The Liberal Powder Keg

By Carl Benjamin

Britain has been building to this point for many years now. 

The social wounds on the backs of the indigenous inhabitants of Britain, primarily the English, have been left undressed and have hardened into ugly scars that seep with pus. Every day brings forth new atrocities blighting the psychic landscape of our once-tranquil isle. Where we used to look at our country as a place of rest, comfort, and security, we are now struggling to come to grips with the fact that danger lives among us and can strike anywhere, at any time. The serene innocence of deep England has been ruthlessly torn away by the braying vengeance of the multiculturalist and the cultural enrichment he has inflicted upon us.

More murder victims will be made, more fingers will be pointed, and the country will spiral out of control because the people at the wheel can never bring themselves to admit they were wrong. Not just wrong to hold the hateful attitude they have toward their own people, land, and history, but wrong about human nature itself. People are different, cultures can be incompatible, not all things can be managed under the liberal sky. The longer they persist in this delusion, the more the malignant reason they began this project becomes revealed: it was all out of self-loathing for their own cultural particularities.

It makes them feel disgusting, inadequate, and trapped to be considered a product and part of England. They feel that they are covered in metaphysical slime that won't come off, glueing them down to this place and time, holding them back from fully realising themselves as sophisticated global nowhere citizens who have transcended the old world of humanity. While they remain merely English, they cannot think well of themselves, so in petty anger, they take their revenge upon their countrymen.

Instead of nurturing our country, they flay it, and make it suffer for not living up to their expectations. They were promised better, a perfect progressive world, and these far-right throwbacks are the only thing standing between them and utopia. It is, then, with a particularly cruel joy that globalist politicians and the liberal commentariat leap upon each and every perceived breach of progressive propriety, eyes wide with glee that the shame of their own hatred can be projected onto their nativist enemy. They can pour the sins of their own moral system onto the back of a defender of the old order, in individuals such as Nigel Farage and Tommy Robinson, names they are making synonymous with Goldstein, casting them out into the political desert. If they can put the cart before the horse by framing Farage and Robinson as the authors of the issue, rather than symptoms of the sickness, they can exculpate themselves from blame.

But it won't fix the problem; it won't bring back the dead.

The blood running in the streets is the bitter harvest we reap from such poisoned seeds. And yet they continue to sow, and force the pressure to build, because it is the only way for them to feel moral.

There are people here who just ought not to be here. They know it, we know it, as do our liberal overlords, but they are committed to the out-group as a method of collective punishment against the countrymen who failed them. This is what you working-class lowlifes get for not becoming sufficiently bourgeois, like us, they think. The working class are a dirty, drunken, deplorable reminder of Britain's pre-liberal past when their own parents and grandparents were deeply attached to their hearth and home, utterly unsophisticated and unable to impress our sophisticated European neighbours.

Each dreadful failure of the multikulti project must be suppressed to preserve the integrity of the noble lie. The bigger the cracks, the more strained the liberal denunciations of the heretics and backsliders, those who are prepared to concede to reality any of its uncomfortable truths. The ferocity with which the liberal machine turns on its dissidents is as swift as it is shocking and becomes intensified as the cracks in the hyperreality become broader and deeper.

We are all just the same, and you will admit that their cultures are the moral equal of our own, or else you will be exiled with a scarlet letter, criminalised, proscribed, arrested under the Terrorism Act, and cast into a woke oubliette for daring to challenge the reign of tolerance.

After all of this, is it any wonder that the United Kingdom is a powder keg, ready to explode?