Well we got no class.
And we got no principles.
And we got no innocence.
We can’t even think of a word that rhymes.
Alice Cooper, School’s Out
I’m English, I’m from London. I was born in the north of the city, grew up – or at least got bigger - in the south, and I’ve lived east and west too. Now, things have changed. I’ve just visited my local supermarket, in which I swear I was the only white face. No one spoke my language. I even had trouble making myself understood at the checkout. The whole town is the same. These are not my people. I don’t recognise this as my home town, the one I grew up in. And I put the whole thing down to immigration. I should know. It’s not my home town. Things have changed. I’m the immigrant.
As both my regular readers know, I re-located to Costa Rica in Central America a little over a year ago. I was bored with spending my time in London either in the pub or getting fired for not kissing the arse of management companies, and the chance came to try something – and somewhere – new, and I duly took it. I have a few loose ends to tie up in London, but when they are firmly tied, I will be staying here and looking to gain permanent residency. Staying in Britain, or anywhere in Western Europe, seems to me about as sensible as staying in Pompeii just as you are feeling the ground beginning to tremble.
Were I a Pakistani Muslim wishing to live in London, of course, the path would be swept of leaves as I rode triumphally into town. It isn’t as easy in Central America. And if I came here and asked for welfare, or social security benefits, I would be greeted with a broad grin, the one you generally find on the faces of those people who have just heard something genuinely amusing.
My biggest disappointment, however, was finding out that I am not a gringo. Apparently, you have to be an American – a north American – to qualify. I am merely el inglesé. Crazy inglesé, on occasion. I am, and always have been, un poco loco. There are plenty of gringos here, however. Oh, yes. I saw one of them yesterday, waiting at the bus stop with her two friends, waiting for the bus that would take them to the world’s 12th most beautiful beach.
She was about 17, unattractive, a bit of puppy fat, but not an egregious porker as so many Yankees are nowadays. The most interesting thing about her, however, was her T-shirt. It featured a cartoon of the president of her country and bore the legend; Fuck Donald Trump. A few initial points.
A year previously, someone wearing a T-shirt reading Fuck Barack Obama would quite possibly have got themselves into a spot of legal bother. Trump, however, is fair game, what with being a white man and all. The Yanks here would certainly have no issue with this silly little bitch’s apparel. They are almost unanimous in their vocal denunciations of Trump. They are also pig-ignorant when it comes to politics of any kind.
Secondly, I am something of a prudish conservative when it comes to public displays of profanity. I myself swear to an extent that would blanche the face of a docker’s tart, but I would never swear in front of children. The children here are charming and well-behaved, and I have seen them in some amusing – and English-language – T- shirts. Go Climb a Cactus. Your Hashtag means Nothing to me. Learning English is important to the locals for a number of reasons, and I really don’t think that this little slut should parade around in a country in which she is a guest with the word Fuck emblazoned across her tits.
Thirdly, it is becoming the signature of the Pansy Left in the west that politics is a game of slogans. What you must never do is to enter into reasonable debate with someone holding diametrically opposed political views to yours. Instead, plenty of exclamation marks and upper-case slogans, lots of dumb, ape-like chanting at interminable rallies, marches and demonstrations, and the reduction of valid criticism to some stupid cunt walking around in someone else’s country with a T-shirt reading Fuck Donald Trump. I wished, silently and fervently, that she ran into some good old boys, like my neighbor, a country singer and military veteran.
Ultimately, one becomes so tired of the Liberal-Left. The combination of raw stupidity, foam-flecked anti-white invective, virtue signalling, hatred of home, the worship of celebrities, a visceral hatred of education, rigorous and psychotic policing of thought and word, and lack of social skills become like that dreadful moment on a crowded bus when you realise both that someone has emitted a particularly obnoxious fart and that there is nothing you can do about it.
The most telling thing is when Yanks meet someone such as me. English, urbane, educated and intelligent, a talented musician and general wit and raconteur. And modest to a fault. They all of them assume that I am effectively wearing a T-shirt reading Fuck Donald Trump. It would never occur to them that I might think that Trump is the last chance for their country, and Obama and the Clintons should be buried together in a hole in the Nevada desert. And that is because these Americans themselves are, virtually speaking, all walking around with T-shirts reading Fuck Donald Trump. If you are what they deem a good person, like them, one of the Gütmenschen, you are in the club, the good person club. Where right-thinkers go. The intellectual landscape prevalent in Orwell’s 1984 had more colour than the denuded mental scrubland of these fuckers.
The Left are now incapable of debate. Slogans will do. Look at the gormless placards at any Leftie march, strewn all over the street like an insane woman’s excrement. Twitter is infested with these patsies. Now, winning a Twitter argument is like winning a game of rock-paper-scissors in a psychiatric hospital, but debate in the sense that I understand the word is just not possible in 140 characters. Therefore, I have given three of them my email address – firstname.lastname@example.org by the way – and I haven’t heard a fucking word. Slogans are easier than good old Platonic, Enlightenment debate.
In a decade or so, the girl in the T- shirt will probably be on the right side of history but the wrong side of the Walmart checkout. Late for work, she will be chewed out again by her Hispanic team leader. She is searching in her clothes drawer for something to wear under her work shirt that reads I’m here to help! or Just ask! or some other slogan intended to belittle her and remind her of her status. In one of the drawers, crumpled into a corner, is a faded T-shirt she has forgotten about. She pulls it out and looks at it. Tears start in her eyes. It reminds her of her holiday in Costa Rica all those years ago. She looks at the faded cartoon. She has tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of college debt, and all it bought her was a degree in Kill Whitey Studies or Feminist Gobshite Studies, something utterly useless both in the employment market and in her head. America is great again, but not for people like her, who don’t know anything worth knowing, and are only equipped to think in Touretter spasms of emotive nonsense. She looks at the T- shirt. She thinks; why has my life come to this? I was right. I was right.