The
film, like everything else about Blair and
his greasy Government, with its
extraordinary front-bench cast of
splay-toothed runts and Ferrier's World
Searchlight caricatures, is a lie.
|
November
23, 2004 (Tuesday)
London
(England) AS the bus takes
us to school -- Jessica and me -- I notice
police sharpshooters standing on the arch at Hyde
Park Corner, and the Queen Elizabeth gates are
already closed and locked. The Queen is to pass
this way at midday for the State Opening of
Parliament. I have mentioned more than once
before the paradox that Adolf Hitler (and
more recently Saddam Hussein) were able to
move freely among their own peoples, without the
protection of closed, armored plated Cadillacs and
the like. England has become an uglier
place for Mr Blair's arming of the police. A week
ago the Metropolitan police announced that they
were going on strike, and would not carry any arms
until their demands were met. I am sure that I am
not the only Englishman who felt oddly safer in the
knowledge that the Bobbies were not bristling with
Heckler & Koch submachine guns and the rest of
the pseudo-American arsenal that Mr Much-Beloved
Blair now feels we are entitled to. 1:55 PM: A young male calls,
slightly breathless and nervous, but not the
regular Jewish hate-caller. "Can I speak to
Josephine please?" I respond, puzzled: "Uh, yes.
Who is that calling please?" Male replies,
inaudible - something like "People no 'arm," and
hangs up. Not the regular North London caller, he
sounds student-like, central London, not
uneducated. Poor Josephine has been dead for
five years now, and we all miss her dreadfully. 
IN the evening, there is a five-minute party
political broadcast by the Labour Party, ostensibly
on the theme of today Queen's Speech. The film is a
paean to the new Britain, and is in fact quite
pleasant to watch, as we see one well-spoken
Englishman after another extol the virtues of this
country, and what Blair's government has done for
it -- the best employment figures in Europe, the
finest education system, the best economic future;
the council trash carts trundle dutifully around
the streets of neatly manicured housing projects
(council housing estates, as we call them) picking
up the litter, and scrubbing graffiti off the
walls.
At the end there is the bearded, avuncular
Oscar-winning Lord Attenborough (that's Richard A.
as was), talking in a low, husky whisper and almost
inaudibly of his praise for this new England, and
incidentally of how Labour are investing once again
in the British film industry. This short film is so
slick, it almost wins me over: it almost has me
running out onto the doorstep cheering and calling
upon passers-by to vote for the highly-capable Mr
Blair at their earliest opportunity. But then I realize that the film, like
everything else about him and his greasy
Government, with its extraordinary front-bench cast
of splay-toothed runts and Ferrier's World
Searchlight caricatures, is a lie. The England
that his men have filmed is white, purest White --
which is as close to reality as if the Hollywood
blockbusters were all peopled by brain surgeons,
judges, and professors who were all White; even
when the Labour Party's cameras visit schools in
England for this film, to highlight the great
achievements that are being made in education,
there is not a Black face to be seen in the
classrooms. Every White viewer knows this is a lie -- every
parent with children knows the extents to which
they have privately gone to ensure that their
precious child is educated in a school which is not
inundated by a flood of bottom-end aliens, of
whatever skin colour and language, dragging on the
wheel. In this television propaganda view of England,
which only lasts five minutes, Labour have expunged
all the Blacks -- as surely as the producers of
Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone,
when they found that their film had inadvertently
omitted them, had to stitch Black faces into the
final crowd scenes, pixel by pixel, by digital
wizardry. Unfortunately the invasion of England since the
1950s has not occurred pixel by pixel, but by the
million, as one Conservative or Labour Government
minister after another, beginning with the
traitorous Lord Hailsham in about 1956, has wrung
his hands and said there was nothing that could be
done (or in his words, needed to be done)
about the problem. Blair's New Labour party has proven them wrong.
There is a solution -- you make a film in which
immigration does not even exist; a film in which
the Blacks and their rising tide of crimes against
women, their drugs, their guns, and their gang wars
are as carefully excluded as any mention of, ahem,
the little bother going on in Iraq. Way to go, Tony! Leni Riefenstahl and
Dr Goebbels would be proud of you. [Previous
Radical's Diary] |
David Irving