The Union Jackal, December 2023

2,142 words

Christ, you know it ain’t easy

So, the union of Great Britain and Northern Ireland staggers through another year of our Lord, although that’s not a much-used phrase just at the moment. That’s because the long-simmering offensive against Christianity in the United Kingdom, which usually peaks over Christmas, has seen the woke troops finally go over the top. The cross is now in the crosshairs.

Britain saw, in 2023, Christians arrested for praying silently opposite abortion clinics. The switching on of the famous Christmas lights in London’s Regent’s Street were outshone in March when Muslim Mayor Sadiq Khan turned on a dazzling display of Ramadan lights. Soon, Khan will surely be invited to open London’s planned mosque in Piccadilly Circus, another landmark to fall to the crescent. Pubs close and mosques spring up like woodland mushrooms. A friend tells me that, in a town between our hometowns, our favorite pub has just closed, while plans for a Muslim “community center” have been approved. It’s the year of somebody’s Lord, all right. But, under considerable pressure, Christianity just lost interest in defending itself.

Where ancient and druidic Britons would celebrate the changing seasons, equinox and solstice, with ceremony and song — blacks built Stonehenge, by the way, so we were informed just this year — their descendants mark their main religious festival (at the time of writing) with the ritual of the televisual advert. These provide the tribe with its talking points for a few weeks, and even an indication of cultural direction.

This year’s crop of corporate come-ons designed to entice the public to part with what’s left of their money at the high-street temples of Mammon do not simply ignore Christmas, they actively deride the concept. Christmas is no longer simply to be ignored and its mention discouraged, it must now be actively mocked. Anything connected with Christianity is to be culturally expunged, and that includes “social Christianity,” the moral framework which centuries of a Christian belief system bequeathed to a burgeoning and successful white civilization. Social Christianity is what’s left when you have drained off all the metaphysics.

The nativity featured a nuclear family, and so transgresses on two fronts. The only families actively encouraged today in the UK are the ones soon to be joining their husbands and fathers on welfare in London, or on student visas to study worthless degrees they will not finish. Or possibly they may be holidaying out in rural England, where their presence will disturb those native families — note the etymological link between “native” and “nativity” –who have sought a separate peace, as it was partly designed to.

Cromwell’s Puritans famously banned Christmas, although modern folk will be more familiar with Alan Rickman’s fictional Sheriff of Nottingham in Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves when he hears mention of the season and barks out, “Christmas is cancelled!”

Christianity may not actually be banned in the UK, but it is gradually slipping away, with much aggressive assistance, into the realm of the archaic, like quill pens and penny-farthing bicycles. The British must hope that whatever is coming next is not much, much worse.

Dreaming of a black Christmas

The British cultural offensive against Christianity is simply a major battle in the overall war against whiteness. Anti-whiteness really came to town in the UK in 2023. The Great Replacement, assumed to be a purely demographic initiative, went cultural and corporate. Certainly this had been building for some time, finding its feet and testing the ground for grip, but 2023 seemed to provide an accelerant. Suddenly, the percentage of blacks in British adverts seems to rival that of blacks in the National Basketball Association in America. Interracial relationships are a popular sub-theme. Magazines now feature black people on their covers, plenty of brothers and sisters on their editorial staffs, and adverts that look syndicated from the Nairobi Times. It’s still whites who actually read the magazines, of course, and there is no indication that miscegenation sells.

Blackness was the brand in the UK in 2023. Even the mainstream media occasionally mentioned the metaphor du jour, “seeing everything through the lens of race.” But these are no tinted spectacles through which we are obliged to view a blackened cultural panorama. These are more like the great, clunky field-inversion glasses the behavioralist psychologist B. F. Skinner forced his daughter to wear. At first, and accompanied by nausea, she saw everything upside-down. Then, as her visual field acclimatized, she saw everything as it should be. Then Skinner took the glasses off and ended the experiment. The hapless girl had to adjust all over again. Skinner got his data, while his daughter eventually killed herself.

These feel much more like the lenses through which we are mandated to view race, by which is meant blackness. You won’t be seeing Sikh women on the cover of style magazines and you won’t be seeing more Chinese families in TV ads. You’ll be seeing efficient, cordial, successful, and glamorous black people all kitted out with an impeccable and uniform social conscience. Indeed, the world turned upside-down.

No threat to our technocracy

We are constantly told by the loudspeakers that there are various threats to our democracy. Remember democracy? Demos, people? Kratos, power? Well, apparently it is a funny old part of the transatlantic political landscape where that blessed creature is not being hunted to ground. The fever has peaked in the United States, where every second sentence spouted by a Democrat reminds a breathless public that Donald Trump is not merely a threat to democracy, but is in addition a dictator in waiting who will have his political opponents imprisoned and/or shot. Dr. Johnson said that patriotism was the last refuge of the scoundrel, but democracy is so bland and globalist it has replaced mere nationalism as the final hiding place for the blackguard. Well, our democracy may be under threat, but our technocracy, this millennium’s theosophy, is alive and kicking. Kicking its citizens, mostly.

In Britain, the latest technocratic news is that the Covid inquiry is in full swing. Inquiries in Britain are like water for chocolate: They are the first port of call for outraged Members of Parliament (MPs) after the latest deception or act of incompetence (Covid seems to have been both). The inquiry is the model instrument for the technocratic deep state, and has several functions. It diverts the media and by extension the public. It also costs money, and the bill justifies a continuing leviathan state. Much of this money goes to lawyers, always the ultimate aim of state machinations. The outcome is always suitably vague and — always a bonus — it requires plenty of political theater. It is time for a meta-inquiry, an inquiry about the need for inquiries.

Meanwhile, in the Home Nations . . .

Rugby Union is possibly the most nationalistic of sports, conjuring up what it must have been like for two neighboring villages to beat the living crap out of each other for days in an attempt to force a pig’s bladder over their opponents’ line. In the 1970s, when I was growing up and playing the game as quite a nippy winger (I started off in the pack as flanker, but it was far too frightening; there were maniacs in there), the four countries of the Union contested the “Home Nations Tournament” between England, Wales (a powerhouse then), Scotland, and Northern Ireland. It actually felt like Great Britain was both Britain and Great, and it felt like home. Those were the days.

They changed this to the Six Nations with the addition of France and Italy — and doubtless to boost the European Union’s image — and God knows what it is now. But they managed to shoo out the notion of “home.” So how are the old Home Nations doing, other than England, as we approach the Year of our Lord 2024?

Well, if you have not had a cracking 2023, console yourself with the fact that Scottish Prime Minister, the Muslim Humza Yousaf, had a worse one. Inheriting the party leadership from a disgraced predecessor — that would be Nicola Sturgeon — ought to be a gift, but Yousaf has stumbled his way from one failure to another. Scottish drug deaths, probably already the highest in Europe, managed to increase, about the only thing that did under the Scottish Nationalist Party (SNP). Perhaps Yousaf is finding out that an arrogant and vocal dislike of white people doesn’t play well in a country which is over 95% white.

Young Marxist Leader [©GeorgeSoros, probably] Mark Drakeford is stepping down as the überlieutenant of the People’s Republic of Wales, into which Drakeford has ceaselessly toiled to turn the land of the dragon where, according to Blackadder, packs of huge men roam the hills frightening people with their close-harmony singing. Drakeford is a man there is absolutely no excuse for. His Wales-wide 20 miles per hour speed limit is a suitable monument to this Soros-endorsed booby.

Northern Ireland remained in its confused state, appearing mostly as a footnote in ongoing Brexit negotiations. The phrase “Brexit negotiations,” by the way, should always have “ongoing” placed before it in any sentence.

No, England may be getting the worst of immigration, as Abdul and Achmed have no wish to live in Cowdenbeath or Llanelli (imagine how worn the letter L is on a Welsh keyboard), but the old Home Countries are not lagging far behind. We’ll all go together when we go.

Hope lies with the proles . . .?

I have a shortlist of phrases and quotations I can’t track down, even armed with the Internet, and one of them occurs somewhere in the work (possibly Lucky Jim or Girl, 20) of the late Kingsley Amis, father of Martin, and one of the great rogues’ gallery of British novelists, along with Anthony Burgess and Evelyn Waugh. Amis Senior describes someone’s attention as coming round “like a flotilla of old ships.” Sailing vessels have been much in the British political conversation this past year, but it is not rigged armadas or armored naval might that has seized the public imagination. Who would have thought that Britain would finally be conquered by sea, not by fleets of heavily-armed maritime war machines filled with fanatic nationalist soldiers, but by goatherds in rubber dinghies? The only Venn-type overlap is that both collectives have plunder high on their invasion to-do list.

But Amis’ turn of phrase may also apply to the attention of the wider British public, the masses, the hoi polloi, the great unwashed. Are British people starting to wheel their attention away from Netflix and their motorcars and to notice the cultural atrocities facilitating Britain’s role in the Great Replacement? It generally takes real, physical structures and the threats they represent to children to really get the bearlike British aroused, places such as schools and migrant centers. These are gradually becoming flashpoints as Islam creates friction both with disenfranchised locals and the intersectionalist gang who have not yet realized just how much they have rubbed Islam up the wrong way. Britain is now officially entropic, each event taking place on its shores contributing to a worsening social and economic situation.

It is difficult on current showing to see the Great Britain of 2024 rising phoenix-like to greet a proud new dawn. Watching from a distance, it seems as though the country’s accredited media are either complicit in Great Britain’s accelerating demise or they are the proverbial frog in the boiling water, which it has not noticed heating up incrementally since the 1960s. Britain is now a neurotic, near-bankrupt police state whose Prime Minister is both a Hindu ex-banker happy to shill for the globalists, and really only interested in the role of PM as something on his bucket list. In November 2024, Rishi Sunak will doubtless hand over the reins of power to my school chum (who I never met) Sir Keir Starmer, whose Labour Party will likely bring on the death throes of both economy and culture, at least giving any future phoenix a crack at the title. Other than that, Britain’s current political “narrative” — which is what we have now instead of truth — is that of managing decline.

The term “managed decline” is not so much a political theory as a restless spirit which haunts the British political class. It is variously attributed — in modern parlance that means it has at least two Daddies — but the earliest mention in British politics seems to have been inspired by the notorious Liverpool riots of 1981 ^[4]:

As the clean-up began, rival factions within Margaret Thatcher’s Cabinet locked horns over a policy of strategic abandonment or “managed decline” as the Chancellor of the Exchequer, Geoffrey Howe, termed it.

“Strategic abandonment” is a prize example of British technocratic jargon.

“Oi, why did you run off and let those nutters beat me up?

Run off? I did no such thing. That, dear boy, was strategic abandonment.”

 

Treason’s greetings!

The Union Jackal.