Let them ridicule your view of the past, & you gift them the control of our future

When technology hangs history, we all face the death penalty

The population of the UK is now estimated (by the grocery multiples, who don’t need to lie like the British Establishment) to be just over 80 million. Only 5.4 million of us are over 75, whereas 45.6 million are 40 or under. In fact, our population is ageing, but that doesn’t alter one very stark fact: well over half our citizens were born after 1980. The glamrock 70s, fashion-hippy 60s and still austere 50’s are a closed book to most of them. The Second World War is, literally, history. A disturbing proportion of them have no emotional attachment to our values, ethics and culture at all.

Leaving aside whether this is a good or bad thing, for me the most important likelihood is that – given another say 10-15 years – we will have the best part of two-thirds of Brits perfectly capable of believing some NWO drivel about the EU inventing the NHS, and Hitler was a good bloke because he realised democracy was useless and dictatorship much better. I have written before in these columns about ‘preserving the past’, but again we are outnumbered. Did you know, for example, that all the documents relating to the post 2011 Cameron/Clegg targets for achievement in the Coalition administration have gone AWOL? That’s only a decade ago. In Wuhan, the military have expunged all paper records of what ‘gain of function’ was being sought in the arrival on Earth of SarsCovid2, and the subsequent repurposing of bioweapons as the most laughably tragic “vaccines” in history.

History is being changed now even as it’s made. Just four days in from Tucker Carlson’s abrupt dismissal by Fox News, there are five theories about why it happened, including some very obviously dubious smearing of his family ‘CIA’ connections to brand him as dishonestly controlled opposition. I have a French friend whose father joined the OSS (America’s CIA predecessor) during the Second World War, and I think stayed in the organisation for some time. It didn’t make him a traitor or a spy: his deployment has to be seen within the context of its own time – a Vichy State where the Maquis had a sketchy existence compared to the OSS professionals. (As an aside here, some of you may have seen TC’s appearance on Youtube (picked up by the BBC) in which he very pointedly says at the end, “I’ll see you all again very soon”)

For myself, I am reasonably confident that the truth about Ukraine and Zelenskyy will eventually be known, hopefully soon enough to remove the Biden family from public life – but there too, reading the US and Ukrainian version of “the war”, one didn’t have to be Sexton Blake to get out a simple Atlas map and stick pins in it to see the impossible nature of “counter-attacks”, “liberations” and “offensives” being claimed by Langley and Kyiv. However, in these times of news overload skim-reading, the manipulators know full well their chances of being found out are slim: and if someone does nail the lie, they pull down the offending piece. From which moment, it becomes an unarticle: it never happened. (A new secret weapon is allegedly being tested by people close to the likes of Musk, the New York Times, the Home Office and even the Guardian which makes online page-capture frighteningly easy to block).

It’s not hard to trace the relentlessly controlling direction in which the pinched goblins want to travel. So from here on, I want wherever possible to devote some space at The Slog to recording and then hard-copying what life really was like in the anglosphere BT&R – before Thatcher and Reagan*.

*To be absolutely clear about this, my Thatcher/Reagan assessments are not knee-jerk Leftism. There’s nothing I’d like better than to dispense with Left, Right, Red, Blue and all the rest of the worn-out ideological clichés that continue to dog the First World. I’d like (on both sides of the pond) the sad remains of both “major” Parties to be scattered onto obscure oceans and disappear beneath a Tsunami of reform. But Thatcher was too optimistic about human nature and too spiteful about trades unions; whereas Reagan was naive about the trickle-down thing. So both leaders wound up destroying important working class/blue collar communities….and the financialisers swallowed the empty space where manufacturing had been – thus condemning the two great Anglo-Saxon nations to spurious service economies and fiat cash whose floating value became meaningless.

While the 1950s in Britain has gone down as one of the most tedious decades ever endured by a prepubescent, I don’t remember it in that light at all. Manchester had been appallingly blitzed by our German colleagues, and was an unprepossessing dump of bomb craters, yellow smogs and smoke-stained Victorian buildings. But we the Family Ward had in 1951 left Rochdale in favour of smart, lower middle class Prestwich – then a paradise of anally clipped privet hedges and very few cars, directly opposite Manchester’s biggest reservoir. It was, one might observe, very very clean but mainly very very green, for just up the road from us was the St Margaret’s entrance to Heaton Park – a vast preservation of wildlife, wild woods and rushing streams tailor-made to have been the perfect set for the movie of Wind in the Willows. But the main plus point of Heaton Park was, unquestionably, the thousands of trees put there purely for the purpose of allowing little boys to climb as if somehow desperate to rejoin their pre Homo erectus forebears.

What we were really after, of course, was the raw material from which catapults can be fashioned.

I was still at the stage, in this brief World Peace, of regarding girls as smelly, and crap at both climbing trees and football. Far more fun could be derived, it seemed to me, from finding a small but stout v-shaped branch, purchasing a quadrilateral length of black rubber from Mr Billington at the bike shop, and then firing missiles at things without much regard to either social judgement or personal safety.

We might well have Peace (albeit relative) in the World at large, but micro daily life for 1950s boys consisted largely of brainless violence. We longed to be hunters, free from the restrictive warnings of cissies.

Once a year, we were allowed to extend this laissez-faire in remembrance of burning Catholic heretics at the Stake. November 5th – ‘Bonfire Night’ – was second only to December 25th as the major event of the year for 1950s kids. On November 5th 1605, a Catholic sect opposed to King James (and led by one Guido ‘Guy’ Fawkes) tried to blow up the Houses of Parliament, but were caught in the act. Such was the nature of sensitive interdenominational rivalry at the time, the punishment was to be burned to death: obviously, nothing less would suffice.

As the ringleader, Guy Fawkes was the bloke we remembered, and over time he became ‘the Guy’ effigy placed upon bonfires the length and breadth of the land every November 5th. To collect money for the fireworks, kids would sit in high-traffic transport areas and say “Penny for the Guy”. This enabled them to save up for their favourite brand of fireworks (usually either Standard or Brocks) and then go mad on The Big Night chucking bangers, ripraps, Mighty Atoms and rockets around at will.

At the height of its popularity, Bonfire Night would leave an odd odour of gunpowder and burnt wood in the air for at least the next two days. In truth, it remains one of the main things I remember. What was barely remembered at all was the callous religious split in England for much of the 15th century – least of all by my Dad, who was a Catholic himself but usually first with the petrol can to get the bonfire going. (In North West England, we had a Wet Season from September to early December to rival any tropical region, minus only the heat).

Gradually over time, Bonfire Night became a time for largely innocent fun unrelated to any bigotry. So for 375 years, the only social service on alert was, unsurprisingly, the Fire Brigade. At which point, Socialist local government busy-bodies and the Health and Safety Authority got hold of it, and turned the entire event into a boring farce of one big bonfire per community, lots of cordoning off of the citizenry behind metal and plastic fencing – and Peace Camp Wimmin going ooo-ah as various hugely expensive firework display rockets blossomed in the upper skies.

Not surprisingly, this State corralled version of the tradition died with the sound of a faint ‘poop’…to the extent whereby Guy Fawkes Night is now a largely forgotten event. I don’t know how many “firework displays” you’ve attended, but trust me, “When yer seen one gunpowder-powered rocket’s output, yer seen ’em all”.

Covering the subjects of tree climbing, catapults, playing with gunpowder and “organised” events is not perversely eclectic at all. It is a cri de coeur about how, during my lifetime, the traditionally British acceptance of risk, personal acceptance of responsibility and suspicion of State-led interference has been almost completely replaced by largely exaggerated fear, licentious behaviour without thought for the consequences – and insistence that they should look to the all-powerful State for rescue. A responsible preference for daring has been eclipsed by a weird desire for safe zero risk underwritten by that same ever-grasping State.

As our American cousins insist, “Shit happens”. Hypochondria, undiluted trust in all things Big, fear of failure and undiscerning judgements about the viability of certain behaviours will always be a delicate balance between the needs of society and the citizen within it. But the starting point of genuine wholescale reform of our institutions has to be this simple: the greatest realisation of potential for every citizen….because however much the bureaucrats might worship all things systemic, the only State asset that matters is the well-trained and yet streetwise open-minded individual.

Looking back at the 1950s now, even the slightest sign of ‘Big Brother’ in images or Government messages produced an immediate media and public backlash. Now, almost nothing does. So I’m reproducing this seemingly well-informed thread from Slogger Cilo on the site’s comment section the day before yesterday, following my account of being denied an anonymous email account:

cilo on April 28, 2023 at 10:13 am

So, John, you cannot open an anonymous account? Neither can anyone.
Your phone/ pc/ camera/ watch contains various serial numbers. One such set is the Media Access Control address, or MAC. This number appears on every document from the assembly line, to the device’s registration on the network. Every communications port manufactured anywhere, is hardwired with this address, which pinpoints the manufacturer, facility and model. There is no erasing this number, and no communication without it, it is part of all machines’ ‘hello, let’s swop data’ protocol.
By 1 Jan 2001, that port was trackable to 25 feet, by law. 5G gives accuracy down to less than an inch. Even if you use a stolen phone, sooner or later there shall be a data set popping up, showing your face, your other devices, your family’s devices, or a till slip, proving your continued presence close to that number.
There is no anonymity.

I like to see myself as better informed than most, but after pulling a few hitech, media and Whitehall favours yesterday afternoon to get second opinions, I have to say the vast majority confirmed Cilo’s version of the degree to which we are now in very deep doo-doo indeed. At my age, there is always at least the faint opportunity that I clicked the wrong picture, or confessed to being an alien robot from Zog by mistake. But 37 times? So thanks Cilo for dissuading me from handing myself into the Cuckoo’s Nest: it is THEM – not ME, not YOU and not WE.

To conclude, the defeat of the Unipolar NWO contingent (who for some reason were let out of the Funny Farm by the Clintons at the turn of the Century) depends absolutely on the following factors and actions:

*For all Western nation Citizens, recognition of this simple Truism: stop being naice, stop complying, start making life as awkward as possible for these insouciant controllers: follow the example of motorists refusing to be herded by local apparatchiks into restricted movement zones, stop the paying of poorly trained and neglected North Wellians to sit at home and do nothing by refusing to pay money demanded by an incontinent Whitehall.

*Education of the next generation about the need to pay more attention in Modern History lessons

*To keep resisting the invasion of our education processes by Leftists thinly disguised as tiny minority perverts

*Reversion of the educational model to one of learning not just by rote and tepid acceptance, but also by asking awkward illuminatory questions

*Trialing and testing the idea that maybe – just maybe – the Two-Party Duopoly has now outlived is usefulness, and is nothing more than a battle between corporocratic geopolitical interest sets bought by people who don’t care a jot about The People

*For the UK in particular, waking up to the reality that our long-vaunted democracy is a closed shop that is unlikely to be burgled successfully by lots of bourgeois tinpots who can’t even grasp the Rotten Borough structure of our voting and corrupt candidature selection systems

You are – none of you – answerable to a globalist-military-bogus climate science-neo Sovyet Nazi-fascist central command economy-3rd Grade Davos eugenics-sexuality obsessed grab bag of social change policies unrelated to anthropology.

And if the ideological dissonance involved in that ghastly set of uneasy allies doesn’t strike you as repellent, then The Slog is probably the wrong site for you. This is the header that has been here since Day 1 fifteen years ago:

If there is dissonance in social policy development, then I am always going to be the dissident who says that the emotional right-brain humanity in the direction is missing.

Today and going forward, you do not have to be a fanatic to be radical. For when reform has been far too long neglected in the face of unwarranted privilege, to be radical is to be realistic, empiricist, and forever on the side of the socially aware individual.

Thank you for your patience in getting to the end of this somewhat Wanderlust journey. May we all get there in the fullness of time.

John Ward’s search for a permanent home in Gambia continues despite the World outside becoming predictably deranged, deluded, distracted, depraved, derelict, dastardly, debauched, decadent, deceitful, defective and many other words beginning with D – for example degenerate, dehumanised, deplorable, destitute, devious, disastrous, disagreeable, disappointing and diabolical. Among the good things he likes about Gambia are its dauntless population, dazzling weather, inter-religious decency, delectable women, diverse music and dumbfounding cheerfulness. The only reservation he has is its dishonesty during the process of property purchase.