The Union Jackal,
March 2023

2,097 words

And did those feet . . .

Every now and then, scientists discover something previously unknown — some particle or planet or plant. Lately, I wonder whether anything has been discovered by these eggheads that isn’t racist. The list of what is racist grows daily, hourly: skiing, the opera, mathematics, memes with black people in them, an ordered pantry, owning dogs, punctuality, books, songs, coffee, milk (presumably coffee with milk is only drunk by the Klan or Combat-18), grammar. As I say, the list is a long one and we could be here all day, and that’s not good because time is also racist. But the latest example of the endless oppression of colored people in Britain comprises quite a lot of that sad and once-sceptr’d isle: the countryside.

That the British countryside is racist is not a new trope. Some bimbo from a BBC program called Countryfile was twining on about it back in October 2020. But now steps are being taken to reclaim the British countryside — stewarded with the expertise of white men since well before even the Field Enclosure Acts of the mid-eighteenth century — from today’s white men.

There was never much chance of getting blacks to visit the countryside (and it doesn’t seem to have occurred to anyone that the absence of black people is a major attraction of the green and rolling hills). There’s nothing to do there except revel in the simple wonder of nature, and that is not really a black thing. They are resolutely urban.

Muslims, however, offer a golden opportunity for the governing class to further disrupt the life of Britain’s indigenous white population. This is why sports company Adidas, who make what a friend of mine calls “West Indian leisure wear,” have “teamed up” with a group called Muslim Hikers to install signs pointing to Mecca throughout England’s famous Peak District, as well as launching a new line of prayer mats. In case you think I have been duped by The Babylon Bee, you can read all about it here.

The signs also give the distance from the Peak District to Makka al-Mukarrama (about 5,000 km, and to give Mecca its transcribed Arabic name) in case any good Muslim or Muslima should feel a sudden urge to go on an impromptu haj in their Adidas trainers. If not, expect the countryside to change in Britain, where 69% of the land is farmland. No Muslim can see a patch of land lacking a mosque and not feel the urge to investigate and complain.

Ramadan and the Regent

If you seek the persecution of Christianity, there is no need to travel to Syria or Turkey; you can just visit London’s famous shopping center, Regent Street. Christmas lights are famous all over the Western world, and Regent Street is known for its festive illuminations. As I am sure you aware, however, there are (at the time of writing) 272 shopping days until Christmas. So why were 30,000 dazzling lights turned on in Regent Street by the city’s Mayor just last week? Because, inshallah, it is Ramadan, and there were plenty of crescents on display to remind the English who the masters are now. Hopefully, Allah himself will take care of the electricity bill.

The Muslim Mayor of my home city, Sadiq Khan, was delighted to turn on this celebration of his religion, whose co-religionists would never have got around to tricky discoveries and inventions such as electricity and light bulbs without the helpful kufr. Khan clearly despises non-Muslims, and is always happy to oblige when it comes to forcing Christianity out of Great Britain.

I am becoming immune to the sadness I used to feel when I see the accretional drip-drip-drip of what is happening to the city in which I was born, but one image genuinely made me sigh for the death of the old country. Nelson’s Column is as iconic a symbol of Britain as you could get. When filmmakers of the cinema’s halcyon days needed what they called an “establisher” — a visual image to indicate to the audience that the movie was in or shifting to a certain city — Nelson’s Column was used to symbolize London, just as the Eiffel Tower was for Paris and the Statue of Liberty for the United States. The famous plinth had the phrase “Eid Mubarak” projected onto it, in honor of the Muslim holiday. Nelson is famously said to have whispered “Kiss me, Hardy” to his aide de camp before dying. He did not. He said, “Kismet, Hardy,” as kismet is a Turkish word meaning unavoidable fate or destiny. I need say no more.

The recognition and subsequent boosting of Ramadan is not just confined to the mosque or the capital’s most iconic Mecca of consumerism. Football matches have been rescheduled to allow for the dietary privations imposed by Islamic law (which is synonymous with Islamic religion). Halal food is regularly served in hospitals, schools, and prisons, to kufr and Mohammedans alike. If Britain were being systematically Islamized, what exactly would be happening that would be any different?

The Irish question

Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason. Heidegger’s Being and Time. Derrida’s Of Grammatology (reviewed by me at Counter-Currents here). All notoriously complex and obscure works of philosophy. Read ‘em all, understood ‘em all. But even I admit defeat when it comes to grasping Brexit, and the Northern Ireland Protocol in particular. The notorious Fermat’s Last Theorem is a game of checkers by comparison.

The legal and legislative complications, of course, may look like a glitch in the program to we mere mortals, but to the technocrats running the machine they are a feature. Much of contemporary politics relies on over-complication, massive legal involvement, and subsequent legislative delay, as well as hyper-bureaucracy. Make it all as complex as possible and people will get bored, allowing you to pass legislation without national debate. As with much philosophy, it is all about time. Brexit, from the moment the vote came in 2016, was never going to be allowed to happen. It was a vote on sovereignty, and that means controlled borders and minimum immigration, and this does not chime with the vision of our rulers. As The Clash so rightly sang, sharif don’t like it.

The United Kingdom’s jug-eared Hindu Prime Minister Rishi Sunak has thrown the British people who voted to get out of this wretched and crooked syndicate a few more tidbits to keep them distracted, but the chances of Britain ever actually leaving the EU is as likely as me scoring a gig as a life-coach.

Diversity Inc.

You can buy Mark Gullick’s novel Cherub Valley here.

Diversity is our strength. This mantra we know and will probably be required to have tattooed on our palms before long — just not the palm with our personal barcodes on, without which neither shall ye be able to buy nor sell. (See Revelation 13:17 for details of this exciting offer. Or Asia.)

Well, if diversity really is a guarantee of strength, then look out, world, because the British Empire is about to announce a comeback tour. Now that Muslim Hamza Yousaf has been elected First Minister of Scotland, Hindu Rishi Sunak is Britain’s Premier, and half-Indian Leo Varadkar is Ireland’s Taoiseach (pronounced “Tea-shock”, should you want to win a bar quiz), things are getting very diverse, indeed. Although Wales remains stubborn, having the worryingly white Mark Drakeford as their First Minister, at least he is a rabid Leftist who despises England, which gets him a pass. Oh, and the Mayor of London is, as noted, a Muslim, plus the Home Secretary Suella Braverman’s parents are from Mauritius and Kenya. Northern Ireland’s leaders are also disturbingly white, but at least the Deputy First Minister, Michelle O’Neill, represents Sinn Féin, better known as the political wing of the Irish Republic Army, themselves better known as the IRA.

So, as any card player will know, this is very close to a full house. Actually, one wonders whether brown people could do a more destructive job than white politicians from Tony Blair onwards have already managed. Maybe they have some residual affection for the country that gave them their chance in the world, and they will feel that white people ain’t so bad after all. At least, as serfs.

You failed the interview, welcome to the company!

As funny as I found the Keystone Kops, the British police provide more laughs than those silent screen stars ever did. I have written before about the “police force,” as it was known before woke, when it became the “police service”, here at Counter Currents. Now, however, those British bobbies have outdone themselves: They are recruiting from the pool of applicants who failed, as in failed, their original interviews and exams.

One of the secrets the various deep states would rather you didn’t know is that Western police forces were hemorrhaging officers way before George Floyd went somewhere more appropriate to his lifestyle, and has not slowed since. The first I read about it concerned Swedish police officers quitting in record numbers in 2016. Matters didn’t improve, and three years later Sweden had to ask Norway to help out with police recruitment. Diplomatically embarrassing, given that the two countries have a, forgive the pun, frosty relationship.

More recently, American police officers have been taking early retirement or just getting away from a badge that increasingly has a target drawn on it. The police do not have to be defunded, just de-incentivized. All we can say about the societies currently being engineered by the hard Left — and this applies to whites as well as the police — is that if you build it, they will leave.

Rioting à la mode

Britain has had a long love affair with the Rugby Union (not to be confused with the Rugby League, unless you want to be beaten up in a pub in Wigan) and expanded the old Home Nations competition involving England, Scotland, Wales, and Ireland to include the Gallic flair of France and the expressive hand-gesturing of Italy. The Irish won the competition handsomely this year, with the English trailing in fourth and Wales shame-facedly a place below them. But I am using what is now called the “Six Nation Tournament” to expand The Union Jackal’s remit to include the frogs. “Frogs,” for those unfamiliar with Anglo-French badinage, is what the English used to call the French — it is undoubtedly banned now — in reference to their love of those amphibious creatures’ fried legs. In a retaliatory simile, the French refer to the English as rosbif, referring to our delight in eating roast beef. Mais je m’égare.

Emmanuel Macron, the petit Sun King currently occupying a digital Versailles, has just raised the retirement age in France from 62 to 64, causing a sort of French Revolution 2.0 but without guillotines. Yet. Paris, Rennes, Nantes, Lyons, and Marseilles — all of which I visited pre-1789; excuse me, 1968; sorry again, 2023 — have all been set ablaze in scenes that made the Black Lives Matter riots look like a sleepover pillow-fight. The British had a similar moving of the horizon a couple of years ago, and I can’t now claim my state pension — if there is any money left in the pot by then — until I am 67. But the French seem to have taken it rather personally.

The British, of course, are not much given to rioting, due to our natural reserve. But how long will it be until the rosbif add setting fire to things to the list of French imports such as fine wine, garlic, and women who have a rooted antipathy to shaving their armpits?

Metaphorically speaking

I am fascinated by metaphor. The word itself, like so many words that actually mean something, is a Greek portmanteau word, and means something along the lines of “after having been carried.” Greek words are very kinetic, but that’s not why you called.

Metaphors are like pop stars in that they sometimes make a comeback, and one I have noticed treading the boards again recently is an event being the “last nail in the coffin” of something or other, be it society, the law, democracy, or whatever it is that is being buried. Firstly, the metaphor needs updating. No one outside of sub-Saharan Africa would nail a coffin shut nowadays, recessed screws being the fixture of choice pre-internment. Secondly, any last nails (or screws) with reference to the long wooden box in which we must all repose one day are not going in; they are being taken out. And we have to ask the question from the old game show: What’s in the box?

God save the King! (who has just cancelled his trip to France because the peasants are revolting).

The Union Jackal.

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