I grew up in Birmingham [map], and as proud as I am of being a Brummie, I absolutely detest the multicultural nightmare my birthplace has become. This is my story.
[JdN: Birmingham is the second-biggest city in England at 1.1 million, but is teeming with hostile non-whites, and crime (http://www.bbc.com/news/uk-england-birmingham-40729642). Its beautiful downtown area was “renovated” in the 1960s with hideous, concrete modern architecture.]
19 Newhall Street, Birmingham, in a classic Victorian red brick and terracotta style
by Nathan Reade
[JdN: I found this article very informative and a perfect outreach to working-class Brits who might fall for the EDL. I did some very slight editing, added explanations of British slang for Americans, and spent about three hours adding most of the photos you see below. This is a chilling testimony to how the Enemy founds or takes over nationalist groups that are chock-full of sincere people in order to steer them away from exposing and attacking the real foe, whom I myself deem to be Talmudic zionists: https://johndenugent.com/english/the-psychopathic-real-mission-of-jewry-by-herve-ryssen/ Most Israelis are just homeland zionists — they want a Jewish homeland, peace and quiet. Others, a much smaller number, want world domination, with Jerusalem as the capital of the world. Most Jews around the world also just want to make money, raise a family, have sex, buy stuff and enjoy life, not destroy the West.]
Becoming a Nationalist
I’m not too sure you can become a Nationalist. I actually think it’s something that lies within your soul, something that is as basic as your natural survival instinct.
Becoming a nationalist has been a journey for me. Since I was a child I have always possessed an interest for history, and in particular my own history. Who doesn’t wonder about themselves while simultaneously observing the rest of the world!
Why do I look this way, where did this language I speak come from, why do I have this accent, what is this land beneath my feet, and how did I get here, are common questions.
As your research resolves your initial queries, you realise just how much more information is out there, and in no time at all you are hooked!
Whether it’s history, politics, answers to the questions men have pondered for millenia you search – the Internet provides you with an almost limitless resource of knowledge needed for personal growth.
Your thirst for knowledge and curiosity is immense, your appetite far from sated — you find yourself needing so much more. You begin evaluating your surroundings, wondering what life was like before you – quickly realising how different the Britain in which you reside, is from the one your parents and ancestors knew.
You find yourself gazing into black-and-white family photos that your parents had stashed away and nostalgically longing to be transported back in time to that age of innocence – wondering why things have changed so much in such a short span of time.
You also find yourself angered by the extent and cataclysmic nature of the changes, wondering who orchestrated them, and for what purpose. Somewhere between your first investigation and the day you recognise you’re a nationalist, you realise you’ve opened Pandora’s box, and there’s no turning back….
I grew up in Birmingham, and as proud as I am of being a “Brummie,” I absolutely detest the multicultural nightmare my birthplace has become. Birmingham is an extremely unhealthy city and I remember a friend putting it to me many years ago
“Birmingham just exists. It’s just a city that functions.”
The guy was a few years older than me, well-travelled and initially I took offence to the comment. It wasn’t until years later that I fully understood what he meant.
Birmingham does just exist; it has no purpose or identity. Birmingham simply just functions. It’s a city that has just been crammed full of differing people en masse to become a place that has no meaning, no common core or overriding culture any more. The two most aggressive cultures show the dominance, Islam and Caribbean street culture. The two often cross within the city, if the young black inner city youths don’t get involved in gang culture, then the vulnerable ones are indoctrinated into the mosques. The Pakistani youths often speak this mixed accent of Urdu and Jamaican street twang, whilst the white youth of the city are totally lost. I find that in order for the white youth to survive they need to adopt the aggressive street-culture attitude and mentality so large areas of the city have children and teenagers who haven’t got a clue who or what they are. I’ve also found this to be true in the somewhat small and silent Eastern Asian communities, although they appear to hold onto their traditional cultures and values very well.
It would be easy to place the whole blame of Birmingham’s ugliness on immigration but one also has to look a little deeper. We know Birmingham was devastated during the Second World War [photo] thanks to Mr Churchill’s lust for war, but we can see the all-out destruction that Birmingham has faced ever since.
The city of a thousand trades has been reduced to a hen weekend destination thanks to successive sell-out governments decimating our industries on the globalist markets. But, the aesthetics of the city have been completely eliminated too. Some of our finest homes in once affluent areas such as Handsworth, Aston, Sparkbrook and Small Heath were bought up by Birmingham city council and literally handed over to people who didn’t build those homes; who were never intended to be housed in their construction and who hold no cultural or historical ties to the area or identity of those typically British Victorian and Edwardian structures.
Today these homes rely heavily on housing associations to maintain them. But, as always today these types of works are hired out to huge corporations rather than local builders who have no love for the work or the tenants and are only interested in getting the jobs signed off and receiving payment. So often under-skilled workers are sent out on appalling wages and with the cheapest materials to carry out substandard works and so these glorious buildings slump deeper into condemnation.
All around the city, but most obvious in the city centre, immaculate looking buildings have been ripped down after decisions made following many a private back room meeting and replaced by utter monstrosities that do absolutely nothing to enrich the population or compliment the surrounding area. The word for this attack on our heritage and inheritance is “postmodernism” and I’m very aware the carnage has been repeated the length and breadth of the country.
When one pulls their head away from the distractions of everyday life and observes this organised destruction, it doesn’t take long for you to realise your genocide is being orchestrated before your very eyes by some very sinister powers.
Birmingham school children today
As you begin to realise the world around you, it then becomes impossible for you to switch off. So, as with any person of character you feel it’s your moral duty to speak out and say something about the chaos that is taking place around you, be it to friends and family or over social media. But you soon start to realise what a daunting task that is.
Becoming a nationalist is an extremely tough task and takes a lot of courage. You’re treading on some very uncomfortable territory for some people. Not because what you are doing is wrong, far from it, but because what you’re doing is going against the status quo. What you’re doing is telling the truth and “in an age of universal deceit, telling the truth is a revolutionary act.”
Even a blind man can see there is something catastrophically wrong with this country, but to admit it is an entirely different matter. For a lot of people the convenient lie is far more comforting than the brutal truth.
The comforting lie enables the weak to continue their somewhat sheltered and simple lives of a monthly wage and relentless consumption, knowing in the back of their minds that things are broken but subconsciously reassuring themselves that all is well.
They drive home from work through cesspit areas enduring driving standards more likened to the Indian sub-continent, quickly arriving home and on closing that front door behind them back into the false reality of box sets, soap operas, “reality” TV and sports with the occasional mention of a “cobra meeting” to bring them comfort in the lie that all is fine.
If someone were to step in and shatter that fragile reality that they have invested their whole emotional well-being into, then expect venom.
Taking the route I have has lost me several friends and has seen me pull away from certain social circles. Many people are supportive of nationalism but won’t allow themselves to investigate its beauty due to what Dr David Duke calls “self-censorship “.
It’s tough to hear criticism, especially from those whom you once loved. We are human beings and social creatures, and desire to be liked and to fit into the crowd. But one needs to step back and view the people who are critical of you and what you are doing in life.
Some are in agreement with your opinions but are afraid of how being associated with you will reflect on them. I remember a few years back as my finger hovered over Nick Griffin’s Facebook page fearful that if my following of that page appeared on everyone else’s newsfeed, what on earth would they think of me?
Some lack the moral fibre to make a stand themselves as it would mean them stepping out of the aforementioned false reality, and this is extremely uncomfortable, as I’ve already experienced. Or it can be that they just prefer that comfort even to the point where war wages outside their window. Some are fearful as they have been trapped by the Marxist system that surrounds them. They may have jobs that do not tolerate political freedom and keeping a roof over their families’ head is their first priority.
A truly brave patriot — Nick Griffin
But, some will criticize you and these are the types who I find are fearful of you.
They often use phrases like
“there is good and bad in every race”,
“we all bleed red”, and
“the world just needs love”.
Whilst all of these statements are true, they never create answers and only halt any deeper discussion of extremely pressing issues, glaring truths and genuine threats to our future.
If these types were to engage with you in discussion, then it would quickly reveal their level of intellect and their strengths or rather the lack thereof. So rather than expose these shortfalls it’s much easier to remain passive and mask their weakness through virtue signaling, or use of the six key words of suppression – xenophobe, racist, Nazi, fascist, hater or homophobe.
Virtue and courage are a very rare thing in this modern world and emotion-based culture has been its replacement. Everything we do has to take into consideration what another will feel about your opinion or actions. It’s political correctness, which in itself is a form of control and leads to one self-censoring not just their thoughts but their own emotions too. What if one was to love something that a minority was to dislike? It creates a prison in your own mind, which is scared of your own healthy emotions. And one emotion in particular is the emotion of hate.
Particularly with the Left, it’s like observing a dog wearing an anti-bark collar. You can literally see the level of programming before your very eyes. “Hate” is this word that must be avoided at all costs. It’s imperative that they neglect this natural emotion and the first sign of it triggers a painful sharp twitch of punishment.
Whenever I have been accused of being “filled with hate” by your typical university leaver [graduate], I am in total agreement with them. I absolutely bask in the empowerment of hate, and when I elaborate on my quench for this beautiful emotion and give sound reasoning why I feel this way, they can’t handle it. I’ve had people walk away in a screwed-up huff like a child’s when father tells them “no more sweets”.
I’ve had people hold their heads with both hands shouting: “stop putting words in my mouth” and screeching like the alien in the film “Independence Day” does when trying to telepathically get into their heads. It’s bizarre and quite disturbing, but the truth is I am full of hate.
Isn’t hate a natural emotion that one feels when they don’t like something?
Isn’t hate a fully acceptable emotion to feel, knowing vile beasts from foreign lands are climbing on top of and infesting the ovaries of our young women against their will and with the complete permission and sadistic enjoyment of our twisted masters?
Isn’t hate a healthy reaction when you see third-world parasites who have never achieved a thing in their history rewrite our own history books to empower themselves on our own soil? They snarl at you like rabid hyenas as you crouch on your knees, shackled by hate laws conjured up by your bitter masters! But such laws appear to apply only to you.
Isn’t hate a perfectly normal emotion to feel knowing the weakest of people with the most fragile of character are ruling over you and deciding what your life consists of and how things are going to be?
Isn’t the anger that burns in the pit of your stomach, that travels through your veins to the tips of your fingers making you want to scream in the most primitive of ways imaginable, justified when pathetic wet [wimpy] males and grotesquely obese females of your own stock, who are damaged beyond repair, fuelled by the toxins of Marxism, screech in your face?
They are allied with rabid dogs from distant lands ferociously spitting their saliva as it crystallizes around their mouths, people like Wyman Bennett and Diane Abbott. They are empowered by the protection of laws put into place by an establishment that despises your very existence, designed purposely to beat down the white male.
Yes, it is perfectly normal and perfectly natural to feel hate for what is being done to us.
It’s perfectly healthy to grind your teeth and screw every muscle fibre in your body until it cramps with pain. In fact, it’s glorious to feel such an anguish, to want to beat your chest like a sword on a shield, marching into battle to the rhythm of your black heartbeat, chanting a tribal war song from the depths of your stomach in the relative calmness that comes before the storm.
It’s easy to harbour hatred for people who cut off their nose to spite their face, who choose an ideology peddled to them by some anti-English Marxist academic or media type over the well-being of their own kith and kin and the future of their homeland, fools who choose death over the survival of their own people!
As a child I always remember being so interested with insects. In particular, I was fascinated by ants. In our back garden we had a circular footpath my father made out of concrete paving slabs that ran around the whole top half of the garden. I was forever being told off by my parents, yelling from the kitchen window “put those slabs down!” as I was always caught pulling them up to look at what was underneath.
Underneath these slabs were where ants made their nests, and I just always had to have a look at what they were up to. As soon as those slabs were lifted you could see the colony going crazy, ready to tackle the potential threat at hand.
The larvae were instantly ushered underground and protected by the worker ants, and the army ants were quick to attack the big killer stick to save the queen, which of course was only me prodding around eager for a captivating reaction.
I meant no harm. I was only mesmerized by how organised they were, how everyone had a job and knew what it was, with no questions asked, all for the good and survival of the colony.
….Westerners, Brits in particular, have been Let down by the current crop of nationalists
I’ve always been hugely let down by British nationalism, the shining beacon of which in recent years was undoubtedly the British National Party (BNP). No one can deny their success up until 2009, and as much as I admired their message I always remained on the sidelines about joining as a member. No matter what the BNP achieved, and the truly great names involved with the party, they always had this rough-streak stereotype that surrounded them.
This mainly came from their willingness to allow just anyone to stand as a candidate as long as it got a candidate in an area, people such as Julie Lake, Peter Tierney and Dawn Charlton. These people could have been Oxford graduates, but the way they looked said otherwise.
Image is a huge thing in all walks of life, and people are judging you as soon as they look at you. It’s a fact, and a nice one at that. It encourages you to look your best at all times, and looking respectable is a form of good manners. Stereotypes are there for a reason and they last through the generations. When one sees the likes of Peter Tierney with both ears pierced, long greasy pony tail and black fingernails; July Lake with a huge gut, reeking of fags [cigarettes] and swearing like a trooper, and Dawn Charlton (as sincere as she was) with a crew-cut looking as though she frequents the Ska [a kind of Jamaican-started music] scene, you’re inclined to think twice about the character and the ability of such people in a professional, regional and international arena.
.https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DnQqYXK21pg Ska song “Madness”
Nationalism isn’t just about political ideology but about high moral standards and becoming the best you can possibly be, embracing who and what you are. If you’re a man, then embrace your masculinity and become a gentleman of high moral standards and command respect. Someone like Andrew Brons comes to mind.
If you’re a woman, embrace your femininity and become a lady of impeccable standards and demand respect. If one can see you lack self-respect then how on earth can people in return have respect for you as a strong and dignified leader and someone that could represent their heritage, culture, environment and beliefs?
The answer to all these hang ups I had with the BNP came in the form of UKIP [UnitedKingdom Imndepend3enParty,demanding “Brexit” — Britain out of the EU].
As we saw Nick Griffin being relentlessly slaughtered in the press,
-….along there came a charismatic figure who was also criticized, but still always had this positive spin around him. His name was Nigel Farage.
This guy was portrayed as a likeable fellow, and was always given much more air time than the likes of Nick Griffin, so this cheeky-chappy character was able to grow on you as this alternative to the BNP and was seen as a friendly sort of nationalism.
Again, I sat on the sidelines as I observed the growth of UKIP, but as much as I really approved of their image, warnings signs began to flash when Conservative MP’s would switch allegiances to the party.
The main reason I became a nationalist was due to the realisation that both Conservative and Labour were very much controlled by a third party whose agendas were always going to prevail, no matter what puppet was placed on the forefront. So I soon realised democracy was simply an illusion and I knew continued hope in these prostitutes would send me senile.
When I saw MPs from the Conservative party switching parties I began to worry they were being infiltrated by the old order, but little did I know they were already part of the old order.
As time passed I sat back and watched as they pandered to minority groups, and one by one would change their policies. I began to realise they were not the party they started out as. More importantly they were not the party I hoped they would be.
Once again I was back to square one. A proud young indigenous British male surrounded by cultural and racial chaos, again with the realisation that I no longer had a voice in my own land or a cause that could rally my passion. Angry and fearful of the future, I felt isolated without a vision. I knew full well I wasn’t the only one, but where was our hope if we didn’t have anyone to represent our voice in a dignified, honest and true manner.
I buried my head in the sand for a while, and as the Recession hit in 2009 the thought of politics became a bit of a luxury to indulge myself in, as just earning a living took precedence over everything else. All I wanted to do was survive. Money and funding became scarce in all industries all over the country. All around me people were losing their jobs and eventually losing their homes, and I prayed to God I wasn’t one of those people — but unfortunately I was. The ability to prove my worth to myself and earn a living was taken away from me.
Through no fault of my own I found myself stuck at home feeling like a worthless sack of potatoes vegetating, unable to put my brain or body to good use. Every quotation and job application would fall on deaf ears and all contractors’ prices were worse than those of the 70s. All I wanted to do as a man was go out and work for my money, but yet I was forced to hold my hand out like a poor beggar. Myself and many other lads up and down the country were competing for what little work was available. This gave the perfect opportunity to exploit the working class further, and boy, how they did, especially our Eastern European cousins. They needed to scrape by to pay their rent to enable them to stay in the country, so they were often forced to work for despicable wages for huge amounts of work. This in turn, underbid the British guys, many of whom had mortgages to pay. It was a vicious circle. But as the torment continued and the depressive situation took control of your outlook on life, then so did the anger.
I was angry that I and my countrymen were forced to the scrap heap, angry that our Slavic brothers and sisters who came for a better life were being treated like performing monkeys whilst the biggest land and power grab ever seen was taking place. But what angered me the most was the Left.
As we screamed out our plight of being priced out of work by people who shouldn’t even have been in the country, the middle class shouted several of the six key words of oppression as mentioned — xenophobe, racist, Nazi, fascist, hater and homophobe. — with the addition of “well, that’s just a competitive market. You can’t moan at healthy competition.” When we expressed our disgust at debt-based economies that were obviously going to lead to this catastrophe that we were left to wallow in, we were called “conspiracy theorists.” Once again I found myself the victim of globalism, and once again I found myself on the boot of the Left.
Around this same time something new was popping up all over social media that hadn’t been seen before. It was pretty ferocious in its promotion and didn’t beat about the bush with its aims and cause. At first I thought it was some flash in the pan, as it seemed too good to be true. A constant feed of banners and posters addressing the huge white elephant in the room that up until now was constantly swept under the carpet by the Establishment. It was a huge breath of fresh air and it immediately got my full attention.
Up until now it felt like I was living in a movie where I, as the audience, sat on the edge of my seat shouting out at the screen as I could see the dangers and threat ahead of the young gullible actress, which in this case was the rest of society. But this organisation immediately propelled me into the movie. This organisation was the English Defence League.
My friends and I were keen Aston Villa [football/”soccer” team] supporters and we used to attend games quite regularly. It was always common to grab a beer in one of the pubs around Aston after the games where I also knew a lot of the regular faces. Straight away It became pretty evident that this EDL was fast becoming the talk of the town. It just appeared out of nowhere, but all of a sudden it became a huge talking point around the typical lad culture that surrounded football.
As soon as this EDL announced a protest in Birmingham, I was all over it. I couldn’t wait to make a stand and show my face in a unified voice with my own countrymen who are sick to death of the endless islamisation of our towns and cities. As it turned out, only four of us had the bottle [guts/nerve] to actually turn up after all the hype around the Aston pub circuit, which felt pretty demoralising. But how I was proved wrong with the EDL’s second visit to the second city.
From a measly ten people at the first demo, holding up placards and handing out flyers, we suddenly accelerated to 300 at the second. I was gob smacked just how much it grew in the space of a couple of weeks. But this was also the place it smacked me hard in the face just how compromised this country actually is.
From our initial meeting point on Broad Street we immediately experienced police harassment. Hands under armpits and forced to the nearest wall for a “chat” and once one showed discomfort to this “chat” you felt a delightful leather glove around your jaw, giving me the option to express what I had to say but without allowing me to actually move my mouth open and closed to get my words out.
I was stood in a line of other family-type men and teenagers as though we were about to be assassinated for our political beliefs by the [Soviet] NKVD, but this time it was to give all our personal information out loud into a police camera while they filmed us and our clothing. We could sense what was happening, and realised our superior numbers so we made a swift exit as it was obvious we were going to be kettled in.
We made our move and continued our march ahead of schedule and made our way to Victoria Square where the scruffiest, most disgusting vermin were waiting for us. As we clapped the small promotional event of the Army, Navy and Air Force situated in Victoria Square, we came face-to-face with the Establishments dogs, the UAF. [The Twitter pages says: “Unite Against Fascism is a broad-based campaign against the BNP, EDL and other racist and fascist organisations.”] Now we were a group of highly-strung football lads who wanted to have our voices heard. Did these pathetic little bitches really expect to stop us?! They were swept aside like bad wind.
A common tactic of these communists is to exploit minority groups to carry out their dirty work. So by screeching one or all of the key oppression words that I’ve mentioned earlier, they hope it will attract non-whites to their aid and fight their battles for them. In this case it worked, not just in the moment but also online. They whipped up the black and Muslim youth in a frenzied craze, and whilst the UAF and Muslim and black youth were given the keys to the city, the EDL were attacked en masse with chains, bottles, sticks, bricks and broken glass.
The EDL were simply kettled into an area and had it all shower down on them. Once we endured our attack we were shuttled off to Coventry and kept there until the early hours without any charge or justification, and forced to walk back to Birmingham [twenty miles!] up the Coventry road.
But this walk was where I made some great friends and sealed some lasting bonds from all over the country, thankfully enough.
For a short while it was great. We had some very well-meaning everyday men, fellows who were willing to put themselves on the front line and make a stand. As the Manchester demonstration soon approached, again it just exploded — and went from 300 attendees to 3,000. I was blown away and it gave me butterflies to see my countrymen finally awakening.
Of course the media portrayed it as 100 protesters, but we in the know knew we were onto something. Unfortunately, it was short lived.
With it being a street movement the organisation was non-existent. As many lads attempted to keep order it became apparent the EDL leadership wanted to pander to the Left and the media. They wanted to become “diverse.”
JdN: EDL kids were taught to call the UAF “Nazi, racist thugs.” They also burned “Nazi” flags, blasted “racism,” and genuflected to Israel.
JdN: The UAF was of course not be be out done.
With this, they pushed Asian and black speakers to the forefront, regardless of their leadership. It was apparent they were there for aesthetics rather than the good of the cause. The rot soon began to set in. Regional divisions became more and more bizarre. As Birmingham became known as West Midlands, the pathetic bickering for “admin” control on social media [ = Facebook] took hold. Phone calls began about Tom blocking Dick, and Dick setting up an account pretending to be Harry…. and if that wasn’t enough, we began to see LGBT, and then Israeli flags appearing on demonstrations. (What either have done to promote traditional British culture and values, I will never know.)
Then one day I switched on my computer, and saw an EDL “disabled division”. With all the binge drinking and in-house fighting so ripe I decided after the bloody music concert at the Newcastle demonstration that I was out.
As terrible as the EDL was, it taught me some extremely valuable lessons that I’ve taken forward with me into becoming an active nationalist. I saw the EDL’s creation literally over night. I saw first-hand the corruption and bias within the police and media, and how totalitarian and pathological the Far Left are, and how all three work together in the most sickening, shocking and alarming way imaginable.Why? To bring about the will of the third party, which runs the state and its openly Marxist advocates with an utter concept for the white working class.
I witnessed the EDL’s collapse from several different angles, but apart from some of the incredible memories and brilliant friendships I created, one part will always stick in my mind forever as the turning point for me, truly having my eyes opened.
An Indian girl named Sareeta Webra, heavily involved with the EDL, once shared a poster type image on her Facebook page with the heading “The Coudenhove-Kalergi plan for the genocide of the white people of Europe”. Immediately I was drawn to it and noticed the EU flag with a hammer and sickle. Immediately it struck a chord, as though a piece of the puzzle had been put into place, and I hadn’t even read anything yet. I continued to read on and was in utter amazement at what was before me. I paused for a short while afterwards in slight confusion but in weird familiarity, as you do when someone shouts “Hi ya Nath[an]”. You recognise them, but you can’t think where from. Unbeknownst to me, that was it — the seed was planted.
All those evenings reading books about WW2 and watching the History Channel with dad suddenly paid off. I was aware of communism and its horrors, but never really looked into its origins, who created it and what types of people were they. I was aware of capitalism and big corporate banks funding both sides of every war, but never delved deeper. Again, who are these banks and why did they actually fund war? I was aware of Islam and my xenophobia of ultimately being engulfed by it, but I was also aware that Islam detested the Jew.
I was aware of National Socialism and very aware they also hated the Jew. As much as I wanted to fight this daunting prospect in my mind, I genuinely couldn’t. Had I actually been led up the garden path all this time? Was the reason I hadn’t dug deeper into ideology due to self-censorship of not wanting to be called a Nazi or a conspiracy theorist? Fortunately hate got the better of me, and due to my hatred of current global situations I brushed off my self-censorship and went in with both feet.
All those silly online comments I had seen throughout the years about the “Holohoax” and “the synagogue of Satan” that never even registered with me suddenly got the Google treatment. I wasn’t afraid anymore. My thirst for knowledge grew even further, and I began to order books left, right and centre. Works by David Irving, The King James Bible, Mein Kampf. I was even pestering a Muslim buddy who for years had been telling me “don’t believe everything you hear in the media” for a copy of the Qur’an.
I spent some time looking into these extremely uncomfortable subjects as I took a back seat from life for a while and just plodded along with every other normie out there, hoping and wishing for the best, but knowing full well the best will never come.
Flicking through Facebook one March evening in 2016 I came across an article on the prestigious Occidental Observer by some guy I hadn’t heard of before headed “Pegida UK, Smoke, Mirrors and Zionism”
Instantly I pricked up as at this moment in time just the headline spoke volumes to me. I knew exactly what this guy was on about and I hadn’t even read a paragraph yet.
As I read the article there were many things that resonated with me and what this fellow Jack Sen was writing: the bullying, pressure and smearing from all the usual suspects. I personally didn’t bother getting into the Pegida hype as it originally came about because I knew what type of organisation it would result in, and I knew what types would eventually drag it down with the aid and conjunction of the three-headed totalitarian state (police, media, and the left).
Nonetheless, I completely related to where this guy was coming from and heard him loud and clear. It was that same pattern: 19 Instant limelight in the media, 2) special-interest financing, 3) pro-Israeli stance, and 4) ultimately being removed AGAIN when highlighting REALITY.
For the first time on a British public platform someone actually had the bollocks to speak the truth rather than me paying £30 for a book for the privilege. I liked the guy and very much enjoyed the article.
I began to follow this guy, Jack Sen, and as the weeks and months passed by he very much grew on me as a figurehead and as a polite and respectful person. I felt less dirty calling myself a nationalist, following his work, than I did when I protested with the EDL or attended Forum events.
Admittedly what little self-censorship I had left did attempt to creep back in, “should I really be following someone on my personal Facebook page who is so vocal on the “J” question? What would others think of me for liking such a human being?”
Thankfully it was hate again that persuaded me to continue my path. Hate for the zombie state of mind of the masses that encouraged me to continue listening to this guy, Mr Sen, and what he was creating. Not only did he have the bollocks to stand in election, write aggressive no-nonsense articles, put himself on show and not hide behind some pseudonym. But the guy was stepping over social media and the mainstream media and creating his own platform so he no longer had to play the silly little games with the left-wing Establishment that so many pander and collapse to, or even embrace, a process which so many like myself are sick to death of seeing time and time again. Not only did this guy deserve a medal but he deserved my support. So immediately I became a member of the British Renaissance Policy Institute.
A short time later that year in late June, a girlfriend and I were making our way to Rome to celebrate my birthday. In fact it was only a few days after the ecstatic Brexit result and spirits were very much still high. As we sat on our plane making our way to Rome, in true airline style we were in close proximity of other passengers. As I took time out between my headphones and our own conversations I was very much eavesdropping on the conversation that was taking part behind me.
It was apparent that the two women behind us had only just met on that flight as you could hear their polite small talk and slightly later introduce themselves to one another, which was lovely. It’s always nice to hear people getting along.
Their conversation soon came onto the recent Brexit referendum and one asked the other “What did you vote?”, quickly followed by “I voted Remain”. The other lady’s reply was “I voted Remain too.” They both expressed their anger at a referendum even being held at all, and both ladies also commented on their shock of the result being Brexit. Fascinated by this discussion I continued to eavesdrop. The next part of their conversation really ruffled my feathers, as one of the ladies exclaimed “I think the vast majority of Brexit voters were just dumb chavvy idiots”. [A chav is, in informal British slang, “a young lower-class person who displays brash and loutish behaviour and wears real or imitation designer clothes”.]
The other lady giggled and replied “or just closet racists”. As the pair had their giggle, one agreed and continued to comment how much she enjoyed diversity and what a fantastic city Birmingham was, to which one lady asked the other “Are you from Birmingham?” The reply I heard was “No. we live in Ashby-de-la-Zouch”, as the other went onto describe the small Welsh shore village of Portskewett where she and her husband lived.
Here we had two ladies who were far removed from the diversity and multi-culturalism they so fondly spoke and voted in favour of, but whose only sniff of such diversity was the brief few minutes they would drive or catch the train through Birmingham to get to Birmingham Airport! Yet they were catching a flight to a city to experience its rich Italian culture, sample its plethora of delicious Italian cuisines and learn its old Italian history.
Hypocrites, utter hypocrites. What would Rome be without its centuries of Roman and Italian protection, its world-renowned food specifically tailored to Italian taste buds and produce that grew around them? What would it sound like without the unique language, dialect and mannerisms created by their fiery Italian temperament, which was a result of their unique bloodline? What would it look like without the innovation, tenacity and grandeur of the Italian architectural spirit?
If that protection fell, if its high streets opened endless kebab and curry houses and large corporate fast-food joints, if the people changed, which would inevitably bring change to its language, accents and culture, and its architecture resembled the Birmingham Bull Ring and Birmingham Grand Central Station, then it wouldn’t be Rome at all. It would resemble the mono third-world shithole that I grew up in, Birmingham.
After that Rome holiday, after the realisation of the age I was, after the arrogance of the conversation I heard on that flight and after my 32 years of life experiences, I knew that I wanted to protect what was left of my precious homeland before it is truly engulfed and destroyed. And if I wanted to preserve what little was left, and promote and revive my culture, and if I wanted to save what was left of my own people, then not only did I need to become a nationalist, but I needed to become active. I needed to be an active member of the British Renaissance Policy Institute.
So to the left who will be reading this:
There will be no need to write an article labelled “exposed” because I am here, I am proud, and I am extremely self-aware. There will be no need for the six words of suppression because you have watered them down that much that they no longer stand for what they once meant, and have absolutely no bearing on me. I am openly proud of my race, nation, heritage and culture, and extremely fearful ONLY of losing them as they become engulfed by those not of my own.
It wasn’t the Caribbean folk departing the ships in the 50s that made me hate. It wasn’t the foreign smells overpowering my home city’s high streets that made me hate. it wasn’t being forced to purchase a dash cam when visiting my home city due to the third-world standards of driving that made me hate. It was you — the Left, liberals, Marxists and communists — that made me hate for allowing “we, the people” to no longer be masters of our own house, for knowingly destroying our ideals and the destiny of our own people, and leaving us and our children at the mercy of your pathological blood thirst, your disgusting, degenerate filth and your cowardly, subversive means.
I am but one, willing to make a stand and there are millions more of us as you haven’t just picked a fight on the British but you have picked a fight on the whole of the white world, and we are angry. We are livid, and, most of all, we are filled with hate. Your pathetic call for endless love has never changed the world and it never will. Love is too soft; it’s too gentle. Love is what you reserve for your lover and family, something you surround them with, a cushion and warmth that you selflessly give. But hate, on the other hand, hate has always changed the world, and hate will change the world again — and hate is the emotion I so selfishly give just for you.