There is something unspeakably sad about watching a great nation in terminal cultural collapse — especially when it is the nation that gave birth not only to the place one calls home, but also to one’s own parents.
The U.K., having over the course of half a century slowly plucked out its own bones, now lies in a shapeless heap, gnawing upon its carcass.
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The English have marched to the cliff’s edge in an efficacious and orderly manner; the end will be properly managed by hovering Health & Safety officers; special notes for efficiency! No jumping the queue when you reach the edge! There’s time for all, and the schedule will be respected! Pace, keep pace!
Can you imagine? Grinding down the English peoples’ kitchen-knives to keep them from stabbing each other in the streets?
I’m glad my British parents didn’t live to see these times.
Malcolm, my mother was English. My childhood memories are of an England that, though gray, and cold and coloured by the patina of decline of the early ‘70’s, was an England of English, that were unashamedly English. England was sold for a plate of curry and a “Cool Britannia” novelty shirt.
I don’t think I like the British very much.
I think Lawrence Auster referred to it as The Dead Isle or The Isle of the Dead. Something like that.