NEWS DESK MICHAEL WALSH, 6th March 2001

THE FOREIGNER SLAPS THE ENGLISHMAN’S FACE

A Post Office I occasionally use is situated in the middle of one of Britain’s most deprived areas. It is for the moment 99% white working class. These are the kind of poor ‘red necks’ who in their trusting innocence believed the lies and voted for New Labour’s so-called socialists; a party of shameless scoundrels who have successfully hijacked and castrated the working class and its aspirations.

My people of the millennium have striking similarities with the equally trusting rustics of Olde England. They believed the words of priests who promised ‘pie in the sky when they die’ as compensation for the abuse they suffer on earth. Today in inner city (and rural) England the peasants endure the living hell of barrow boy England - and there’s no pie in the sky when they die. Those they leave behind will be charged a council rent and tax on their grave space. Heads you lose - tails you lose.

In this Post Office queue were the shipwrecks of England’s humanity. Each had a beaten look about them. There were no signs of physical blows but the effect was the same. They were cowed; their heads were down and their shoulders stooped in weary resignation. Their eyes, the windows to the soul of young and old, were unhappy and unresponsive. They shuffled obediently to tape-recorded announcements of a teller’s position becoming vacant. There was hardly a spark of life in any of these beaten serfs.

The shed next-door houses the local ‘supermarket’ It is garlanded with tacky posters proclaiming it cannot be beaten on price. At the litter-strewn rear of the store I recently observed an old white man, picking food from the store’s skip before the refuse collectors got to it. He is getting his food even cheaper!

Back in the Post Office the shuffle continued but there was another queue of people too. Apart from the traditional line up of homegrown English folk collecting their pensions, purchasing licences, taxing their battered cars, posting mail and picking up family allowances, there was also a racially segregated queue. In this line were people of many races other than European. It formed up at a teller’s position purposely set aside for providing the world’s excess hordes with the financial and other means of unearned survival.

All that Monday morning sheaves of British bank notes were pressed into the eagerly splayed hands of immigrants and their offspring; refugees, bogus or otherwise; an orchestra of international parentage.

In the English queue the real second-class citizens, the poor of England whose over taxed labours had produced the enormous wealth now buying the goodwill and votes of New Labour’s immigrant foot soldiers. My peoples queue reminded me, God forgive me for saying so, of semi-starved shippon-shackled cows being milked.

As God is my witness one of the swarthy male recipients of the taxpayer’s purloined largesse collected ‘his’ money, turned on his heel and strode exultantly towards the Post Office door. On reaching the exit he turned toward England’s queue and raising his arm towards it he displayed his rampant middle finger and bellowed sarcastically, ‘Thank you, England!’

The look on the face of that low-life parasitical son of wherever was filled with contempt for his reluctant hosts – as well it might be. He knew where the money came from. Metaphorically speaking the un-British government had just mugged the people of England obediently formed in their own queue, and was now doling it out to him and his ilk.

From the expressions and subdued muttering of the mugged victims he knew that the sums of money being handed out to him and his ilk was sorely resented. He also knew that there wasn’t a damned thing they could do about it. In his expression and gesture was Asia triumphant.

There was just sufficient spark left in the breasts of those forming the English queue to express indignation at this obscene gesture of triumphalism; such a perfect example of rubbing salt into a nation peoples’ wound. The outspoken expressions of disgust ranged from: "Why doesn’t some man clock him.’ To the more milder: "There’s gratitude for you."

The reason no man stepped out of the queue to ‘clock’ this arrogant parasite was because had he done so, in addition to having his pockets raided by the state, he would endure the full force of the politically correct law and the obscenity of the barred gaol. Columns of solicitors that he again had paid for through his taxes would have formed up to protect the interests of the all-conquering immigrant, then to libel and gaol the rebellious taxpayer.

He was beaten all right but perhaps for the first time in history not by a conqueror that had triumphed through force of arms but by a conquering horde that poured across the nation’s drawbridge at the open invitation of a treacherous regime that had placed its nation’s wealth and land in its shop window display.

Oh, my poor people! All their lives they have been denied, abused, treated with contempt; sent off to fight capitalist trade wars in the name of patriotism (which is sinful now!); over worked, over taxed and over-burdened.

As each collects their weekly wage (of which 56% is taxed) or their paltry pension there is just enough left to search assiduously for the cheapest poisoned cut of foreign meat in the cut-price store.

What did my poor people see that afternoon? Did they cringe at the contempt of the Asian recipient of their taxed wages? Was he a son of the Hindu Kush or the brother of a Kashmir street peddler?

Am I blind? I didn’t see an Asian alms-taker raising his obscene finger at his English dupes. The scoundrel was simply a grotesque symbol of decadent barrow boy Britain, a nation that is being sold to the lowest bidder.

All I could see then and now was the grinning countenance of Tony Blair and his grotesque gang of henchmen who have rifled even the pockets of their own nation’s mothers and fathers, and given away the soil of their hard fought lands.

I saw the hordes, not of Asians, but mealy-mouthed brown-nosed palace followers infesting the English civil service and local government, its educational establishments and its not so regal royal family. I saw the intellectual dwarfs of Fleet Street and Broadcasting House, their poison pens scratching and their weasel words mouthing, like sick cows chewing the cud of political correctness. I saw the legislature that enshrines their masters’ wishes in law, the judiciary that enforces them, and the police force that bites the hand that feeds it.

In them I saw a breed of men and women the likes of which have rarely stained even the lowest nation’s character. These people have, even by their own kind, recently been mocked as suffering from ‘mad people disease.’ I rest my case.

Perhaps one day the case will be put to rest in the more august environment of the true peoples courts. My anger is assuaged by thoughts of Blair and his henchmen; others too, standing in the dock, tie-less and without their shoelaces, bedraggled in shabby slept-in suits. How fitting and how just, for is this not the condition they have brought their own people too? Have they not hung, drawn and quartered their own people. And do such people deserve quarter – or do they deserve quartering? Again, I rest my case.

For Further Information Michael Walsh

euroman_uk@yahoo.co.uk