from the “bad optics” end of the spectrum, and a rare find these days, is Colin Jordan’s Merrie England 2,000. Say what you will about the hardcore crowd, but they tell it like it is; and in your heart, you know they’re right! Picking up on the nutty political correctness that was becoming fashionable, the author made a bold statement about the near future. When the calendar finally rolled over, things weren’t quite that bad in Britain, but the story was a lot more prescient about the way things are now. This is so even though it was satirical black humor.
These are the author’s specialties, as we can see from the very beginning, along with biting sarcasm. The acidic dedication gives some further interesting information about the making of the story:
This book is dedicated to Gerald Kaufman, Jewish Member of Parliament for the U.K., ancestrally from Poland, who not only in his policies typifies trends towards an England in the year 2,000 as depicted in it, but has taken a lead in trying to prevent its publication by penal action against its author for his writings.
In June 1991, acting merely on a complaint by Kaufman, police invaded and ransacked the author’s home, and seized a copy of the first draft of this book.
It further describes winning the legal challenge. Colin Jordan had to tone down the book, trying to avoid further trouble. I recall that the earlier draft was funnier, with more dramatic force. The final version, to a large degree, reads more like a Clown World travelogue; basically meaning a higher exposition-to-plot ratio. He also included a lengthy preface explaining that he solely blames treasonous white politicians, rather than immigrants who “have only taken advantage of the treachery of our own renegades,” and that anyone who doesn’t understand may “avoid either contemplating or contracting what he erroneously regards as ‘racial hatred’ by the simple expedient of refraining from reading any further.”
Despite these exculpatory efforts, the unswervingly fashy author faced more political charges under the Race Relations Act. The book is now illegal in Britain — the government can’t stand criticism of policies destructive to their own public — but fortunately it’s available online.
Annie’s Crime and Punishment
The story opens when Annie Oakwood, 71 years old, calls to her dog named after “Wing-Commander Guy Gibson’s similar animal with the same name in The Dam Busters film of decades past.”
Specifically, her dog is named Nigger.
She doesn’t know anyone is listening, but she’s overheard by a gentleman of African descent.
Rising rapidly erect the Black man fastened his furious eyes on Annie, and directed at her a spluttering torrent of invective, accusing her of the vilest racism, and threatening instantaneous vengeance including calling the police; while directing a number of unsuccessful kicks in the direction of his namesake.
He runs off to call the police, and a couple of diversity hires (a turbaned Indian and a non-white midget) arrive promptly to apprehend her.
Had it been a mere burglary or mugging, it could have been days before the police made an appearance, if at all, but a report of “racism” always ensured an instant response as a top priority of crime equalling if not exceeding murder.
Life imitates art, doesn’t it? According to some recent reports from Britain, anarcho-tyranny like that is fully underway. Violent crimes usually go uninvestigated. Meanwhile, the police have large teams dedicated to scanning social media posts for thoughtcrime, promptly punishing the “offenders.” What has the government done about the Paki grooming gangs preying on children for decades, except to lock up Tommy Robinson for speaking about the problem?
The book accurately predicts that the police now prioritize thought control over stopping crime. Therefore, Muslim and African ghettoes effectively are outside of the law, much like it is today in large cities located in France, Sweden, and so forth:
Thus it was that crime prospered magnificently in the progressive England of the end of the century, most of it left unreported because of lack of police interest, effort and achievement; an arrest and conviction being quite a wondrous rarity. Every town now had its sizeable “no go” area into which the police only ventured on most special occasions, and then in maximum muster and as briefly as possible; normally respecting its inviolability as a sanctuary for those whose outlook on behaviour differed from the law, and who desired to withdraw entirely from its interference.
At the scene of the “crime,” they summon the political police, called the Harmony Force. After a night in jail and a hasty trial, the magistrate remands Annie to their reeducation camp, and her dog gets the death penalty. “Only her age and the fact of a first offence saved her, he told her sternly, from a much longer and harsher punishment.” While at the House of Harmony:
For six whole months Annie was subjected in solitary confinement to an intensive process of purgation designed to rid her of every vestige of those prohibited thoughts which arose from an outmoded and thoroughly reprehensible awareness of racial ancestry, pride in the heritage of her folk, and a concern for its preservation.
Every hour she is forced to repeat the following self-criticism litany:
Q: “Why are you here?”
A: “Because I was a racist.”
Q: ‘What is a racist?”
A: “A wrong-minded person who believes there are inborn differences between human beings.”
Q: “Why is this wrong?”
A: “Because all human beings are one and the same.”
Q: “What is right thinking?”
A: “Races do not exist. The only differences between all people everywhere are only superficial results of different environment.”
Q: “What is the right aim?”
A: “The mixture of all humanity to produce the world man and woman, and eventually the world unisex.”
Q: “When can you go back to the outside world?”
A: “When I have shown for six months that I have been cured of racism.”
Q: “Do you wish to be cured?”
A: “Oh, yes I do indeed, most truly and eagerly!”
After Annie’s release, her son George and his wife Jennifer take her home. The experience left a deep impact. The little old lady cracked under pressure, no match for a mental assault like that, and now is thoroughly indoctrinated to support multiculturalism.
Annie’s Telly Training
Following half a year of solitary confinement in a little cell, the reprogrammed pensioner becomes an avid TV watcher. Naturally, all the programs had become politically correct fare. (From what I’ve heard about British television lately, this much was an accurate prediction.) Under the spell of what Michael A. Hoffman once called the “vampire light of the cathode ray tube,” the hypnotic glowing box becomes a mind-rotting addiction, practically turning her into a zombie:
Watching the television screen for hour upon hour each and every day — something strongly encouraged by the Ministry of Harmony as the habit of a good citizen anxious to acquire good thoughts — Annie’s brain was drawn moth-like to, absorbed by and purposefully irradiated by its luminance, which invaded, pervaded and fully possessed it, supplying her ideas, causing her responses, rendering her whole mind a mere reflection of the glittering brilliance of its domination. While continuing to believe that she remained the arbiter, switching on and switching off receptivity at will, Annie, as with the multi-millions of other slaves of the silver screen, had reached the state not of controlling the electronic brain box occupying the place of honour in every home, but of being effectively controlled by it, or rather by the masters of the box who beamed their controlling influences into every captive brain in every viewer’s dwelling.
Then the story describes the illusion of choice on the idiot box “carefully made to appear as a wide range of free expression,” and of course who really is running the show. None of that would be a surprise to us, of course. (I can’t speak for how things developed in Britain, but at least in the USA, television has been that way since before my time.) The propaganda is quite subtle, hardly different from now. According to the story, it even includes subliminal messages. Actually, this technology has been in development for a while, but not much has come of it, at least as far as we know.
The Minister of Harmony was a shadowy figure who had adopted the stage name of “Jonathan Bull” to benefit from this anodyne of Englishness in place of his rightful patronymic derived from his ancestors’ long-standing domicile in the Hebrew quarter of Lodz.
“John Bull” from the ghetto of Litzmannstadt is cut from the same cloth as Robert Maxwell, né Ján Ludvík Hyman Binyamin Hoch, who was a media magnate, all-around crook, and alleged to be a spy. (By some accounts, he might have been an MI6 / KGB / Mossad triple agent, outdoing even Kim Philby’s divided loyalties.) The skinhead band Skrewdriver wrote a song about him, appropriately titled “Vampire.” One of his daughters, Ghislaine Maxwell, married Jeffrey Epstein, another interesting character who came up out of nowhere and became a billionaire — much like Daddy, and George Soros for that matter. Ghislaine’s other sisters might have been up to some interesting activities too, according to speculation. Small world, isn’t it?
He was the real head of government, the nominal Prime Minister being only a photogenic puppet selected by the former for his soothing demeanour, and made to appear the virtually unanimous choice of an appreciative nation by the simple means of the appropriate subliminal transmissions.
What British Prime Minister lately hasn’t turned out to be a weasel serving the Deep State types instead of the public? (Yes, BoJo the Wanker is a weasel too.) In the story, the Man Behind the Curtain gloats to his closest associates about the effectiveness of TV propaganda, with the sort of candor not seen in the real world since the Podesta DNC email leaks. What’s unstated, since the inner circle already is aware of it, is the following:
Multiracial mixture and human equality were to be propagated as ideals simply and solely because of the supreme advantage to the holders of power of a docile, pride-less, mongrelized human herd.
Therefore, on TV programs, The Narrative is more important than the truth:
Thus when the legions of Julius Caesar were portrayed it was obligatory for those legions to be at least 50 per cent Coloured. Similarly, the Battle of Trafalgar had to be portrayed with ships, half of every crew of which were Black.
That came true too; that’s about how it rolls these days on the aptly-named BBC. This “blackwashing” job, apparently in the effort to gaslight the public into believing that Britain always was multiracial, is straight out of the Orwellian Ministry of Truth playbook.
The Processing of “Honey”
Honey is the sixteen-year-old daughter of George and Jennifer, blonde and blue-eyed. Her reeducated grandmother is now on the same ideological wavelength.
Annie reborn though she was, could still recall — albeit now with an induced feeling of guilt in place of pure nostalgia — the days of her own childhood in the far off 1930s when the playgrounds were full of the fair-haired descendants of Saxon, Viking and Celt, and them alone. That was before the Great Change which followed the 1939-45 war as not only its consequence but its ultimate purpose: a global upheaval brought about by Democracy’s directors to crush the contemporary folk revival of the Aryans, and to facilitate racial amalgamation under their dictatorship disguised as representative government.
Her granddaughter, on the other hand, has a much different upbringing. She’s been thoroughly indoctrinated from a very young age. This includes the daily Circle of Sameness ritual in school:
The children linked hands, then chanted the 20-verse Song of Sameness which had all to do with breaking down barriers, pushing out prejudices, filling up with love and care for every form of life generously classified as “human”. Toleration, it demanded, for all kinds of human behaviour once held to be intolerable. The submergence of the individual in the crowd, it cried for, in favour of the common herd and its collective action, denouncing any competitiveness and rejecting any suggestion of an elite as contrary to sameness. Work for peace, it proclaimed. peace as the extinction of self-assertion and thus conflict.
A fully multiracial experience is delivered to the students, even more important than actual education, which necessitates an extensive system of forced busing to mix up the students as much as possible.
The Colouring of Education
The story further describes the educational experience, with academics further dumbed-down for benefit of low-IQ minorities. Moreover, the curricula are politicized, even math. (I’m not sure how it rolls in Britain, but this has come true in the USA.) Students even get a political record that will follow them for life. Students guilty of “racism” must perform extensive samokritika rituals. History gets positively Orwellian treatment, including lots of Afrocentric flapdoodle. That much has come to pass in the USA, and I have little doubt it’s anything different on the other side of the pond.
Other than getting her brain steeped in cultural Marxism at school, the teenager has a social life. As a Briton with classic Nordic looks, she’s quite a prize for one of the vibrant Commonwealth types who likewise doesn’t care about his own heritage. Note well, mudsharking was almost unthinkable not long before the book’s publication, but by now it’s been promoted very aggressively by music videos, celebrities, and advertising. Much of the effort to normalize race mixing is by the usual suspects, and if they don’t like us noticing, then they should stop doing that.
With her education proceeding along these lines it will come as no surprise to learn that Honey’s boyfriend was one Ulysses Brown, a colourful character physically speaking whose parents had migrated from a mud hut in South Africa to a council flat in South London, thanks to a mobility and resettlement allowance from the Ministry.
Their frequent hangout is a hellishly chaotic disco where they used the club drug “Instant Bliss.” (That’s an obvious reference to ecstasy, which according to what I’ve heard is manufactured in Israel for fifty cents a pill, is sold for a nice markup at twenty dollars, and causes brain damage.) Earlier, Annie didn’t care for her granddaughter’s ventures into the degenerate club scene, but the reeducation camp changed all that.
Annie’s nephew Philip is a “cocksure young man given to sermonizing who worked at the Ministry of Harmony,” and his wife Alice is a like-minded teacher at the Robert Mugabe College in Thornton Heath.
In pursuit of their common concern to reduce world overpopulation by means of White abstention from reproduction, they had joyfully undergone irreversible sterilization. Thus enhanced, they had no less joyfully hastened to adopt a mentally deficient and physically deformed child from Bangladesh whose total contribution to civilization consisted in spending its days making faces, abominable noises, and plentifully distributing showers of spittle to all and everything in range, accomplishments which its adoptive parents seemingly found exceptionally endearing; and the more so when assured that the monstrosity would always retain them.
Since publication, it’s become trendy for white celebrities to adopt non-white children, a rather extreme form of telescopic philanthropy. This fad even has caught on with virtue-signaling plebeians. The book essentially blames ultracalvinism. In my estimation, that’s at most merely a gateway drug to highly weaponized cultural Marxism driving a number of self-destructive trends like this.
Despite his obvious merits, having so far only reached the middle echelon of the Ministry, Philip was not yet privy to the secret that the real reason behind all the Ministry’s propaganda was not really a compassion for Nature’s rejects or concern for the participants in racial integration, but instead the purely utilitarian consideration that a public so moved was by its enfeeblement rendered that much more amenable to control.
One of the activities at the Ministry of Harmony is purging certain history books from libraries and the warehouses of publishers. In real life, there’s some anecdotal evidence of counter-Narrative books disappearing from various libraries. As for publishers, Leftist corporations are more than happy to perform this Orwellian function themselves these days.
Philip believes that it’s his duty to make up the public’s minds for them, an attitude increasingly evident lately with professors, journalists, and the limp-noodled bugmen at Woke Tech firms. His work duties involve public opinion polls which somehow always agree with whatever the Ministry wants; part of what we today might call manufacturing consent. The bureaucrats also specialize in elaborate word games; this PC reframing specialty certainly hasn’t fallen out of fashion.
The Ministry also organizes ethnomasochistic flagellant penance marches for whites. (This isn’t so different from what actually has happened.) Those who refuse get bad political records and spurious misdemeanor charges until they take the hint and participate in the next procession. Similar bullying is meted out to keep the public in line generally.
Philip’s wife Alice is especially enthusiastic about PC word games. (We’ve hardly seen the end of that.) Effectively she plays the role of Winston Smith in 1984, developing the politically correct version of Newspeak, though obviously with more enthusiasm than her Orwellian counterpart. She certainly has feminism in her ideological duffel bag, which motivates a large amount of the word games.
Even Father Christmas had now to be spoken of and depicted as always in the company of Mother Christmas though some more advanced thinkers felt that only by presentation as a hermaphrodite could the figure of Christmas be righted.
Much other lunacy at the Ministry of Harmony is described, including this:
Such people even advocated votes for monkeys and all other primates, coming up with a clever means of balloting these deprived and underprivileged victims of discrimination.
Why haven’t animal rights activists caught onto this clever idea yet? Other than that, voting is done by telephone, rather than by paper ballots.
What of course was not disclosed to persons outside the Ministry was the comforting fact that, if by some untoward error the result of the voting was not in accord with the relevant conditioning of the public, then without fail the presented result was not in accord with the actual result, while having the merit in this discrepancy of fully according with the wishes of the Ministry. It was as simple as that.
Does this remind you of anything?
The Staging of “Holocaust”
Annie’s other niece Violet is married to Martin Fisher, né Fischberg. As a Member of the Tribe, he was in the most advantaged class of all.
Their elevation to the status of the high caste of humankind had been primarily due to the stupendous success of a most brilliant propaganda operation of theirs called “Holocaust”. This had been devised half way through the century based on a superlative stratagem whereby all jeopardy to Jewish ascendancy could be eliminated by identifying all criticism of that ascendancy with a multi-million extermination of Jews alleged to have just occurred; thus evoking oceans of sympathy to drown all unfavourable mention.
In other words, it’s a “get out of criticism free” card, and the event itself is beyond question. This hasn’t worn out from the passage of time, or from gaping holes in The Narrative. Today, the Second World War itself is largely portrayed as merely a backdrop to Jewish suffering.
Such was the massive force of the psychological onslaught of the “Holocaust” operation, supplemented by the supportive measures of suppression, that by the late 1990s free speech concerning the Jews had been exterminated, and only complimentary mention was permissible.
The author’s timetable on this turned out to be spot-on. The story further predicts that the Shoah Business will expand in coming years, with numbers further inflated and lurid details added to it. The Narrative has shrunk a bit, though questioning the greater part of it is still a major taboo and illegal in many countries. This is one major reason why we won’t get an officially accepted sober reassessment of the genuine extent of persecutions during this era, differentiated from the exaggerated statistics and melodramatic myths, as long as The Narrative remains politically useful.
In the story, Martin Fisher / Fischberg specializes in Holocaust promotion. This is carried out under the auspices of a special section in the Ministry of Harmony. He’s the creative sort:
For instance, with the accelerating statistics of the exterminated there was an increasing problem reconciling those statistics with the huge number of very long-lasting survivors who never ceased to show themselves through their incessant clamour for endless and unlimited compensation and vengeance, and with any believable total for Jews in Europe before the event.
Martin’s solution is to declare that the survivors had been gassed but resurrected; “this divine intervention finally and fully proving the worthiness of the Jews to be the deity’s overseers of humankind.” That much is little more bizarre than some of the stories already out there.
Naturally, the schools greatly emphasize the Shoah Business. Roadside shrines pop up all over the country to commemorate the event. Some citizens even go unwashed to avoid soap (although the soap story is one of the lurid details that’s been dropped from The Narrative recently) as an expression of their piety. Even May Day gets hijacked by the Holocaust religion, turning the joyous rite of spring into a macabre morality play. The list goes on.
The story describes other thought reform efforts. Even milk comes under fire for its racial undertones. (This actually happened.) Shakespeare’s The Merchant of Venice gets a comically politically correct rewriting. Woe betide anyone who performs the original version.
Democracy: The Freedom to Comply
The chapter opens:
By the close of the century the Ministry of Harmony could thus look back on a shining path of progress towards the extirpation of every conceivable sign of White racial patriotism, running parallel with the acclamation of every conceivable sign of Coloured and Jewish self-assertion.
And so it came to pass, of course. Then the book describes in brief the Race Relations Act of 1965, bolstered in following years by three other measures. The first and final had been introduced by a Jewish Home Secretary; one of those “cohencidences.” It predicts further measures, to ban possession of even single copies of forbidden literature, and to prohibit “everything uncomplimentary to Jew and Coloureds.” The latter instance has come to pass too; again, ask Tommy Robinson about that.
Lest it be thought from this that all freedom of speech and print had vanished by the time of our tale, be consoled with the knowledge that freedom unlimited remained for anything and everything derogatory to Whites (excluding Jews from this category)!
That too. For just one instance, consider Professor Priyamvada Gopal — a fair and delightsome damsel of Albion — who was rewarded with a promotion after declaring “I’ll say it again. White Lives Don’t Matter. As white lives.” Well, bless her heart!
Further consolation may be found in the news that the Ministry’s most talented dermatologists had by then determined and declared that Whites did have one superiority to Coloureds: thicker skins.
Good one! Other than that, would-be dissidents are denied access to rent meeting halls for conferences. Similar tricks are used to prevent printing of disapproved literature. The way the story describes it is more subtle than how this is done. In a sign that the PC cultural revolution has begun to eat itself, the “TERFs” (feminists who know the difference between a man and a woman) often have to meet in secret and are subject to attack by trannies and their supporters.
A distinctly crafty move in the second half of the final decade of the century had been a series of “Judicial Notices” in the higher courts to the effect that henceforth the matters taken notice of were removed from discussion because they were indisputably self-evident truths.
This is actually how it’s done in Germany. Certain historical events deemed “common knowledge” are beyond dispute, and the truth is no defense in court.
The PC-obsessed government has other ways of enforcing thought control for dissidents, such as the use of the mind control drug Harmonine. (On that note, a few years back, there was a serious proposal in Germany to use oxytocin to treat “xenophobia.” What’s the likelihood that the “refugees” also going to get drugs to help them behave properly in civilized society?)
For the worst cases, the Ministry of Harmony uses lobotomy.
Decay, Distraction and Design
Constant strikes take their toll. As one might expect, they can’t keep the trains running on time. All told, it’s quite a clown show. The Ministry of Harmony approves:
Their right reasoning was that a good amount of decline was even desirable as conducive to a debasement of the public which was beneficial to domination, providing it was administered with suitable distractions, and presented with skilful propaganda encouraging acceptance of it through familiarity.
Sufficient food, booze, sex and spectator sports, along with nonstop formative and tranquillizing television were seen as the only really essential requirements to keep a dazed and degraded public beneath a dangerous level of discontent capable of causing disorder.
Bread and circuses, right? Other than that, strange cults abound. The Ministry of Harmony promotes a controlled opposition celebrity.
His was the fine art of saying a lot which sounded nostalgically patriotic in a most nebulous way devoid of danger to the process destructive of patriotism. For this most talented of side-tracking performances he thoroughly deserved the very high salary and the plentiful perquisites he received from the Ministry, for it was thanks to him that so many people who might otherwise have become something of a problem for the despots of Democracy were instead shunted into a siding of perpetual immobilization under the influence of his sedation.
Even Britain’s royal family gets “woke”:
By the turn of the century all the grandchildren of the monarch were well on the way by the entirety of their training and the atmosphere of the court and country to providing a shining example of Harmony by selecting Coloured spouses.
Well, how about that? The royals even change the flag. This hasn’t occurred yet, but it would be hardly surprising if the idea at least gets floated one of these days as a symbolic measure to turn away from the “evil” past of when Britain was British. The Cross of St. George already is politically incorrect, going the way of the Confederate battle flag in the USA.
The cause of Harmony, which was the pursuit of world oneness, had by the time of the announcement brought about a general integration of the former United Kingdom in a system already embracing the greater part of the world, and confidently expected eventually to embrace the whole of it.
This did come to pass in a way, when Britain joined the European Union. This was reversed lately, after much foot-dragging by politicians. By some speculations, the Powers-That-Be never would’ve allowed the Brexit vote if they had any idea the peasants would vote for it.
The advocates of this stupendous unification, who decades earlier had campaigned as a “Crusade for World Government” for its attainment at one jump, and on this basis had been overwhelmingly rejected, had quickly learned the lesson that by stealthy gradualism eventual victory could be theirs.
Indeed, as the swamp creature Zbigniew Brzezinski put it, “We cannot leap into world government through one quick step. . . The precondition for eventual and genuine globalization is progressive regionalization because by that we move toward larger, more stable, more cooperative units.” Speaking of these globalist types:
They were one global syndicate: an undercover political Mafia straddling the world in the mantle of Democracy.
I’ve observed the same. In Deplorable Diatribes, I describe the New World Order phenomenon as “very high-level corruption, in which ostensibly democratic Western governments have been coopted to a large degree by the extremely wealthy. It’s the white-collar criminal version of the Mafia, but on a worldwide scale.”
Celebrations of the Century
As the year 2000 draws near, Trafalgar Square is renamed “Harmony Square.” Admiral Nelson gets canceled, and his statue is replaced with one of that cuddly teddy bear Nelson Mandela. If that weren’t enough:
On the festive 1st January public bonfires would be lit in all parts with the public exhorted to contribute to the combustion all remaining family relics of the bad old days of a once White England.
TV sets will be upgraded, with the real purpose of converting them into two-way Orwellian telescreens. That hasn’t happened, though massive electronic domestic spying occurs by other means.
When January 1 rolls around, the Central African immigrant Rasmus Olionabobe is elected to Parliament and immediately arises to Prime Minister. Then Honey returns from a trip to the disco, announcing to her family that she’s pregnant by her black boyfriend Ulysses Jones. (If the usual outcome happens, he’ll dump her as soon as she tells him the news and try to find another white girl.) The story ends thus:
The progeny would therefore be fashionably darkish if not true ebony, probably broad of nose and lip as an additional attraction, and most likely to be endowed with the further merit of frizzy hair. In short, the child would obviously be English of the most modern appearance: a truly authentic incarnation of the blessed state of Merrie England in the year 2,000.
A country burns out like an ember, and so dies out another of its bloodlines, with subversion and a treacherous ruling class at fault. This is all so that Zionist ingrates can feel safe from the people who saved them a couple generations ago, and so that the globalists will face no challenge to their power. It doesn’t say what happens next, but it’s not too difficult to guess. Then the oligarchs will rule over the dilapidated husk of a once-great nation until the colored masses overwhelm them too. This was grim; an ending about as cheerful as that of 1984, when the tormented Winston Smith finally loves Big Brother and probably will be whacked moments later.
Many of the things Merrie England 2,000 described as satire and hyperbole have come true, just as some of Orwell’s nightmare scenario has become fact. Will Britain follow the trajectory described here, becoming a dysfunctional banana republic populated by brainwashed consumer units bereft of racial and cultural identity? The final page of history is not written yet; if the British can gather their resolve to oust the exploiter class that betrayed their own people, the nation may be reborn. They will not be alone; real Americans have similar struggles of our own, but we stand with them in solidarity.
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Colin Jordan got it right. Too bad his fellow countrymen decided to declare war on Europe not once, but twice in the 20th century, to save the asses of their dope-peddling, moth-eaten Monarchy and Empire.
And we Americans helped bail them out, twice. Now we both reap the whirlwind.
We now live in a world where beauty is a curse, where intelligent, empathetic people are predated upon by scheisters; where pornographers can freely and abundantly spew horrific degeneracy upon everyone, yet speaking the truth about race is met with infinite punishment.
Thanks a lot, Jews.
A scarily prophetic, if – by the sound of it – caustic work of ‘fiction’.
I hope C-C will review some of Colin Jordan’s other writings.
Send me a link and I’ll have a go at it.
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