The Sceptred Isle has been colonised without a shot being fired. And people get colonised for a reason. It’s how the British and other imperialist nations were able to conquer Africa, India and China: the native populations were weak, not only economically and technologically, but in their politics and, perhaps above all, in the spirit of their people. After decades of ideological attack and taking refuge in booze, drugs, music and cross-dressing, the English are similarly weak.

If I were to speak like Nietzsche, I’d conclude that we deserve to be conquered. But whether we deserve it or not, we are being conquered. I see no hope for us, and although I’m in despair that I’m going to lose my country to the dregs of the planet, nothing short of a revolution will reverse this.

Sixty years ago, Enoch Powell predicted a ‘river of blood’ when the contradictions between the native English and their invaders flooded over, and a civil war would rage up and down the country. Were such a war to break out, I’d join it in a shot. Unfortunately, as Eliot predicted, the world ends not with a bang but with a whimper. By the laws of history that we helped to create, we deserve everything we’re going to get.

It’s a truism that a people get the leaders they deserve, and in my lifetime we’ve never had a worse political class than we have now, not only in the UK but across Europe. When a country is threatened with invasion by a foreign force, the state usually sends out its military to defend the country and its people. But there is no fleet of cutters patrolling the English Channel; instead, the cherished institution of the lifeboat brigade is used as a taxi service, bringing the hordes to the shore, before their onward journey to 4-star hotels.  The state is paying for the invasion with the taxes of the British people. Unless we form a New Model Army and ensure remigration of the invaders, the UK is doomed.

The powers-that-be are brutally suppressing our right to complain about demographic replacement. As with the experimental gene therapies, nobody wants to talk about it because they’re rightly worried about what they had injected into themselves and their children in order to be able to say, proudly and with a masked mouth, that they’re not ‘anti-vaxx’. Similarly, when you tell people who, for thirty years, have swallowed every obscenity of multiculturalism, political correctness, diversity, woke and every other ideology in the furtherance of replacement migration, all they have to fall back on is: ‘at least I’m not racist’.

We’ll find out over the next few years whether the English people deserve to be consigned to the dustbin of history, bred into a mongrel race by millions of sub-Saharan Africans, converted to Islam under Sharia law, or reduced to the lowest rung on the Indian caste hierarchy. Or whether we will rise up and defend our country and ourselves from conquest. Sadly, I think we’re lost. The English working class has been battered into submission and distracted with circuses by decades of neoliberalism, and the self-loathing and hatred of the English is now a cornerstone of middle-class identity.

I’m a little confused by the indifference of our ruling class. Of course, they take limousines on their well-worn path between Belgravia, Eton, Oxford, the Cotswolds and Heathrow, and never or rarely see the catastrophe they’ve allowed to happen in London, Birmingham, Bradford and other platforms of the Caliphate; but do they really want their children (young Tara and Tarquin) to grow up and live in what England will be in ten years’ time? Perhaps the whole lot will move to Switzerland with Klaus Schwab and Ursula von der Leyen. Or, perhaps, they’ve been indoctrinated to the inevitability of their own demise. Charles Mountbatten, our traitor king, has seemingly converted to Islam, so why shouldn’t the rest of his ghastly class?

My one hope is that Putin will do what the Nancy boys in the Élysée Palace (Macron, Starmer and Zelensky) claim he will do: march across Europe and liberate us from the dictatorship of the European Union. If he does, I will most certainly be fighting on the side of the Russians!

History is upon us, comrades. Choose a side. But England’s green and pleasant land is gone forever, sown with the turds of a Somalian refugee, deafened by the Takbir of a Pakistani rapist, sold for a song by an Indian billionaire.

Après nous, le déluge.