Note: This post was originally “sticky”, and was on top for several days. Scroll down for “Jihad With a Latin Rhythm”, “Off of the Roof”, a video about the Iranian general who commands the offensive to retake Tikrit from ISIS, an interview with George Igler, a video of an “Islamophobic” city councilor in the Netherlands, and last night’s news feed.
Our English correspondent Seneca III returns with a disheartening look at the current state of political affairs in the United Police State of Great Britain and Northern Ireland.
Deus ex Machina — Narrative of a Tragedy in Three Acts
by Seneca III
Caveat: There are no caveats regarding this week’s rant, although it may constitute a ‘heads up’ and our Cousins across the pond and our European Kin would be wise to have a close look at any similar, well buried legislation in the darker corners of their own Statutory Instrumentation. — S III.
(Deus ex Machina (L fm. Gk) — God out of the Machine)[1]
Prologue
A couple of weeks ago I was in conversation with an old friend (in the Antipodes) as a result of his calling me, having just read my previous Post. During the course of this conversation he posed a seminal question: “What precise mechanism or mechanisms can your Junta-In-All-But-Name use to effect a seizure of absolute power?”
This question has been bouncing around in my old grey matter ever since, particularly within that intransigent part that tends to seize upon a particular idea and refuses to let go of it — somewhat like a mangy old dog with a dirty bone — and thus I have been on another eye-opening journey through the bowels of progressive totalitarianism, through the rotten rump of what once was a great, patriotic political system governing a once United Kingdom.
I am beginning to wish that I hadn’t.
| DEMETRIOUS: |
|
Villain, what hast thou done? |
| AARON: |
|
That which thou canst not undo. |
| CHIRON: |
|
Thou hast undone our mother. |
| AARON: |
|
Villain, I have done thy mother.
|
― William Shakespeare, Titus Andronicus
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Act I — The Twilight of the Gods
Scene 1 — Meltdown
First we look at the exposed face of the Mother of Parliaments and cast our eyes over the tip of this iceberg[2] shaped monolith, the bit that sticks out above the waterline, the medusa that is the UK State apparatus as we find it now halfway through the second decade of the 21st century.
Balancing precariously on top of that exposed and rapidly melting pinnacle, trying desperately to establish how many angels can dance on the head of a very slippery ideological pin, we find the current leaders of the two main political Parties and one from a minor. Venal all, the first two present as a vacuous, Islam-besotted rich boy (with some very dodgy foreign friends[3]) and an incoherent and mentally dislocated glove puppet openly manipulated by the hand of a collection of moribund Trades Union thugs. At their feet, scrabbling desperately for its moment in the Sun, is a diminutive puddle of even more duplicitous slime wearing a so appropriately yellow-coloured rosette.
All in all this tableau is not a heart-warming sight. With a General Election on the near horizon, it is quite a precariously balanced one to boot, little more than a triplet of ephemera blown out of their time by the hurricane winds of the 21st century, mayflies, having risen and now falling after their failed breeding season — three morally defenestrated tyro Horsemen of our Apocalypse anxiously awaiting the return of the Fourth who at the moment, but only for the moment, is otherwise occupied in Brussels, France, and Denmark.
Looking even further down the slippery slope our eyes will settle on the next layer of Misgovernance. Below the Horsemen we find the Principal Secretaries of State, Ministers, Junior Ministers and their ‘Special Advisors’ and then several layers of ‘Honourable Members’ (sic), the ‘Backbenchers’ as they are so quaintly labelled, so many of whom could hardly be described as the sharpest needles in the legislative sewing kit — except when it comes to creative expense accounting, that is.
And immediately below them, unhealthily close up tight, and most but not all ideologically in step with the left or the far left of the now conjoined social conservative and Labour Party drones, are the Parties Minor, all strong on ambition but currently weak on the ground and hoping to obtain a larger foothold and hence leverage in nine weeks’ time. Finally, beneath them all, right on the waterline, we find the exposed part of the principal Executive Branch of government, the Judiciary and, by association, much of the legal Profession, a murder of ambulance-chasing moral ambivalents with second homes and large amounts of pony fodder to fund, who in essence direct that Common Purposed iron fist in a no longer velvet glove, HM Constabulary, now known almost universally as the ‘Thought Police’.
There are many others, of course, partly submerged, particularly the mind-altering, borderline-superstitious interconnected disciples of the Human Rights, Racism, Global Warming and Multiculturalism myths, all to be found peddling their creed throughout the media, academia, the teaching profession and anywhere else they can penetrate. However in the interests of restricting this particular article to a readable length we shall have to leave that lot there, basking in the chill, actinic arctic light, and dip our heads below the waterline to have a look at what is happening beyond the light of day.
Scene 2 — Crossing the Styx
In those murky depths, where outsiders rarely penetrate, where the modern Scylla and Charybdis ply their trade, is the real power, eternal and existential, the arch schemer and manipulator of the posing, posturing political fools above, the gorgon that drifts so effortlessly in the shadows as its shadow stalks us down all our days: the Secret State, a squat, pyramid-shaped construct. At its apex the Mandarins head a Civil Service consisting of 350,000 careerists, penetrating deep into the intestines of the serpentine edifice above and in its turn supported by a vast, ever shifting sardine-like school of internecine bottom-feeders at its base — the Quangonistas[4], that self-serving tribe of pecuniary advantaged nomadic Jobsworths creating, maintaining and enforcing the politically correct diktats superimposed on our deconstructed and culturally exsanguinated nation.
It is here, somewhere at the epicentre this privileged realm, that we will find the locked cupboards of the Ministry of Hidden Skeletons. There lie the real records of the Department of Whitewashes and Cover-ups, the transcripts of the Secret Courts, the Secret Registers and all the of the other products of a vast personal power preservation and surveillance apparatus that has long been busy gathering and hoarding every little bit of information that may be useful in keeping an increasingly stroppy electorate in its rightful, ignorant place. And, in passing, further down this subterranean corridor can also be found the various publicly funded Party spin machines, the arch peddlers of misinformation and disinformation to a recently supine public at large. But not supine any longer, one can but hope and begin to suspect.
And so to…
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Tonight’s PEGIDA march in Frankfurt ended in violence, as left-wing activists attacked the demonstrators at the conclusion of the march. About 80 PEGIDA protesters took part, and the march proceeded peacefully in an area cordoned off by police. However, when the marchers started towards the main railway station, they were attacked by about 1,000 Antifa community organizers, who threw bottles and rocks at the police and the marchers. One female demonstrator was seriously injured.
In the fall of 2007, at the height of the initial controversy over “The Prophet as a Roundabout Dog”, someone asked Mr. Vilks if drawing the cartoon was worth dying for. In reply he said simply, “Yes, it is.”
