The Union Jackal, February 2023

Riot in Knowsley on February 10 that was sparked by a video of a migrant propositioning a minor.

1,750 words

Out, damn’d Scot!

So it’s fare thee well to dime-store Lady Macbeth, Nicola Sturgeon. The Scottish premier, and the woman Nigel Farage called the most unpleasant politician he had ever met, quit after an uproar, which is what journalists reading tweets and sensing a story is called just at the moment. It seems that promoting legislation that means 16-year-old kids — never the most emotionally stable class of humans — could decide to swap genders as easily as they switch phone providers didn’t go down too well with the average Scot. The Scottish premier — they are called “First Ministers” in Jockland — resigned, opening the way for a leadership challenge which includes an even more odious human being, Humza Yusaf, a Muslim who is on record as disliking his white colleagues based on their skin color.

Sturgeon was not the only pushy broad with a connection to England to quit as national premier in February. New Zealand’s toothy dominatrix Jacinda Ardern also threw in the towel before the towel was thrown at her. She is the woman who told her people that the government “should be the only source of truth.” You should have thought that, sweetheart, not said it.

Hopefully, and keeping it in the Commonwealth, the third pretty maid all in a row to go will be foppish Canadian charlatan Justin Trudeau. He recently commissioned a rigged enquiry about the treatment meted out to Canadian truckers who dared question the new globalist order. Oh, and not just the truckers, but people who gave money to their cause, some of whom had their bank accounts frozen. I have liked the Canadians I have met here, but their voting for this mountebank twice does make you question their cognitive abilities. Perhaps Pierre Poilievre, leader of the Canadian opposition, might restore an unwoke Canada to some kind of respect on the world stage before Canadians start wearing dresses, or hinting that they might like to, as in Monty Python’s famous “Lumberjack Song”.

It would be nice to see Trudeau retire into private life, the better to ponder whether his dad was Fidel Castro or Mick Jagger.

15-minute inner-city blues

You have to hand it to the globalists, they are not short of ideas designed to curtail the freedom of ordinary people. The latest wheeze of the World Economic Forum is about to be road-tested in one of the world’s most famous university cities, Oxford. The concept has become known as the “15-minute city,” the idea being that the city will be divided into sections and everyone should have all the resources they need within a 15-minute radius. You can only make a specified number of car journeys outside your patch a year before a system of fines kicks in. It sounds quite reasonable, particularly as people have become lazier. In fact, the idea resembles a series of expanded prison exercise yards.

The overarching governmental reason for this herding operation, planned for people and not cattle, is of course the green agenda, flown in like a new stage-set when the Covid show finished its run. Governments know that you have to keep the pressure on the little people. The idea is that car journeys will be curtailed, thus helping to save the apparently beleaguered planet. I am actually equipped to be objective about this, as I don’t drive, never have, and find cars dangerous, noisy, and dirty, as well as turning some people into maniacs. But I do appreciate that, in a country as spacious as the United States, and with a railway system that needs a John Galt in charge rather than a Pete Buttigieg, cars are a necessary evil, where their diminution might not matter so much in Britain. It is possible to cycle from John O’Groats at the northern tip of Scotland to Land’s End in Cornwall — the traditional longest distance traversable in the United Kingdom — in 14 days; ten if you are super-fit. It’s a very small island.

But, of course, environmental concern is a classic distraction to hide an ulterior motive, and talk of “climate lockdowns” has led to protests and demonstrations in Oxford and elsewhere in the UK. There is a certain sense of the worm turning just at the moment in Britain.

The green side of the argument features the usual hysteria about conspiracy theorists who disagree with their creeping totalitarianism, and a good example is here. The mainstream media is onboard, as they are with any version of the “current thing,” but it may well be that the natives are becoming restless.

Find the lady

The case of Nicola Bulley is particularly distressing, and not just on a human level. Ms. Bulley went missing at the end of January while walking her dog by the River Wyre in Lancashire in the north of England. For the next three weeks the police dragged the river, a private team of dredging experts was brought in, and locals even went out with torches looking for the missing woman. Nothing — until a dog-walker found a body by a stretch of river the police and the experts claimed to have scoured. Last Sunday, the body was confirmed as that of Ms. Bulley.

You can buy Mark Gullick’s Vanikin in the Underworld here.

I am not sure which is more upsetting, the sad death of Nicola Bulley, the incompetence of the police, or the callous tone of some of the journalism about the case, some of which seemed more concerned with social media abuse which might be aimed at those connected with the investigations.

Also, an unnecessary amount of attention was paid to Ms. Bulley’s personal problems. Allegedly, Nicola suffered from depression and had problems with alcohol brought on by her menopause. Mental health issues and alcoholism are two grievous afflictions that have nothing like the level of governmental, social service, and media support and approval that drag-queen story hour in primary schools has.

Perhaps the most touching thing about the whole sad affair is that the public raised £10,000 to cover the cost of Nicola’s funeral. This is the only ray of light in what is otherwise a tragedy reflecting on many areas of incompetence and callousness in British society.

The black wives of Henry VIII

The blackening of British history continues apace. Now, strictly speaking this is an American story, but as Union Jackal I decree that I am able to cover it, both because it concerns one of Britain’s most famous kings and also because America was a former British colony we let you have because you were more trouble than you were worth. No free-born Englishman would throw tea into water that wasn’t boiling hot. You deserve Biden and everything else just for that insult.

Six — which refers to the famous six wives of Henry VIII — is a musical off Broadway and heading for the ‘burbs, last spotted in Columbus, Ohio. I’m surprised they haven’t had to change the name of the town, incidentally, as white liberals get into a bit of a tizzy about Christopher Columbus, what with the audacity he showed by discovering much of the New World and allowing it to become at least part-way civilized. Funny how Columbus doesn’t seem to bother the people who actually live in those countries, in one of which I am sitting writing this, and whose national currency is the Colón. This is not a medical term in Spanish, but rather the Latin American name for Columbus. But I digress.

Apart from being described by the doughty Columbus Dispatch as taking “a fresh, feminist look at British history,” a description one can only shake one’s head at in despair before passing on, the photo of the cast shows three of Henry’s half-dozen wives as clearly black, and two more of dusky hue. This is becoming a constant with British history as portrayed dramatically, which is increasingly resembling one long minstrel show. I have written on the subject here.

Henry VIII no more had a black spouse than he wrote Greensleeves, another popular myth about Britain’s stoutest king. He did have an eye for the ladies, however, and generally had his way with them. And if you can cut your wife’s head off, or at least sub-contract the work out to an expert, I imagine you don’t get nagged all that often. And you have to admit that he did impress the girls. “Wow, she’s hot. How can I make her notice me? I know, I’ll close all the monasteries.” Chicks love all that.

Sir Oswald Knowsley

Knowsley is an area of Liverpool, and possibly one of the most Left-wing areas of what is probably Britain’s most Left-wing city. Why, then, are some of its residents being labelled “far Right”? Gentle reader, they committed the new cardinal sin of being concerned about immigration.

The use of the term “far-Right” has followed exactly the same trajectory Orwell describes in “Politics and the English Language” with reference to the word “fascism.” It doesn’t mean anything over and above what the person using it doesn’t like. The new “far Right” in Knowsley seem to object to Muslim illegal immigrants propositioning their young daughters on the latter’s way home from school.

This Channel 4 report is representative of the instantaneous smearing of anyone going against the pro-immigrant narrative. It is irresponsible and shoddy journalism, as it ignores two key elements of the so-called “Knowsley immigration riots.”

Firstly, there is a video taken by a young girl of her being propositioned by a cross-channel migrant. It starts at about 52 seconds. Locals have said that this is far from an isolated incident. Secondly, the riot, the escalation of violence, and everything subsequent were almost certainly exacerbated by what seems to be a British chapter of antifa. This is explained — although the term “antifa” is not used — in the Merseyside police report on the incident. An “anti-fascist” gathering had been arranged on social media at the Suites Hotel, Knowsley, the scene of the protest, and that is what turned it into a riot. From the report: “[A] number of people, who were not part of the original protest group, turned up, and it clear they were only interested in trouble through violence and intimidation . . .”

So, there we have it. Concerned parents who turn up are deemed to be fascists because a group of anti-fascists turned up and caused trouble.

A mad world, my masters.

The Union Jackal.

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