- I would be the last man standing to tell you that there
were times I did not loathe and detest the best part of my schooldays.
I did not, at first, take well to my second primary school, Ansdell County,
torn as I was from my six-year-old compatriot friends at Whitley Bay Junior
to find myself pilloried as a witless urchin and castigated as a linguistically
indecipherable outsider by a less-homely, unforgiving breed of fist-fighting
Lancastrian children.
-
- The bullies generally left me alone because I was too
small and too thin to make a tangible target, and those who did come after
me were met by the fierce wrath of a tough-skinned, hard-nosed youngster,
Andrew, who watched me defensively from afar, although we hardly ever spoke.
His father was my father's best friend, and that made anyone who dared
lay a finger on the most single of my hairs as good as a non-anaesthetized
squealing pig about to enter a slaughterhouse of indescribable pain. I
made it through the five years of my attendance in Ansdell without the
slightest bruise or black eye, although the school matron saw no end of
broken bones and punctured ribs suffered by those whom Andrew deemed even
the slightest threat to my welfare.
-
- It was when I graduated to an all-boys Grammar school
that I was forced to fend for myself, and although I hit the deck more
times than a drunken sailor in a Pacific storm, I eventually learned to
punch above my weight, sometimes with surprisingly devastating results,
for there is no strength greater than that found in the red-misted rage
of a diminutive child confronted by the leery arrogance of a sadistic Goliath.
My pluckiness, earned me instant respect, shared cigarettes (which eventually
put paid to my title as the school's long-distance running champion), and
easy access to the 'bad girls' who attended the adjoining all-girls Grammar
school, and from whom we were separated by means of an enormous artificial
sand dune and the fierce, beady eyes of an ever-watchful 'boy-hating' hockey
mistress.
-
- In those days, we children were described as 'pupils'
and those who taught us as 'teachers'. From what I gather the rules of
education have changed in England to such an extent that new titles are
reinvented daily to suit the ever-shifting perceptions of what constitutes
the transmission of knowledge and the imparting of suitable moral conduct.
I hear that five-year-olds are now designated as 'students' and those charged
with their welfare are aggrandised as 'educators' or some other such similar
nonsense.
-
- I presuppose a time when schoolchildren in that grand
laboratory of England's new world order of social engineering will be tagged
as 'receptacles' and their teachers as 'inductors'.
-
- The process of learning has changed from what it once
was, and still should be: the teaching of elementary skills and the encouragement
of children to become free and sovereign individuals, fully empowered and
able to live independently of the perverse incursions made upon otherwise
ignorant individuals by an overly socialistic or fascistic state. It now
seems that the opposite is true. I shall give you an example of a time
when teachers were men, and pupils their respectful mentors.
-
- I shall never forget the time when, at my Grammar School,
I was summoned to attend a sharp disciplinary ordinance at the behest of
the rather reclusive Headmaster of my school, C. J. Lipscombe. Mr Lipscombe,
a reticent and painfully introverted war hero with a limp, a nervous twitch
and a penchant for whisky, who had been shot down in the latter days of
the Zionists' Second Great War against Brothers of the same race, had recourse
to insist that I be subjected to punishment for a seditious essay that
had belittled the oafishness of his deputy, one Mr Buckroyd, a sadistically
vengeful Scot who assumed that every boy incapable of playing rugby to
the point of physical destruction was a coward deserving of instant expulsion
or open-field blackballing (a practise whereby youngsters were stripped
naked in full view of the girl's school with their testicles smeared in
black boot polish).
-
- I had determined at the age of 12 that Buckroyd, a man
I had instantly identified as an anti-human entity, was my enemy and that
I would somehow, no matter what, kill him in cold blood or at least bring
the bastard to justice. However, my essay, which in its fulsome and brazenly
acidic descriptions of a man obsessed with a violence I satirised only
as a remedial salve for his obvious sexual inadequacies, was privately
written and intended only for the eyes of those who understood my own sense
of humour. As with all things that are intended to amuse only one's closest
associates, it was read widely and caused great mirth among both pupils
and the teaching staff. It hit the Xerox machine. It hit the streets. It
hit the town.
-
- Despite the protestations of my English teacher, who
held up my tome as one of the finest examples of a classic Platonic satiric
dialogue he had ever read, a decision was taken by the school's disciplinary
committee to thrash me with a three-spliced cane. Buckroyd claimed administrative
punitive prerogative and lodged a formal petition of complaint against
the best undertakings of an otherwise bemused and befuddled disciplinary
committee. He wanted blood, and no one and nothing would stand between
him and the rightful exactitude of a punishment equal to the intensity
of his effrontery. The alternative was expulsion.
-
- "It is a most grievous matter and it extends beyond
anything that only I, as Headmaster of this school, am most suitably qualified
to deal with," C. J. Lipscombe informed the committee. Buckroyd was
incensed, but was forced to defer to a man who had a far greater understanding
of life and all its travails, and who was, nonetheless, his senior.
-
- Some three days later, I found myself summoned by a corps
of sniggering prefects into the very high offices of a man with whom I
had never personally spoken. C.J. Lipscombe asked me to confirm my name
and demanded that I remain at all times standing, while dismissing those
who had escorted me back to their duties as superannuated schoolboys. A
long silence ensued while the Headmaster took a long a thoughtful drink
from a brandy glass filled with a mixture of something that looked like
treacle mixed with ice.
-
- "You know why you're here?" he asked me judiciously.
"If you wish, I can provide you with a charge sheet. It's your right."
-
- "Yes, Sir, I know," I answered meekly.
-
- "You do know that I'm obliged to punish you most
severely by means of caning?"
-
- "Yes, Sir."
-
- "And what, Sir, is your opinion? Do you think yourself
worthy of physical punishment, or is this an affair you will someday commit
to memory as a most unfortunate culmination of events beyond the control
of your rampantly imaginative, juvenile and rather ill-considered imagination?"
-
- I was stunned by the sudden turn of events. "I don't
know, Sir. I'm sorry if I hurt anyone, but I think I told the truth. What
I write I write. I cannot help what I write. When I write I cannot stop,
and there is no way I can remove words that have found their rightful place
in a sentence that simply writes itself. They come in a certain order and
if I change the order, the words make no sense. I have no intention of
making people laugh. I don't write things to make people angry. I just
write words that come into my head in a specific order, and down they go
on paper. I cannot stop writing words. I just write. I'm sorry, Sir, but
sometimes I just cannot stop writing."
-
- C.J. Lipscombe took a reclining position on the half-backed
rocking chair that blended with the stained oak of an old Ashley and Benson
desk seared by the heat of multiple tee cans, and studied me intently as
a subject for further scientific enquiry.
-
- "Give no thought as to the words you write other
than the truths you express. Do you know what the truth is?"
-
- I experienced the longest, most searching silence of
my life. Here I was, the rebellious grandson of a miner attempting at such
a tender age to justify my creative rationale to the son of an aristocrat
who had been blown clean out of the skies of a stormy Dover morning. "No,
Sir. I do not know what the truth is."
-
- "You are an Englishman," C.J. Lipscombe told
me in something resembling a conspiratorial whisper. "And one day
you shall know the truth."
-
- When I left his office, without the slightest application
of a bamboo lash against my nether-sides, Mr Lipscombe turned to me and
laid his right hand gently on my left shoulder. "The purpose of this
school is not that we wish to turn out educated idiots for a system that
looks no further than fools to supply its needs, but gentlemen, men of
character. The time will come when the world will call upon men of character,
and few, if any, will answer the call."
-
- How fortunate for the government that men such as C.J.
Lipscombe rest quietly in their graves, and how grievous for me and my
generation that I had not acted fortuitously on his sage advice at a time
when my country needed me the most and I was both young enough and healthy
enough to have made a contribution for the better. For times have changed
in a way C.J. Lipscombe may have envisaged in his foresight as a man once
given over to adversities less fearsome than those we can now expect in
the very near future.
-
- The government's current crop of so-called 'educators',
who are well-versed in every aspect of moral perversion, are now more interested
in moulding the minds of naturally curious and optimistic children into
jaundiced robotised slaves taught only to achieve the quotas mandated by
the school's budgetary considerations and emerge from their formative experience
as obedient citizens impressively obliged to watch television, pay their
taxes and ask no awkward or troubling questions.
-
- In my part-time, I teach English to German children,
propelling them rapidly from the bottom to the top of their classes. I
do so despite using the increasingly debased (and formerly excellent) Cambridge
'English Grammar in Use' manuals. Those written prior to 1987 taught English
in a style fully commensurate with what our language once used to represent.
The newer editions however, replete with politically correct grammar exercises
featuring aboriginal children with barbecued noses and a strange new diction
that bears no resemblance to the English language, and which outline set-pieces
in syntax that are riddled with slang, spelling mistakes and false punctuation,
long ago found a final resting place in my garbage can. I use only the
older editions, obtainable only in second-hand bookshops, or write my own
teaching manuals.
-
- The sad fact of life today, and you only have to peruse
the pages of formerly well-written broadsheets such as 'The Times' or 'The
Telegraph', is that almost nobody in England is capable of writing good
or even adequate English. At no time since the year 1970, has a novel ever
been published by an Englishman or an Englishwoman that can make any claim
to have been written in a style our forefathers would have recognised as
worthy, readable literature. In fact, I now make a point of reading nothing
published beyond the late 1940s. The rape and debasement of the English
language in favour of the sensitivities of the less culturally attuned
races is matched only by the remorseless venom in which ancestral English
children are being deliberately shifted in their development as natural
human beings into a new kind of creature, one that is a product of governmental
bodies staffed by flabby middle-aged women with degrees in sociology who
would be of better service to the community by losing weight and bearing
attractive, healthy children.
-
- In England, Europe and the United States, unnatural sex
education is now becoming compulsory for toddlers, who are, so I am reliably
informed, to be taught at an impressionable age about every aspect of physical
perversion and its apparent normality. Schools in Germany already mandate
that youngsters as young as six play 'touch and feel' games to accommodate
them at an early age with their sexuality and differences in their genitalia,
despite protestations from Christian parents who have been fined and sectioned
in psychiatric hospitals for attempting to exempt their children from such
bestial teachings.
-
- One of America's most decadent icons of the pornographic
Hollywood crime syndicate, a failed goon of an actor called 'Governor'
Schwarzenegger, has even seen fit to propagate the wholesale dissemination
of lesbian and homosexual propaganda to impressionable young minds, supported
by an eager lobby of sodomites who seek to sell their lifestyles as 'normal
and fun'. It may seem wickedly accusative of me to point out that most
of those involved in the Californian Gay and Lesbian 'rights' lobby are
Jews, so perhaps I should shrug my shoulders in bewildered astonishment
and suggest that this must constitute one of those incredibly inexplicable
coincidences.
-
- As a result of Germany's enforced 'holocaust' school
propaganda, primarily designed to traumatise million of youngsters into
hating their own nation and parentage, and the twisted methodologies of
social indoctrination propagated by the 'Frankfurt School', a Judeo-Marxist
teaching cult established and financed by psychopathic sociologists as
far back as the 1950s, thousands of Germans are now opting to leave their
own country for nations where sodomite-free home schooling that allows
for traditional teaching methods and the examination of honest, objectively
reported history is still an option.
-
- Yet I fear, with the growth of this insidious evil that
has infected every aspect of life in schools across Europe and America,
such alternatives may soon be hard to come by. Even Gordon Brown, an overweight
and ineloquent nonentity who has the bare-faced audacity to describe himself
as a 'prime minister' of a north European country, is now forcing every
intuitively aware, bullshit-resistant English schoolchild to visit Auschwitz,
the fantastical Disneyland of fabulist historical deceptions, replete with
gas chambers 'magically' built in 1948 by artful propagandists and malicious
swindlers (as amply testified by Gerhart Schirmer in his personal recollections
recorded in his banned autobiography, 'Sachsenhausen-Workuta: Zehn Jahre
in den Fängen der Sowjets').
-
- France's Jewish playboy 'President' and well-greased
open orifice for every passing Israeli huckster, one Mr Sarkozy, is even
proposing that French toddlers 'adopt' a dead Jewish child so that they
may better empathise with the alleged horrific suffering of children torn
apart by a war connived at by those whose real agenda was the creation
of a fascist Zionist Israel and the destruction of everything noble to
be found in European culture. How much lower are these self-styled 'leaders'
of the West prepared to go in damaging the minds of young children by inflicting
upon them such barbaric modalities structured to leverage the greatest
possible level of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and should we not look
to existing statutes to put these evil bastards where they belong: safely
behind bars?
-
- Together with enforced programmes by which the continual
assessment of a child's psychological, sexual and social development (naturally
including his or her perceived political leanings) are being implemented
throughout schools the length and breadth of Britain, the induction of
a culture of spying and reporting on the misdemeanours and social behaviour
of parents by means of frank written assessments (essays) and psychiatric
testing, the rigorous enforcement of an unquestioned multicultural ideology,
and the strict prohibition on the teaching of Creationism in favour of
the God-hating monkey-man genesis of the human species all point to one
thing: Satanic Ritual Abuse (SRA) by government decree. Satanism is alive
and well in every corner of Europe and America, and it is blessed with
the state's official stamp of approval.
-
- Even a new system of biometric identifiers, compulsory
fingerprinting and swipe cards are being introduced in British schools
for purposes of which the education authorities are remaining somewhat
coy in their responses to parental enquiries. We all know why the paedophiles
who run the United Kingdom from Whitehall are doing this, for their ability
to film each and every citizen on CCTV at least 800 times a day is simply
not enough to satisfy what these filthy degenerates have in mind.
-
- Five years ago, a very good friend of mine, a hard-working
engineer with two fine sons aged seven and nine, rang me at midnight in
a state of tears and distress. His third wife, an unstable woman who had
brought into his house an equally mischievous 12-year-old youngster, had
left Wolfgang in a fit of pique for which one was pained to find a reasonable
explanation beyond the malicious, bullying treatment of this woman's unspeakably
vindictive son toward Pascal, Wolfgang's younger child.
-
- With an eye to a generous settlement obtainable in Germany
by means of cleverly manipulating the authorities, this maliciously devious
woman immediately contacted the nightshift of the Jugendamt (Youth Welfare
Office) and, in collusion with her loathsome son, told them a pack of lies
that had a Jugendamt SWAT team snatch away Wolfgang's children within less
than ninety minutes.
-
- The Jugendamt, created by Hitlerian decree, is the only
government organisation in Germany that has the right to act autonomously
without any parliamentary oversight. Uniquely, its powers of detention
and confiscation exceed even those of the police. Few lawyers are willing
to deal effectively with the Jugendamt, for their officers are legally
permitted to use lies and subterfuge to discredit anyone who seeks to bring
against them a case of false abduction.
-
- Wolfgang was advised that his boys, both of whom loved
their father to distraction, and who were subsequently manhandled kicking,
screaming and crying into a 'hostel' in Giessen, would be kept out of his
reach for at least two years. The Jugendamt, which had already played a
pivotal role in causing the suicide of his sister, Sylvia, following its
illegal abduction of her six-year-old child in 1992 on the spurious grounds
that she was not allowing her girl to be educated properly, threw the book
at my friend and effectively told him that he was now fatherless and ruthlessly
subject to the extraordinary expenses attendant to the upkeep of his distressed
children at a 'hostel' that had become their prison overnight, staffed,
I hasten to add, by state-friendly gays and lesbian 'counsellors'.
-
- Being a journalist (and a bit of a bastard) not particularly
squeamish about using underhand and vicious tactics when faced with unmitigated
evil, and armed at that time with many more useful contacts than I have
today, it took me less than three weeks to compile a dossier listing all
of the sexual infidelities attendant to most of the case officers responsible
for my friend's predicament, including an incriminating itinerary of kickbacks
and financial skulduggery linking the local Attorney General with some
of the most unsavoury elements in the Jugendamt and three of its most notorious
holding centres, complete with photocopied bank receipts. Had I persisted
for longer than the exigencies of the time I had at hand, I would no doubt
have nailed some of Germany's finest 'caring welfare officers' with paedophilia.
But I was not looking for a big-ass story: just the immediate freedom of
my friend's children.
-
- There's a very fine art of discourse that, when practised
well enough, allows one to tread delicately the fine line between blackmail
and cautionary banter. Within a month, Wolfgang and his sons were happily
reunited.
-
- I tell this tale not as an exposition in evil that lies
at the heart of almost all child welfare services, but as indicating an
inherent aspect in the education and treatment of all our children: in
Germany, England, Europe and America. For your children are no longer yours;
they belong to the state.
-
- Teach your children well and warn them that their teachers,
although generally well-meaning, are not trained to tell the truth or impart
knowledge objectively and in a fashion designed to instil in children a
love of learning and a faculty for independent investigative enquiry. Their
job is to kill the spirit of potentially free-thinking citizens; and lest
they fail in this task, the government is already planning to identify
future political 'trouble makers' by means of a child-register database,
mapping specific DNA genotypes that point to original and creative thinking
in unusually talented individuals.
-
- Everything in the sick and twisted minds of the psychopaths
who govern us from Whitehall and Westminster under the auspices of their
serpent masters has a rhyme and a reason.
-
- Imagine.
-
- You are a child of the year 2019. Although you were born
in England, you consider yourself a fitful citizen of EU Region 33; and
in Region 33 walls have ears. Nothing goes unheard and even your thoughts
are not your own.
-
- If I were to tell you that you, as a human being, were
designed from the very inception of the stars that map the coordinates
of our local galaxy as a story to be told; a story with a beginning and
an end and a denouement transcending any conclusion in its apparent finality,
you would doubtless think me fit for a good night's sleep and one of those
measured smiles reserved for speakers of such late night sentiments.
-
- If I were to tell you that you, as a human being and
an Englishman, were designed from the very inception of the stars that
map the coordinates of our local galaxy, indeed the entire universe, as
part of a story that had in part already been told; and continued to unfold
still yet without a denouement transcending any conclusion in its apparent,
or inevitably perceived, finality, you would look at me askance as a cultural
drunkard besotted with history and buy me one for the road; for even a
crazy thinker is worthy of a beer and a comely pat on the back.
-
- But if I were to tell you that you, as an Englishman,
especially designed by the Father of all Creation to be a light unto the
world, and yet, in the story already scripted for you by the one who knows
all that will happen, that your own culture and the fate of you and yours,
irretrievably bound to the story of the magnificent race into which you
found yourself born, was to be thwarted (and indeed has been thwarted)
by a malignant, dystopian counter-narrative that would set a serpent of
ill-intent between the lines of a narrative originally designed to unfold
with a fruitfully unerring charm devoid of the poison of deception and
malice, you would consider me mad and humour me on your way to the quickest
exit.
-
- Something tells you that the narrative is important,
for we are all nothing if not stories in the very telling of ourselves.
When we lose the thread of that narrative, the narrative that daily informs
our own wants and desires, our dreams and ambitions, our loves and aspirations
for those things that extend beyond the material realm and transcend even
our known experience, the story falls apart into a loose symbiosis of things
that either do not readily understand their apparent interconnectedness,
or collapse into a meaningless quandary of nihilist contradictions.
-
- Perhaps in your haste to put such considerations quickly
out of your mind, you would remember the good lessons taught by your comely
teacher at school: she with the porcine yet motherly-frame, whom you loved,
for she spoke so impassionedly against those who 'hate' and are to be detested
by those who trust the inherent goodness of the state. Something within
you, a trigger-switch embedded deep down inside the very membranes of your
thinking matter, tells you something is wrong with this man who speaks
philosophically of narratives distorted by those who despise the magnificently
unfolding narrative of a culture that once claimed its genesis as written
in the stars, and you instinctively search out on your mobile phone the
telephone number of the good Mrs Goldstein, for only she, and she alone,
can tell you if I am in some way suspect, beyond the pale, a potential
'hate criminal' to be interred for questioning and even possible execution.
-
- Your education has served you well, and Mrs Goldstein,
having already informed the police, thanks you for your vigilance and commends
you for the 'King William Award for Obedient Citizenry'. A criminal placed
an idea in your head, and had this idea taken root in a way that may have
served to liberate you from everything you had been carefully taught by
a state that only cares for your welfare and happiness, who knows what
may have happened?
-
- A new narrative, perhaps, free of the Serpent and true
in word? How awful. How discomfiting and rudely unconscionable in the perfectly-regulated
and technologically micro-managed multicultural paradise in which you live,
free from the cares of troubling questions and the forbidden terrain of
unimagined and unimaginable possibilities.
-
- Had not the madman who had spoken of broken narratives
mentioned the poet John Milton and his English Stones of Liberty, whatever
they may be? "Not I," you say with a shudder. "For Mrs Goldstein
had lovingly called me a 'brick', and thanks to my education, a brick in
my thinking and acting I shall always remain. Just another brick in the
wall."
-
- Yet there is a prophecy existent in the New Covenant
of Jesus Christ the Celt, the man from Galilee (The Lee of the Gallic Celts)
which speaks of the servant of the True Father crushing the head of the
Serpent. If only you can educate yourself to read these Scriptures without
allowing the Judeo-Masonic-Christian Serpent to guide your understanding
of the written testimony, for such have their perversions, false translations
and malicious interpolations despoiled the story that is uniquely yours.
-
- Remove the Serpent (and the Liar Saul) from between the
lines and defang the lies he interposes in the mouth of the one Living
Author.
-
- It is this one thing, and this one thing alone, that
the psychopaths who are desperate to control and abuse our children are
afraid of. But for all their financial resources, surveillance technology,
legislative majesty, and vast armies of heavily armed paratroopers and
vicious mercenary killers, without the Serpent, who lives only between
the lines and whose end is most assuredly at hand, their power is as efficacious
as a lame fart in a countervailing tempest of freedom.
-
- And the ability to overthrow the demonic power that rules
this world and free your children from Satan's evil designs begins not
with a frenzy of religious or political activity, but right now.
-
- In the privacy of your own home. By yourself.
-
- The narrative is yours to write, and yours to write alone.
But read it aloud to others, sing it in the streets, proclaim it from the
highest rooftops and holler it from every mountaintop in the land. And
though many, if not all, will turn a deaf ear, remember this: there is
only one to whom you must address your appeal.
-
- Jesus, however, said, "Let the little children come
to me, and do not hinder them; for it is to those who are childlike that
the Kingdom of the Heavens belongs."
-
-
- -----------------------------------
- Michael James is a retired ex-journalist and translator
who left England in 1992. He now lives alone in an isolated log cabin directly
on the border of Switzerland and Germany.
- -----------------------------------
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