The Taking Of The Flag

I don’t really know when it first began, this growing sense of distaste, this feeling of almost loathing, augmented every day I suppose by what I observed and what indeed I know to be the case, yet it gave me no joy, no sense of pride, in fact the very reverse to see my nations flag, sported by many and set atop many a passing car. How can this be, for I am a nationalist, for me there is no higher calling than nation save for people, why then the cheerlessness, the aversion, the sinking of the spirit. Why I should be filled with joy, radiate it, spread it as a benign virus to all I meet upon the street, at the workplace and at home, for so very many years now the flying of the flag has set one up for attack, physically, verbally or in some cases by the state itself, under the guise of health and safety or community cohesion.

At one time to fly our nations flag was an act of rebellion, of rejection, a statement, a challenge and it had few takers, today so many now sport the flag, why it is everywhere, everywhere I look and given the above I should be grateful, happy, ecstatic even, proud that once again the flag of nation flutters. As I journey to and from work, I see them, see them everywhere, large St George flags adorning houses, flats and maisonettes, tee-shirts, tops indeed of all descriptions and even the supermarkets indulge the fad. I can at this time be served by an individual dressed in the flag, whilst all around there are flags to buy, little knickknacks, cakes, clothing, footballs and so on. Therefore I should be filled with wonder, bedazzled by spectacle, sent dizzy with joy, yet I am laid low, sent scurrying for cover lest madness take hold, perhaps I have never looked, never took interest but I know this is not the case, in times past similar happened but not on such a scale.

Today our nations flag is a most terrific brand, able to sell all manner of items, flown by some whose only contribution to society is injurious, detrimental and malign, many deep down I suppose hold a form of patriotism, scared silly by the actions of the state it is perhaps only now that they can fly their flag in peace, only now that they are permitted love of nation, albeit in support of distraction. On s day few flags are flown, few shirts of any length worn and many do not give a dam, yet for the great game, the ultimate distraction they seemingly give their all. So as I travel to and from work this display does not give cheer, does not lift spirit nor spur me on, I know it to be a sham, a fallacy, a covert way of seizing the flag and gifting it to all. So many sporting the flag, takeaways, non-indigenous individuals, strutting, knowing I would imagine the offence it may cause but any chance to do us down is grasped, seized, held fast and used potently against us.

The great campaign to take the flag has seemingly succeeded and as a nation we are lessened by it, our very emblem now merely a brand, a money maker, a cosh, last week I walked, I often do, the sun had sunk behind rain clouds summer evading us as it so often does, the streets were chilly, gripped then by twilight, the new street lamps barely chasing away the encroaching gloom. The steady swish of cars, moving for a while until bottle-necked further on, I passed through a medium sized gang of urban youth, most swigging from lager cans, sat atop small push-bikes and emanating offensive menace, most if not all sporting our nations flag. Still age has not made of me yet a viable victim, nor had the alcohol bolstered their nerve or instilled a manic sense of self, I went on my way, feeling the eyes at my back perhaps probing for weakness.

Where had summer gone, what of global warming, strangely the smell of many past barbeques still permeated the air as the rain began its descent, soon the darkness deepened and visibility lessened still further ,still those dammed new lights cut no swathe through the darkness, it was as if the gloom was a fog and nothing had hope of parting it ,oh but I was wrong, standing out in the gloom my local supermarket, all lit up like a fun fair, by now the rain pelted down and I rushed inside. So many already there, long queues, bored, tired looking till staff and unforgiving lights, every aisle a flag and so many goods sporting it as to baffle the mind and almost every customer adorned by it in some way or other. Myself I wore no flag, feeling somewhat left out, somewhat other worldly of another time, for surely this is not now my England.

Many question the decline of the great English pub, citing a covert scheme that favours Islam, some hit the nail on the head when they talk of anti-social behaviours and others still further when they talk of supermarkets. Everywhere there was alcohol, piled up on pallets and so very cheap, I noted that the very lager guzzled by the menacing teenage gang I had passed through was outstandingly cheap and heavily promoted. This is I feel the reason for the decline of the pub, this and the anti-group actions of successive generations, my own included, many public houses had become nothing but drug-dens filled with violent, thieving low-life’s an utter deterrence to decent people and families, indeed for many they risked physical harm by merely endeavouring to enter such establishments and the police and the powers that be did nothing, simply in time closing down the public house in question whilst the loathsome element moved on.

It seemed as if every shopping trolley was loaded with beer that alcohol was as necessary as water, as needed as air, the queues stretched back into the aisles and the constant sound of tills assaulted the air. This then my country, my nation, reduced to this, the flag a commodity and the people strange, a quiet drink with ones friends in a pub gone the way of the dinosaur becoming merely a retail experience and a hobby done at home, today the very sociability of a quiet drink has gone and another pillar of community life has been smashed down. Still I walked around as a drone buying what I needed and what I thought I did, taken in by offers as any other, until upon leaving I realised I had spent more than I had meant to, still I thought one must never miss a bargain, I looked outside and blackness had enveloped all, tiny spots of light stood out beneath lampposts that was all, I was thankful of the moon to light my way, dam those streetlights and my council tax had gone up aswell.

I often wondered what I paid for with that, with that monthly must do, that burden, that dead money, taxed again although I have been, I had once remarked to the nice Asian gentleman in the local post office that, if it is for collecting my refuse, then I would take it to the skip myself, to which he laughed and continued about his business. Some will recoil at me calling an Asian nice, perhaps believing that nationalism is governed by hate, that I and others are wholly unable to appreciate individuals upon their own personal merit, this is entirely fiction, crafted by an owned media and necessary to garner anti-nationalist sentiment, if most had a clue as to the workings of nationalism then we would be throwing the government from office and heralding in better times within a fortnight, regrettably this is not the case and nationalism has an uphill struggle to say the lest. So on this question I must answer, there are many non-indigenous people that are fine individuals, law abiding and pleasant, many who work and pay their way, whilst there are many, many whites who are the lowest of the low.

Yet nationalism or at least my nationalism, recognises that they should not be here, that due to the actions of finance many are forced to migrate to other countries for a better life, it is therefore the actions of big-business and finance that are of great concern, if we do not place finance at the peoples disposal and not we it, then we will never achieve true freedom. So it is eminently possible for non-indigenous individuals to be fine fellows but this does not equate to them having any right to be here, to better themselves and their families at my children’s expense but I will never, never hate for hatreds sake, I simply will not permit the contestation of evil to become the same, to become itself an evil. I hefted my shopping. Bags in each hand and began the slow walk home, the rain had lessened but not markedly so and the peak time traffic had eased, I waited patiently at the roads edge to cross, manners don’t come easy now and many, many drivers have not a care as to others, the rain began a tumult and the heavens opened.

Saturated, soaked, enveloped by gloom, passed by, by whispering cars, eventually a kindly driver stopped waving me on and for a perilous time I was caught as a rabbit between lanes, like a human version of that old game frogger I waited, no kindly driver on this side I’d have to make a dash for it, I did so, bags shaking in each hand and heart pounding, I made it, breathing a sigh of relief. At one time I was a good runner, able to continue for quite some time, even until a few years ago I could outpace the average teenager, now of course I have given up smoking, gained weight in the process, I like to believe that it is purely this but I know deep down age paints me grey. Today my engine labours and my legs feel weak, just that merry run across a traffic lane noted physically, still I can still work hard and age doesn’t wholly have me yet.

I’d been so long in there, I thought as I trudged home, the plastic bags biting into my fingers, prompting me to shift them every so many yards, the rain still came down and I became a hoodie, at once I was anonymous, unknown, age indeterminate and a mere shadow to the cameras. The rain bounced upon the pavement each drop a living entity, a jumping bean until energy sapped it fell lifeless upon the ground, nearly there I thought, swapping bags, to my left a row of shops, not a one owned by an indigenous fellow and all ablaze with light, in one I observed a reasonable crowd, some standing others seated, all awaiting their Chinese, the Indian had smaller windows, although there to I imagined a similar scene, the off-licence would have a steady stream till it closed and around its doors the mandatory gang, smoking, drinking and glaring at all and sundry, daring them to say but a word.

Of course I have had more than a few confrontations which such types and I should imagine they will continue, I seem to be utterly unable to become meek, although I dare say as age advances I will like others before me have no choice. The police of course will do nothing, not a thing, not unless I take matters into my own hands or declare my opposition to mass migration, then of course they will rush to take me but for most, we the law-abiding, the majority, the thug holds sway and the criminal preys upon us. Still my council tax pays for that militia, for that gang, more concerned with enforcing evil than protecting the innocent, today the police are but a shadow of their former selves and indeed it shows on performance. Still as a nationalist I have a sometimes unhealthy respect for the police, a desire to remain within the law, although I am increasing beginning to realise that they work against us.

There were more gangs now, crowds of young men and women, dressed similar, all glaring insolently and all a danger to others and indeed to themselves, I had little care, such gangs hold little fear for me yet and indeed, I am still able to put a quaver amongst them. It concerned me, concerned me greatly the stealing of our flag, the robbing of our emblem and the denigration of it to brand status, still perhaps as in any battle the standard is the last to fall isn’t it, stalwarts always protect the flag, today few are left, not enough to protect the standard, to save the flag, to busy surviving, running headlong from politically correct tyranny, to gather around the flag. Some will still use it though, the ZDL/EDL elements, that crew of thugs, hooligans and the angry, displaying behaviours wholly at odds with what nationalism really is, with what the people really want, after all the people will always recoil from thuggery and indeed don’t we have enough of it anyway.

Not far now, I thought passing a boarded up pub, stripped bare by “tatters”, every piece of metal accessible gone now to aid china, India or some other growing economy, the windows out the walls covered in indiscernible graffiti, parts blackened by a fire set by god alone knows who, I would imagine that here to the land will be sold off, small houses built and another bit of local history forever gone. We need houses don’t we, so over crowded we have become, every site available given over to the builder, massive communities, communities where none trusts the other, where tension and violence are but a street away, that is if one is lucky. I am still relatively young but even within my life so much has gone, altered, changed for good ,although not for good, much is bad and as a people we say nothing, scared, frightened, disjoined, utterly unable to sing with one voice, save for at the match, around the television, whilst consuming supermarket bought swill and numerous takeaways.

Still I thought perhaps I care too much, perhaps they after all deserve their fate and after all have I not given over too much of my life for nationalism, whilst all the while it to has changed, become something I no longer recognise, supporting causes I cannot and creating strive where none is needed. In my street now, so many flags, the house on the corner where not even a one white face resides, resplendent in our colours, further up where the young lady lives with the black male who never works but always has money, whose children terrorise others, why there to a flag, it seemed for just a moment as if there was a national celebration, a renaissance, an awakening of patriotism but no merely football, a game brought to our shores by Roman invaders ,shaped by ourselves and given back to the world. One more road to cross and home, my fingers sore from the cutting plastic ,again I waited, no cars I crossed the street, as I stepped out of the road and onto the pavement I felt I had stepped on something ,quite dark now I could barely make it out, I moved closer, peering down and in the dim light thrown out by the streetlights I could just make out the St George flag, a small flag presumably dropped by a passing car, covered in dirt and filth, lying now in the gutter, a lesson to us all.

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