M2RB:
To save my steeple, I visited people;
for this I'd gone when I met Little John.
His name came, I understood,
when the judge said "You're a robbing hood."
He told me of his strange foundation,
conceived on sight of the Woodstock nation;
he'd had to hide his reputation.
When poor, 'twas salvation from door to door.
But now, with a pin-up guru every week,
it's Love, Peace & Truth Incorporated for all who seek.
The new ruins of Great Britain...invading armies unnecessary.
2 June 2012
Asks British columnist Rod Liddle, “Who are the people who have made
Britain what it is today, the ones who ensured that we became a
limp-wristed and decrepit, post-imperial satrapy of incompetence,
sanctimony, self-obsession and self-loathing?”
Who indeed? (By limp-wristed, Liddle means lacking in conviction, not gay). The short answer is the new aristocracy, the bien pensant, well-shod, culturally aloof types who watch the BBC, read The Guardian,
and vote to nudge the country ever farther along its current
trajectory, which has not even slightly been altered by the return of a
Conservative to the premiership. Against the wishes of the average
citizen, Britain has a government that is simultaneously abdicating its
core functions and pretending to take responsibility for other duties
for which it is spectacularly ill-suited. It has abandoned a proud,
concrete culture in pursuit of a hazy dream of a transnational ideal.
The people’s response has been to fume lightly and do nothing, because
they’re British and expect things to be bad and get worse.
A few days in London will quickly cure you of any notion that, for
instance, New York is a chaotic city. It only barely rated notice in
most of the media the other day when five of London’s 11 subway lines went down simultaneously
at rush hour due to signal failures and train breakdowns. It was about
80 degrees at the time and most trains have no air conditioning. Subway
unions are threatening a strike. And yet a glance at the national news
sources, which are obsessed with the massacres in Syria, the Jubilee,
the Olympics, and the never-ending Leveson Inquiry that vaguely promises
a sinister new truth czar will be empowered to decide in advance which
media stories can be published, turns up almost zero outrage at all of
this.
Don’t be fooled by the pomp of the Queen’s royal
Diamond Jubilee flotilla this weekend. Britain is a country rotting from
the inside.
The “respectable” media outlets don’t much bother with the latest outrages on the crime front, such as the fatal convenience-store stabbing that resulted in only a ten-year sentence for the assailant, who is expected to be free in four. Unleash a nutty racist tirade on the subway,
though, and you stand in contempt of that BBC-transnational ideal of a
multiculti wonderland. Judges will express no leniency whatsoever,
handing out five month sentences for the crime of… speaking.
So the government can’t make the trains run on time or make people
feel safe on the streets. (a friend who lived in New York for many years
tells me of how, after moving to London, he witnessed a stabbing,
called the police, and waited a number of minutes for them to arrive, by
which time the perpetrators were long gone. The nearest police station
was about 300 yards away, but the constabulary decided to send
representatives from a farther one instead, lest they risk crossing
paths with any violent criminals.)
Never let it be said the government is satisfied with this state of
affairs; no, instead, it is advancing into brand new areas of
incompetence. The prime minister has been boasting of his exciting plan
to literally head a nanny state as he sets up, for new parents, an
office to send texts, hold classes, and give “tiredness counseling.”
(For a play-by-play of Britain’s collapse, consult the blogger-columnist Peter Hitchens, who, ever since writing The Abolition of Britain over a decade ago, invariably takes the most pessimistic imaginable view of things and yet is rarely wrong.)
On the business side of things, a government-commissioned venture
capitalist’s report called for some obvious changes in labor regulations
that would make it easier to fire workers (and consequently make
businesses less leery of hiring in the first place). The left-wing,
Liberal Democrat “business minister,” whose relationship with his field
is much like that of an “infectious diseases specialist,” called the
plan “completely bonkers” and suffered no repercussions from his boss
whatsoever. The plan will gather dust. Another government minister,
Conservative William Hague, actually gave an interview in which he told
business to stop “complaining” and just hire. Currently, when a business wants to fire someone, it often has to justify the decision before a labor tribunal.
A proposed reform would substitute a sort of pre-settlement in which
the fired worker gets a cash payout instead of the right to endless
litigation.
From offshore, Britain finds itself in the absurd version of a V-2
attack, with almost weekly regulatory strafing coming in from the
European Union and the European Court of Human Rights. Britain, which
voted simply to join a common market in 1973 but never voted to be ruled
from the continent, is so used to such indignities as being told that
it must not deport al-Qaeda terrorist Abu Qatada and must furnish
prisoners with ballots, that even David Cameron’s Conservatives
generally respond by being loudly huffy and doing nothing. Cameron’s
latest solemn vow is that he will ignore the ECHR directive to give
votes to prisoners. We’ll see. If he is going to deny the ECHR the
sovereignty it plainly lacks, why doesn’t he go all the way?
Because he’s afraid of the BBC.
We joke about the “state media” in America, but in Britain by far the
leading media outlet is the BBC, which operates independently but is
effectively funded by a tax (a large one, more than you pay for HBO).
Awash in public funding, it does exactly what you’d think it would do:
attack competitors and promote a left-liberal worldview, for instance by
portraying anyone opposed to the grand European project as eccentric
and possibly demented. Now that Europe is imploding and Britons say, by a
51 to 28 margin, that they want to leave the EU,
the political-media complex is scrambling to prevent the issue from
ever coming to a vote (though if it does, the same complex will move
mountains to ensure the vote is the correct, transnational one). George
Osborne, the number two man in the Tory party, has actually suggested
that the solution to Europe is more Europe — fiscal and policy
integration, i.e., a superstate with its capital in Brussels and its
biggest source of power in Berlin. Britain would finally relinquish all
claim to authority over its own affairs and essentially cease to exist
as a political entity. What Hitler and Napoleon couldn’t do, the dull
Eurocrats and their silky-voiced, terribly respectable media
cheerleaders are intent on doing. But then again, Britain is already
dead, it just hasn’t been buried yet.
Related Reading:
"The Battle Of Epping Forest" - Genesis
[Taken from a news story concerning two rival gangs fighting over East-End Protection rights and from the album, Selling England By The Pound.]
Along the Forest Road, there's hundreds of cars - luxury cars.
Each has got its load of convertible bars, cutlery cars - superscars!
For today is the day when they sort it out, sort it out,
'cos they disagree on a gangland boundary.
They disagree on a gangland boundary.
There's Willy Wright and his boys -
one helluva noise, that's Billy's boys!
With fully-fashioned mugs, that's Little John's thugs,
the Barking Slugs - supersmugs!
For today is the day when they sort it out, sort it out,
yes these Christian soldiers fight to protect the poor.
East end heroes got to score in...
The Battle of Epping Forest,
yes it's the Battle of Epping Forest,
right outside your door.
You ain't seen nothing like it.
No, you ain't seen nothing like it,
not since the Civil War.
Coming over the hill are the boys of Bill,
and Johnny's lads stand very still.
With the thumpire's shout, they all start to clout
- there's no guns in this gentleman's bout.
Georgie moves in on the outside left
with a chain flying round his head;
and Harold Demure, from Art Literature,
nips up the nearest tree.
(Here come the cavalry!)
Amidst the battle roar,
accountants keep the score: 10-4.
They've never been alone, after getting a radiophone.
The bluebells are ringing for Sweetmeal Sam, real ham,
handing out bread and jam just like any picnic.
It's 5-4 on William Wright; he made his pile on Derby night.
When Billy was a kid, walking the streets,
the other kids hid - so they did!
And now, after working hard in security trade, he's got it made.
The shops that need aid are those that haven't paid.
"I do my double-show quick!" said Mick the Prick, fresh out the nick.
"I sell cheap holiday. The minute they leave,
then a visit I pay - and does it pay!"
And his friend, Liquid Len by name,
of Wine, Women and Wandsworth fame,
said "I'm breaking the legs of the bastard that got me framed!"
They called me the Reverend when I entered the Church unstained;
my employers have changed but the name has remained.
It all began when I went on a tour,
hoping to find some furniture.
I followed a sign - it said "Beautiful Chest".
It led to a lady who showed me her best.
She was taken by surprise when I quickly closed my eyes.
So she rang the bell, and quick as hell
Bob the Nob came out on his job
to see what the trouble was.
"Louise, is the Reverend hard to please?"
"You're telling me!"
"Perhaps, sir, if it's not too late.
we could interest you in our old-fashioned Staffordshire plate?"
"Oh no, not me, I'm a man of repute."
But the Devil caught hold of my soul and a voice called out "Shoot!"
To save my steeple, I visited people;
for this I'd gone when I met Little John.
His name came, I understood,
when the judge said "You're a robbing hood."
He told me of his strange foundation,
conceived on sight of the Woodstock nation;
he'd had to hide his reputation.
When poor, 'twas salvation from door to door.
But now, with a pin-up guru every week,
it's Love, Peace & Truth Incorporated for all who seek.
He employed me as a karma-ma-mechanic, with overall charms.
His hands were then fit to receive, receive alms.
That's why we're in
the Battle of Epping Forest,
yes it's the Battle of Epping Forest,
right outside your door.
We guard your souls for peanuts,
and we guard your shops and houses
for just a little more.
In with a left hook is the Bethnal Green Butcher,
but he's countered on the right by Mick's chain-gang fight,
and Liquid Len, with his smashed bottle men,
is lobbing Bob the Nob across the gob.
With his kisser in a mess, Bob seems under stress,
but Jones the Jug hits Len right in the mug;
and Harold Demure, who's still not quite sure,
fires acorns from out of his sling.
(Here come the cavalry!)
Up, up above the crowd,
inside their Silver Cloud, done proud,
the bold and brazen brass, seen darkly through the glass.
The butler's got jam on his Rolls; Roy doles out the lot,
with tea from a silver pot just like any picnic.
Along the Forest Road, it's the end of the day
and the Clouds roll away.
Each has got its load - they'll come out for the count
at the break-in of day.
When the limos return for their final review, it's all thru'
- all they can see is the morning goo.
"There's no-one left alive - must be draw."
So the Blackcap Barons toss a coin to settle the score.
[Taken from a news story concerning two rival gangs fighting over East-End Protection rights and from the album, Selling England By The Pound.]
Along the Forest Road, there's hundreds of cars - luxury cars.
Each has got its load of convertible bars, cutlery cars - superscars!
For today is the day when they sort it out, sort it out,
'cos they disagree on a gangland boundary.
They disagree on a gangland boundary.
There's Willy Wright and his boys -
one helluva noise, that's Billy's boys!
With fully-fashioned mugs, that's Little John's thugs,
the Barking Slugs - supersmugs!
For today is the day when they sort it out, sort it out,
yes these Christian soldiers fight to protect the poor.
East end heroes got to score in...
The Battle of Epping Forest,
yes it's the Battle of Epping Forest,
right outside your door.
You ain't seen nothing like it.
No, you ain't seen nothing like it,
not since the Civil War.
Coming over the hill are the boys of Bill,
and Johnny's lads stand very still.
With the thumpire's shout, they all start to clout
- there's no guns in this gentleman's bout.
Georgie moves in on the outside left
with a chain flying round his head;
and Harold Demure, from Art Literature,
nips up the nearest tree.
(Here come the cavalry!)
Amidst the battle roar,
accountants keep the score: 10-4.
They've never been alone, after getting a radiophone.
The bluebells are ringing for Sweetmeal Sam, real ham,
handing out bread and jam just like any picnic.
It's 5-4 on William Wright; he made his pile on Derby night.
When Billy was a kid, walking the streets,
the other kids hid - so they did!
And now, after working hard in security trade, he's got it made.
The shops that need aid are those that haven't paid.
"I do my double-show quick!" said Mick the Prick, fresh out the nick.
"I sell cheap holiday. The minute they leave,
then a visit I pay - and does it pay!"
And his friend, Liquid Len by name,
of Wine, Women and Wandsworth fame,
said "I'm breaking the legs of the bastard that got me framed!"
They called me the Reverend when I entered the Church unstained;
my employers have changed but the name has remained.
It all began when I went on a tour,
hoping to find some furniture.
I followed a sign - it said "Beautiful Chest".
It led to a lady who showed me her best.
She was taken by surprise when I quickly closed my eyes.
So she rang the bell, and quick as hell
Bob the Nob came out on his job
to see what the trouble was.
"Louise, is the Reverend hard to please?"
"You're telling me!"
"Perhaps, sir, if it's not too late.
we could interest you in our old-fashioned Staffordshire plate?"
"Oh no, not me, I'm a man of repute."
But the Devil caught hold of my soul and a voice called out "Shoot!"
To save my steeple, I visited people;
for this I'd gone when I met Little John.
His name came, I understood,
when the judge said "You're a robbing hood."
He told me of his strange foundation,
conceived on sight of the Woodstock nation;
he'd had to hide his reputation.
When poor, 'twas salvation from door to door.
But now, with a pin-up guru every week,
it's Love, Peace & Truth Incorporated for all who seek.
He employed me as a karma-ma-mechanic, with overall charms.
His hands were then fit to receive, receive alms.
That's why we're in
the Battle of Epping Forest,
yes it's the Battle of Epping Forest,
right outside your door.
We guard your souls for peanuts,
and we guard your shops and houses
for just a little more.
In with a left hook is the Bethnal Green Butcher,
but he's countered on the right by Mick's chain-gang fight,
and Liquid Len, with his smashed bottle men,
is lobbing Bob the Nob across the gob.
With his kisser in a mess, Bob seems under stress,
but Jones the Jug hits Len right in the mug;
and Harold Demure, who's still not quite sure,
fires acorns from out of his sling.
(Here come the cavalry!)
Up, up above the crowd,
inside their Silver Cloud, done proud,
the bold and brazen brass, seen darkly through the glass.
The butler's got jam on his Rolls; Roy doles out the lot,
with tea from a silver pot just like any picnic.
Along the Forest Road, it's the end of the day
and the Clouds roll away.
Each has got its load - they'll come out for the count
at the break-in of day.
When the limos return for their final review, it's all thru'
- all they can see is the morning goo.
"There's no-one left alive - must be draw."
So the Blackcap Barons toss a coin to settle the score.
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