Thursday, 27 April 2017


Spend time with her at the expense of your Left-wing friends

I wrote recently to the effect that stating anything off the Left-wing playbook and the usual suspects would rise against you ‘like the Mongol hordes’, and the phrase set off the unstoppable train of memory. As I once wrote, in the context of a song lyric;

Your memory is like a train.

It takes you there and back again.

And what you pay

Is what you can afford to pay.

In the summer of 1981, a few months before I was hoping to begin my university degree, I worked at what we then called a mental hospital. I had worked as an auxiliary nurse there at weekends for some time, but took on a full-time job in order to squirrel away some money for what I hoped would be my time at university. As a matter of fact, when I took the job, I did not know whether I had achieved the C grade in Law A-level, along with the A-grade I already had in English, I required for university entrance. I had made a pact with myself that, should I fail to achieve the required grade and thus miss out on higher education, I was going to train as a psychiatric nurse. I got another A-grade, and the world of psychiatric nursing missed out on one who could have used some of it himself in the intervening years.

The hospital job was really my first taste of multiculturalism. I worked with nurses from Pakistan, Bangladesh, Trinidad, Nigeria, Malaysia. I played for the hospital cricket team, one of two white people to do so at the time, along with the Kiwi wicket-keeper.

I was assigned to two wards that summer. The first was a ward specialising in real problem kids. I’m not virtue-signalling here, but I can’t write about that part of my life. I spent a little time in the staff toilet crying, once a day or so. I also once punched someone in the face – at a railway station, not at work - for calling someone else a ‘loony’. Funny how ‘loony’ is acceptable while ‘nigger’ is not. I know who I would rather spend time with. But I digress.

I worked with many people who had Down Syndrome. I shouldn’t really say this, but they were my favourites among the afflicted. Kind, affectionate, very tactile and just fun to be with, Down Syndrome people are a joy to be around. Again, I am not trying to impart to you what a great guy I am. As many, many girlfriends will attest to, I can be, and often am, what my late father would have called a proper cunt.

But Down people had a nickname among the staff, particularly the black and brown ones. Anyone of my generation will be familiar with it. They were called ‘Mongols’.

The appellation, apparently, comes from the vague resemblance between Down people and Mongolians. I don’t quite see it myself, but perhaps I am a racist or something. Anyway, one of the Paki nurses – who was actually very good at his job, as Paki nurses often were – used to have a little ritual he found funny. I didn’t, and would have cheerfully broken his nose when he did it, but perhaps we will put that down to cultural difference.

He would gather the dozen or so Down boys on the ward – it was a boys’ ward – around him, and begin clapping his hands and bouncing on the balls of his feet like a basketball player preparing a free shot. Except that he was a fat little fuck, which is where the image breaks down somewhat. He would then start his little chant.

All the Mongols are HAPPY!

All the Mongols are HAPPY!

All the Mongols are HAPPY!

All the Mongols are HAPPY!

It would go on for quite a long time. Most of the Down guys would eventually ape this Paki spastic, jumping around, unaware of the concept of humiliation, and the nasty, childish sense of humour sub-continental Asians often have, and how they delight in cruelty. I, personally, have never had a Pakistani friend. This is not an accident of demographics. I just don’t like Pakistani people. One of the Down boys, David, would sit in the corner in a sullen sulk. He once told me how much he hated this little mantra. Off I went to the toilet, to cry again.

My point is this. Thinking back to the bouncing, mimicking, happy Down Syndrome kids is eerily reminiscent of what Leftists will be doing when the French elect Macron as their president. They will not know what they are doing, they will simply be copying everyone else, and the nurse in the white coat.

Now, when I say ‘Leftists’, I am sure, if you are here in the first place, that you know who I mean. I don’t mean your old Labour-voting Dad. You know full well who I mean. The Pansy Left. The post-modernes. The morons with perfect teeth.

Leftists will be so mindlessly overjoyed that Le Pen has lost, they will make those wonderful Down people seem like The Vienna Circle. But there will be one important difference between the two groups.

Leftists are cunts. It’s as simple as that. I despise the Left. Rather than allow a nationalist, patriotic woman who clearly cares about her country to run France, they would rather a creature of the Jewish – and let’s face it, they are - world-order-mongers allow that country’s ruination. Macron is bank-rolled by some of the worst people on this fucking planet, an anarcho-tyrannist who states that terrorism is something that France will just have to live with – echoing what mendacious taqiyya-artist Sadiq Khan has glibly claimed about London – and who wishes another 200,000 immigrants a year to enter La belle France.

And France will fall. If you have seen what is happening in Paris, you will know that the collapse has already begun. Macron, with his snake-oily smile and Sacha Distel looks, will be happy to carry it on for the elites.

My only sense of shame here comes from using a group of charming, delightful people as a metaphor for people who neither have charm nor delight anyone but themselves and their little friends with the wasp-like faces and snub noses. I believe we must advise Leftists in the same manner Bill Hicks used to suggest to anyone in his audience who worked in advertising; Please kill yourselves.

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