Tomorrow is the big day in the UK: the General Election. Will Boris Johnson remain Prime Minister, and implement some sort of faux-Brexit? Or will we have to endure a government under the ghastly Jeremy Corbyn?
Our English correspondent Seneca III sends his thoughts on these and other matters.
Brexit on the Sands of Time
by Seneca III
Above all things the Brexit Circus has given us a metaphorical microscope with which to examine the putrid innards of the Palace of Westminster and far beyond. It has exposed in detail the full extent of the devious workings of the establishment and its fellow travellers and their blatant contempt for democracy. It has most of all peeled back layer by layer the darkly flawed construct that is the EU and revealed the motivations, control mechanisms and future intent of those presumptive masters across the ditch.
The EU and, to a lesser extent the USA, thanks to what remains of its once sound constitutional foundations, are both monoliths built with good intent but now drowning in an ideological cesspit created by a political class consumed by an insatiable lust for power.
For as long as these huge, centralised constructs attempt to force one law, one retrogressive culture and one sort of politics on all different demographics trapped within their sphere of influence there will be resistance. Neither will China, in the longer term, be an exception.
In the US and the EU the founding objective of both continental collectives was to take their destinies solely within their own compass, justifiably in the former, case but the complete opposite in the latter. In the Old Dominion it was done openly after years of requesting reasonable and equal treatment (No taxation without representation!) by the Crown, but in the EU, starting after the secretive, early Bilderberg Conferences which culminated in the birth of the apparently benign EEC, it was accomplished surreptitiously by guile, back-room conspiracies, subterfuge, self-interest and lie after lie after lie… a process our own malignant collection of morally destitute and arrogant political classes here in the UK aided and abetted with alacrity.
Yet, on both sides of the pond, the current mindset remains recalcitrant and will not easily take to the threat of an existence bereft of individual freedoms in a vast human hive controlled by the few for the benefit of the few, not the many.
If a process of separation — in fact a complete disentanglement such as a full, clean Brexit, and overall a return to localised democracy — is to eventuate, the hands of the sinecured, entrenched bureaucracy and its international franchisees must be ripped from the levers of power by many more once again sovereign nations (or in the case of the US, States) initiating their own departure. Then, and only then, we will be in with a chance.
If not, any final resolution to this impasse will have to be either one of compliant submission or of spasmodic violent uprisings by those who now understand they have nothing left to lose but their children’s chains. If the former prevails, then we are lost for many generations to come.
The attritional ending of oppressive Empires can be a long time in passing, yet, whilst pass they all do in the end, they remain resting quietly below our perceptual horizon awaiting the arrival of their so similar successors or even a second chance for themselves. Such is the way of men, and only men can alter the time frames and outcomes; the dead control nothing but a memory of the past.
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
“My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
— Ozymandias, by Percy Bysshe Shelley
For links to previous essays by Seneca III, see the Seneca III Archives.