Ah, culture.  Culture is many things, art, music, philosophy, literature, how people do the things common to all humanity, eat, sleep, whether you use chopsticks or a fork, what you generally eat, when you generally eat and a right fucktard you are if you get antsy about different cultures – well, maybe not actually eating ants. Of course post-Brexit when there may not be anything else to eat, I may change my tune.  But culture is also what you think about human, whether or not you despise human, and these creatures whose cocks you suck, whom you call good and to whom you hand England despise human, human has no right to be, individuality has no meaning to them, any more than to the cadres of North Korea or of the Nazi Party.  Clone is good.  Mindless is good.  They make no effort to hide it, any of them. 
Under the guise that you’re being a fucktard who thinks beans on toast is mysteriously superior to chow mein, we are being bullied and harassed and prosecuted for criticizing, deriding, condemning cultures of contempt, cultures that despise human.  Yeah, yeah, it’s really wrong and evil to piss with laughter at animals in jackboots, dirty monkeys who beat up women and gays, murder people who think differently.  Sick nutters who got Troof and brandish some bloody book or other full of drivel which everyone else is supposed to revere.  There are essentially four species of these: the Bible, the Koran, Mein Kampf and the Communist Manifesto.  In the world of the fake fascist Left loon you are a hater if you hate those who hate and despise. 
Desensitized , that's the word.  Desensitized to evil and calling it good because its perpetrators call it good.  
To this day the Catholic Catechism states
"The Magisterium of the Church
85 "The task of giving an authentic interpretation of the Word of God, whether in its written form or in the form of Tradition, has been entrusted to the living teaching office of the Church alone. Its authority in this matter is exercised in the name of Jesus Christ."47 This means that the task of interpretation has been entrusted to the bishops in communion with the successor of Peter, the Bishop of Rome.
86 "Yet this Magisterium is not superior to the Word of God, but is its servant. It teaches only what has been handed on to it. At the divine command and with the help of the Holy Spirit, it listens to this devotedly, guards it with dedication and expounds it faithfully. All that it proposes for belief as being divinely revealed is drawn from this single deposit of faith."48
87 Mindful of Christ's words to his apostles: "He who hears you, hears me",49 the faithful receive with docility the teachings and directives that their pastors give them in different forms.
100 The task of interpreting the Word of God authentically has been entrusted solely to the Magisterium of the Church, that is, to the Pope and to the bishops in communion with him
Catechism of the Catholic Church
 
In other words they are the only people who know what it means. It is not exactly surprising to the mostly normal that many disagree.
 
Again the Catechism:

Wounds to unity

817 In fact, "in this one and only Church of God from its very beginnings there arose certain rifts, which the Apostle strongly censures as damnable. But in subsequent centuries much more serious dissensions appeared and large communities became separated from full communion with the Catholic Church - for which, often enough, men of both sides were to blame."269 The ruptures that wound the unity of Christ's Body - here we must distinguish heresy, apostasy, and schism270 - do not occur without human sin:

Where there are sins, there are also divisions, schisms, heresies, and disputes. Where there is virtue, however, there also are harmony and unity, from which arise the one heart and one soul of all believers.271


The Church holds we are helpless without God. We cannot do good without God and so without something entering us from outside. There is no mechanism inside people capable of moral choice. What the rest of us would regard as a natural plurality of perspectives is a wound to unity.

The core of it remains that independent mental activity is considered synonymous with self, to assert the existence of a functioning mind as heart, to have one’s own views not those dictated by another, supposedly speaking on behalf of the God person, to be human, is self-will and rebellion. The Vatican, which thinks to represent Europe, does not and cannot represent the free world, not least because of its views on other religions, and far from maintaining a Christian presence in non-Catholic Europe probably acts as a major force for alienation.  Key facts about modern Europe include the Reformation and the collapse of the Soviet bloc culminating in the fall of the Berlin Wall and the unification of Germany in 1990.  A little arithmetic will tell you that anyone over 40 born in the former Soviet empire was educated by Soviet Communism.  Poland has largely returned to the Church.  Former East Germany has not. 
 
The ruptures, you vile evil perverted bags of filth, occurred because of being human, because of reason, love, independent action of hearts and minds.
Jesus wasn’t about that, for which among many other reasons, large parts of the Christian and post-Christian world have regarded and regard the Vatican as evil, the Anti-Christ you will recall, the old whore who sold out love for power. 
As an openly sexually and religiously supremacist institution, like Islam, it has no place whatever in the governance of C21st England.  It has indeed been removed from the governance of England.  But it only takes the absolute evil of Blair and Booth to reinstate it to impose a pre-Enlgihtenment governance of lies and corruption and bestiality. 
De mortuis nil nisi bonum.  I suspect Murphy O’Connor was sthe chief agent of evil
Quotes > Quotable Quote

“Captive Greece took captive her savage conquerer and brought the arts to rustic Latium”
Graecia capta ferum victorem cepit
Captive Greece captured her captors.  Clearly not.  Dirty slobbering ignorant ineducable, vindictive bigoted, stupid, vicious butchering murdering subhumans left free to destroy me.
Disgusting creepy old men crawling over my body, taking control of it from me. Crawling over everything clean and decent and open and upright and honest and rational and capering in triumph.
Labour can of course sink no lower.
And of course similarly: Reason in revolt now thunders/Ends at last the age of cant/Cast aside your superstitions/Servile masses, arise, arise!
The servile masses love their perversion, love their submission, love to feel all hot and wet between the legs at how obedient they are and simply turn on you and rip you apart. 
Historians may glean from this understanding of the disparate figures of Lenin and Cromwell, both of course notorious for massacring bonehead peasants. The bonehead savage, the peasant slave-ape is not reachable by human means, it is impervious to language, to fact, to reason.  There is no point in wasting words on creatures like Whelan, Saunders, Khwaja, any of them.  They are  not human beings, they have been turned into some kind of zombie, walking corpse, automaton by their filthy religions, unreachable by love or mind.  Lenin and Cromwell massacred them because language is pointless. 
And now they’ll destroy me, based on lies that may never heard in open, based on the ravings of perverts, based on the falsification of history, based on total intellectual and moral corruption, that is what the Argentine slum monkey stands for, fascism, evil, sickness.
And so the gallows-food of Government sit back and hand England to evil, hand a major public institution to the rule of foreign fascists.  The norms of the free, democratic and civilized word ae meaningless at UCH, absolutely meaningless, a foreign country.  With absolute insolence, it runs on completely different rules to England.  Outside the walls is London, you can tell, there are big red buses, but it’s meaningless. 
No British politician is to be trusted with England, not for big resounding abstracts such as liberte, egalite, fraternite, we the people, but for about 40 million small individual reasons, the 60% or so of us who are women and or gay.  The girl delivering my Ocado order, the women on Brighton beach, the bus-drivers, poets, philosophers, engineers, postwomen, fighter pilots, physicist, generals, stockbrokers, writers, architects, the runners, the tennis-players, the cricketers, the footballers who are enjoying being their unique individual selves. 
They prefer sucking the cocks of the sexually vile, sexually filthy dirty squirming monstrous psychopaths, whose mores if put into practice in the free world would earn them arrest – would have earned them arrest; the piece of political offal prefers to whine it’s their culture and you can’t interfere with someone’s culture, a culture of sickness, of perversion, of evil.
To offend against which is criminal, a disparaging of religious doctrine.  The filth of traitors has to be most speedily removed from the statute books. 
A highly educated highly intelligent woman is made into a labourer, required to do heavy manual work threatening my spinal fusion by a capering illiterate slum boy, a piece of excrement, a criminal caught with his hands in the till running workers’ playtime, two black girls stashed away in a leaky attic, where they were freed of the requirement to do any work, a nursey-boy. 
Twenty years later I am severely crippled thanks to the continued attentions of vermin, isolated, everyone ganged up on me, universally committed to my destruction.  Of course nothing untoward has happened.  All the vile strutting slave-apes know women are pack-animals, beasts of burden. There has been no calling anyone to account, no public establishing of fact, no speech, in the world of disease and corruption that the politicians call good.
Fine, Rees-Mogg, Duncan-Smith, Fitzalan-Howard, Nicholls, I read you back to yourself.  The Catlick is as ever a traitor.  The Catlick is as ever England’s enemy.  Now you see religion resurgent you crawl out of your holes to desecrate and destroy. Under the leadership of first one old Nazi then another; I say, Argentina, isn’t that where all the Nazis fled to. Some kind of vicious little slum-monkey  Like its doubtless faithful slave Grisales.  When I was severely disabled, shortly before I left, walking with two sticks, the animal expected me to load medical records onto my back and take them to the Cancer Centre.  Things like that at the hands of the dregs of humanity, the scum of the earth, you can’t actually believe  are happening here in England.
And the carrion just chorus ever louder, all immigrants are wonderful, you can’t object to any immigrant.  You think I want that creature in my country? A mad squirming bag of shit.  Assuredly there are home-grown bags of shit.  We certainly don’t need more.
Part of it all of course is that immigrants from foul and diseased fascist cultures see nothing wrong with their foul and diseased fascist conduct, spew drivel like Warsi, absolute tripe, sick nonsense like some creature called Malik is the Guardian, sneering at the myth of ‘poor little Britain standing alone’,  sneering at my mum and dad who worked in London throughout the Blitz and thousands like them, my dad who was in the Home Guard, what the hell use does the stupid cunt think the empire was to people on the south coast with the Nazis 20 miles away (distance from Dover to Calais), what the hell use to people being bombed in London, hey the Luftwaffe’s flattening the docks again, but little Nesrine knows it’s a ridiculous self-aggrandizing myth because of British jurisdiction in Canada and India.
What is this absolute nonsense that the culture of criminals, of fascists, of grotesque sick monkeys,  is to be respected so long as they call it religion.  This is my country.  I don’t ‘respect’ an English strutting fuck-up but apparently I am supposed to crawl to a brown one.  You behave yourselves in a civilized fashion.  Fuck off if you don’t like it.  Shrug. I’m not going anywhere.  This is my country.  That’s the difference, even as they cavort and scream how British they are.  I don’t have anywhere else to go. 

The 'you wouldn't say that if' is a great whine, chips on their shoulders, poor little victims, you wouldn't say that to me if I was white/straight/Anglican/whatever.  Well, actually I should, so go fuck yourselves anyway.
​
Once upon a time there was a King called Charles.  He had a Catholic wife and cosied up to Rome. ​

Poor King Charles.  We do not want you.  We do not even begin to want you, but oh you are so fucking insolent. You can bloody read, vermin. Try it again:   

A SHORT HISTORY LESSON

​Magna Carta: 1215

The Pope denounced Magna Carta as the work of the  devil, you know. Others think it a cornerstone of Anglo-American  democracy. Britannia  ecclesiam romanam non amat neque amabat.

Welcome,  therefore to England, land of Henry VIII, Elizabeth I, Charles I,  Cromwell,  William of Orange, the Glorious Revolution, Paine, Darwin, Marx. Of course in  turdville they know no  history. Faith schools not all they're cracked up to be then?

1534: Act  of Supremacy established the Church of England, of which the monarch is the head.

Once upon a time there was  a king called Charles. He had a Catholic wife,  upheld the rejected concept of  the divine right of kings and cosied up  to Rome. His head ended up separated  from his body, rolling gently away  from him down Whitehall.

English Civil War 1642-1651

30 January 1649 Execution of Charles I

Shortly  after, there was another king called James and his reign ended with the Glorious Revolution and the installation of the resolutely Protestant  William of Orange  and the law-makers rather thought they'd settled  things once and for all.

1688 Glorious Revolution and establishment of Protestant  succession
 
It can be argued that James's  overthrow began modern English parliamentary democracy: never since has  the monarch held  absolute power, and the Bill of Rights has become one  of the most important documents in the political history of Britain. The deposition of the Roman  Catholic James II ended any chance of  Catholicism becoming re-established in  England, and led to limited  toleration for nonconformist Protestants — it would be some time before  they had full political rights. For Catholics, however, it  was  disastrous both socially and politically. Catholics were denied the  right  to vote and sit in the Westminster Parliament for over 100 years  afterwards. They were also denied commissions in the army and the  monarch was forbidden to  be Catholic or marry a Catholic, thus ensuring a Protestant  succession. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Glorious_Revolution

 And I do declare that no foreign  prince, person, prelate, state or potentate hath or ought to have any  jurisdiction,
power, superiority, pre-eminence or authority,  ecclesiastical or spiritual,  within this realm. 

And whereas it hath been found by  experience  that it is inconsistent with the safety and welfare of this  Protestant kingdom  to be governed by a popish prince, or by any king or  queen marrying a papist, the said Lords Spiritual and Temporal and  Commons do further pray that it may  be enacted, that all and every  person and persons that is, are or shall be  reconciled to or shall hold  communion with the see or Church of Rome, or shall profess the popish  religion, or shall marry a papist, shall be excluded and be  for ever  incapable to inherit, possess or enjoy the crown and government of  this  realm and Ireland and the dominions thereunto belonging or any part of   the same, or to have, use or exercise any regal power, authority or   jurisdiction within the same; 
English Bill of Rights, 1689

The office of Prime Minister had yet to be created.  Academic lawyers could argue for years about whether it was within the  spirit of the law  that it is inconsistent with the safety and welfare of this Protestant kingdom  to have the Prime Minister married to a  Catholic. 

Indeed they were bloody lawyers.  They knew what they were messing with. 

And then roughly 100 years later there was a little  upset in France and another king found his head rolling gently away from his body and  lots of blood coming from his neck and there was the  Declaration of the Rights of Man and the Civil Constitution of the  Clergy and they just don't seem to  learn, cos they got Troof.

French Revolution  1789-1799

12 July 1790 Civil Constitution of the Clergy making all Roman Catholic priests subordinate to the French government
21 January 1793  Execution of Louis XVI
17 November 1793 celebration of the goddess 'Reason' in Notre-Dame de Paris

 4 July 1776 Declaration of Independence of these United States of America
 
The First Amendment to the Constitution of the United States of America was adopted in December 1791. 

Congress shall make no law respecting  an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof;  or
abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a  redress of  grievances.
 
Probably the Vatican didn't even notice, being somewhat more locally engaged. Others, however, did and do.
 
They didn't surrender to the voice of sweet reason. They were forced to surrender and indeed fought a valiant rearguard action.

Wherefore, civil society must acknowledge God as its Founder and Parent, and must obey and reverence His power and authority. justice  therefore forbids, and reason itself forbids, the State to be godless; or to adopt a line of action which would end in godlessness--namely, to treat the  various religions (as they call them) alike, and to bestow upon them
promiscuously equal rights and privileges. Since, then, the profession of one  religion is necessary in the State, that religion must be professed which alone  is true, and which can be recognized without difficulty, especially in Catholic
States, because the marks of truth are, as it were, engraven upon it. This  religion, therefore, the rulers of the State must preserve and protect, if they  would provide--as they should do--with prudence and usefulness for the good of
the community. For public authority exists for the welfare of those whom it governs; and, although its proximate end is to lead men to the prosperity found  in this life, yet, in so doing, it ought not to diminish, but rather to increase, man's capability of attaining to the supreme good in which his  everlasting happiness consists: which never can be attained if religion be  disregarded.

22. All this, however, We have explained more fully elsewhere. We now only wish to add the remark that liberty of so false a nature is greatly hurtful to the true liberty of both rulers and their subjects. Religion, of its essence, is wonderfully helpful to the State. For, since it derives the prime origin of all  power directly from God Himself, with grave authority it charges rulers to be  mindful of their duty, to govern without injustice or severity, to rule their
people kindly and with almost paternal charity; it admonishes subjects to be  obedient to lawful authority, as to the ministers of God; and it binds them to  their rulers, not merely by obedience, but by reverence and affection,
forbidding all seditions and venturesome enterprises calculated to disturb  public order and tranquillity, and cause greater restrictions to be put upon the  liberty of the people. We need not mention how greatly religion conduces to pure  morals, and pure morals to liberty. Reason shows, and history confirms the fact, that the higher the morality of States, the greater are the liberty and wealth  and power which they enjoy.

 23. We must now consider briefly liberty of speech, and liberty of the press. It is hardly necessary to say that there can be no such right as this, if it be  not used in moderation, and if it pass beyond the bounds and end of all true  liberty. For right is a moral power which--as We have before said and must again  and again repeat--it is absurd to suppose that nature has accorded indifferently  to truth and falsehood, to justice and injustice. Men have a right freely and prudently to propagate throughout the State what things soever are true and honorable, so that as many as possible may possess them; but Iying opinions,  than which no mental plague is greater, and vices which corrupt the heart and  moral life should be diligently repressed by public authority, lest they insidiously work the ruin of the State. The excesses of an unbridled intellect,  which unfailingly end in the oppression of the untutored multitude, are no less
rightly controlled by the authority of the law than are the injuries inflicted by violence upon the weak. And this all the more surely, because by far the  greater part of the community is either absolutely unable, or able only with  great difficulty, to escape from illusions and deceitful subtleties, especially  such as flatter the passions. If unbridled license of speech and of writing be  granted to all, nothing will remain sacred and inviolate; even the highest and  truest mandates of natures, justly held to be the common and noblest heritage of  the human race, will not be spared. Thus, truth being gradually obscured by  darkness, pernicious and manifold error, as too often happens, will easily prevail. Thus, too, license will gain what liberty loses; for liberty will ever be more free and secure in proportion as license is kept in fuller restraint. In  regard, however, to all matter of opinion which God leaves to man's free  discussion, full liberty of thought and of speech is naturally within the right  of everyone; for such liberty never leads men to suppress the truth, but often  to discover it and make it known.

 Libertas, Leo XIII, 1888

For you well know, venerable brethren, that at this time men are found not a few who, applying to civil society the impious and absurd  principle of "naturalism," as they call it, dare to teach that "the best  constitution of public society and (also) civil progress altogether require that  human society be conducted and governed without regard being had to religion any  more than if it did not exist; or, at least, without any distinction being made  between the true religion and false ones." And, against the doctrine of  Scripture, of the Church, and of the Holy Fathers, they do not hesitate to
assert that "that is the best condition of civil society, in which no duty is  recognized, as attached to the civil power, of restraining by enacted penalties,  offenders against the Catholic religion, except so far as public peace may require." From which totally false idea of social government they do not fear to  foster that erroneous opinion, most fatal in its effects on the Catholic Church and the salvation of souls, called by Our Predecessor, Gregory XVI, an "insanity,"2 viz., that "liberty of conscience and worship is each man's  personal right, which ought to be legally proclaimed and asserted in every  rightly constituted society; and that a right resides in the citizens to an  absolute liberty, which should be restrained by no authority whether  ecclesiastical or civil, whereby they may be able openly and publicly to  manifest and declare any of their ideas whatever, either by word of mouth, by  the press, or in any other way." But, while they rashly affirm this, they do not  think and consider that they are preaching "liberty of perdition;"3 and that "if  human arguments are always allowed free room for discussion, there will never be  wanting men who will dare to resist truth, and to trust in the flowing speech of  human wisdom; whereas we know, from the very teaching of our Lord Jesus Christ,  how carefully Christian faith and wisdom should avoid this most injurious babbling."4

Quanta Cura, Pius IX 1864

It is doubtful whether England would accept governance by the heavenly host but by an organization as utterly tainted as the  Vatican - you  cannot be serious. But of course there is always ignorance and ignorance is  enthusiastically cultivated by clerical and secular  anti-educators alike


The Reformation was a number of things. One of them  was people failing to make a connection between Jesus's teachings and  what is known  of his life and a mega-buck empire based in Rome. Since  neither the New  Testament nor the mega-buck empire has vanished, people  continue to fail to  make the connection, regardless of how many saintly  priests do good works in abject poverty.

How simple is it possible to make this? Jesus did not  like religious farts. A large number of people inside the Churches and  outside them,  follow Jesus because he did not like religious farts.  Attempting to foist religious farts on people on the grounds they  represent Jesus isn't going to  wash.

And how it's done, the conversion of a democracy to a   theocracy, is of course by seizing the citadels of bourgeois power,  politicans  as puppets.

It goes on and on, the filth, the attempted indoctrination that faith is intrinsically superior, when it is entirely evident that it isn't

 And in the very dead of night, long after even the  most  determined revellers are tucked up in their little beds, long after the foxes  have finished crashing around in the bins, when it's  absolutely quiet, if you put your ear to the ground you can hear a  rustling noise like dry paper. That's  money talking. Oh there has to be authority, oh  there has to be obedience.  Stuff it up your bloody arses.  Get buggered by priests regularly do you Blair, prove what a good slave-boy you are.  Perhaps you’d like to explain to England how you fixed the breaking of my body and destruction of my life to please your pervert masters, the destruction of a highly educated Left-wIng Englishwoman, for not being an obedient little slave-girl Hey string them up by their nipples, they’re perverts, they like that kind of thing, that rotesque monster Saunders, sodomize Blair with a fucking-machine, standard issue I understand in any well appointed dungeon.  They like being submissive, don’t they, being obedient, compliant with master’s will, do they not exist to please?

THE CROOKED ROAD THE ENGLISH DRUNKARD MADE  
A woman is no longer safe at work, Brothers.   New Labour, setting the Labour Movement back a hundred years. No educated woman will be protected against the spite of ineducable louts.               The Axe is not a dramatic river, being most of its life a dribble, and barely evident even at the ford at Axminster, a quiet, grey market-town only seven miles from the sea, where once a Mr Hennington began carpet-weaving. Few people know that England makes magic carpets. The old carpet-factory is by the station where you get off the London train, there being on this line that dawdles Westward Ho! out of Waterloo only two trains, the London train and the Exeter train, this line not so much InterCity as InterJunction, which takes four hours (and for heaven's sake who has four hours!) to wander into Exeter Central.             You count the number of people who leave the train with you. You watch them disperse, some by foot, some onto buses, some into cars. You loiter outside the station consulting your watch as though waiting for someone to collect you, a common enough occurrence in the country. You recognize that a tail might be lurking at the junction with the main road, but you don't really think anyone followed you, anyone knows you are significant. You tap your foot. You sigh. You take out your mobile, but it appears you receive no reply. You sigh once more and peer around, then stride purposefully over to the small hut with 'TAXI' on it. It is a good thing your city angst is faked, for Devon Slow don' move 'asty for anything bar imminent birth or death. Never think 'laid-back' is a modern invention. You ask for the Harbour Inn in Axmouth. Your business is escape-routes of a somewhat unorthodox kind. Cats do not like getting their feet wet.             The village of Axmouth is now visibly notable for not being at the mouth of the Axe, for silt filled the estuary. It is said that the first cider in Devon was made here, sometime in the 1280s. Axmouth boasts one street, two pubs, two lanes, a charming stream (so the guidebooks call it, and this may matter for the need to cross running water is well documented) and a campsite, which in the winter is the football pitch (in other words a field). Hawksdown Hill glowers above. There the Ancient British, the Dumotiges or Dunroamiens or some such tribe, had a fort, for the Fosse Way ran through the Axe valley. The street runs from Tanyard Cross down to the river. A motor-road follows the river until sharp right is the ramshackle bridge that leads into Seaton. Continue straight ahead and the road becomes a muddy track leading to the mouth of the river and the sea. The cliff rises steeply and if you are clever you will see the scrabbles in the chalk made by generations of local children that become a slippery, slidey and dangerous path that hoiks you up onto the cliff-top and the Axe Vale Golf-Course. The members will not welcome you on their golf-course, but if you slither off quickly to the right, deep in the gorse and the rosebay-willow-herb, you will join the public footpath that leads into ye mildly well-known Landslip, where in 1839 eight million tons of cliff tired of height and dominance and jumped into the sea, taking cottages, orchards and people with them. You rackon on Loyme. As you begin the long trek across the cliff to Lyme Regis, civilization intrudes but lightly and usually in the form of Trespassers William, for the track is part of the South West Coastal Path and All Hallows School little relishes long-distance walkers picnicking on its playing-fields. Other discreet notices rightly warn you to keep to the path because the cliff is unreliable and it is a long sharp drop to the English Channel below. The wilderness is untamed. You will probably meet no-one and the experience is a salutary reminder that it is unnecessary to visit the Yukon in order that if you fall and break a limb no-one will find you. For this the mobile 'phone was invented. It is smugglers' country and the ghosts of drownded sailor-men abound. They will try to sell you beer and baccy and look in astonishment as you lecture them on lung cancer, air pollution and the risk of fire, but if they take a liking to you they will take you down to the sea-bed and show you the hulk of the Maria Santonia, the Spanish treasure-ship, where the gold still glimmers under the barnacles and the white bones of would-be plunderers.                  The Landslip is of course an exquisite site for a murder if you are unprepared. You are not. In any case, you are not yet a murderee, enter Dorset and come into Lyme through emerald meadows. There you take tea and shelter from the spray battering the Cobb, the great pier that forms part of the harbour-wall. Somewhere out there are the lifeboat-men but it is no man you have come to see nor yet the French Lieutenant's Woman but an ichthyosaur.             There bin Annings, there bin 'Awkins, there bin 'Ardings, there bin Spillers goan on time immemorial. Mary Anning, aged 12, of the parish of Lyme, discovered the first English ichthyosaur. Time is thin in the Jurassic ridges of the south-west. As do all little girls who discover strays, she fashioned a collar and lead out of her ribbons and took it home. This of course gave rise to the famous nursery-rhyme 'Mary found an ichthyosaur./She’m led it to the Carbb./Her Papa were so proud of ‘er,/He gave to her two barb.' The ichthyosaur swims in the bay, Mary gazing at it fondly from her rocking-chair in the porch of her villa on the Esplanade.             Tropical Britain arose tranquilly from out the azure main in the Eocene, and verdant it was. Some 40 to 50 million years before, that which is now Britain was part of the Continent and so you walked to where is now Paris, or would have, had you existed. I existed, but that is a long story I shall save for later. Suffice it to say for the moment that the Cretaceous offers a relatively dry exit from a troubled island. There are of course hazards - tyrannosauri, pterodactyls and mere quicksand. As the young say, you have to have been there. I gain first-hand knowledge.              An interminable bus-ride returns you to Axminster Station. You pass the factory. You might be on your way into the pretty village of Musbury, but no, you leave the road, negotiate the stile. The cows regard you with apparent lack of interest, but Jemima (a small Friesian) catches the eye of Dorothea (a stout Jersey): they know and report accordingly. The farm-house has been modernized. The kitchen is fitted. The Range Rover stands outside. Jason's study has not been modernized. It is dark, probably oak, though the walls are so densely hung with carpets that it is hard to tell. You do not know how to come straight out with "I want a magic carpet." so you sit there projecting warmth and happiness while Jason, small, stout, wearing a navy-blue jersey, a dilapidated tweed jacket with leather patches at the elbows, jeans and wellies, fiddles with a packet of ginger-nuts and asks how your journey was. The packaging defeats him. He looks up apologetically. You continue to sip your tea.             "What an interesting room," you observe brightly. If the eight-pointed star that is the centre-piece were cut into a marble floor, ah-hah! you would think. It isn't. It is simply a design on yet another carpet, cream on black. "I suppose it doesn't show the mud."             Jason is dark, craggy, tanned walnut, as are only countrymen out all day every day, but this strikes a false note, for surely no-one rises at five to be out in the fields milking the magic carpets.             "Did you ever read E Nesbit?" he asks.             "Camden Town, I believe," you say.             "The London branch," sighs Jason. "Rents too high. Had to close it. What do you want a carpet for?"             The question worries you. Is it a test of your moral worth?  Perhaps it is merely that there are differences between carpets, some more suited to short hops, others to long-haul flights.             "It may," you murmur, "be necessary to depart somewhat rapidly and there is no guarantee transatlantic flights…"             "Where will you keep it?" asks Jason.             Stupidly it comes into your head, a carpet is for life, not just for Christmas.             "I have an aunt," you say, "a retired lady. I am on the move. She'll look after it." Jason continues sipping, expecting more. "She's one of us."             "Who," asks Jason, "is 'us'?"             "I am a traveller." Jason laughs: pull the other one! I smile, amend. "A travelling-man.”             Jason smiles back.             The room swirls.             Now we are in wattle and daub. Jason, never a congruous figure, has entered into the spirit of the thing, adding woad and a torque to his outfit.             "There will be a moot," he says tranquilly.             The hill-men gathered in their wolf-skin cloaks heavy with the silver buckles and hilts of the west pay us no heed. They draw their daggers and place them in a circle, points touching what was the centre of the star, but becomes the Imperial Eagle. Fighting happens next and chariots and the village burning but the legions are not winning, although I cannot determine why they are not. Jason has vanished. As is my wont in such situations, I try to make myself useful, dragging the wounded to places of relative safety and so forth, an inter-temporal Red Cross in locations where neither the symbol nor the act has significance, and indeed there is swiftly a dagger at my throat for tending a Roman. Fortunately I am out of Time, and dying is fundamentally a time-dependent act. As always, part of my mind remains detached, and I calculate or try to calculate what bearing Asterix version anglaise has on the matter at hand.             "I have it!" Jason whispers hoarsely. He has acquired a few streaks of blood and grime, contrasting prettily with the woad, but seems unharmed.             "What?"             "The Stone."             My mind hunts through the stones to which he might be referring. The Rosetta Stone? The Stone of Scoon?             "Oh," I say, "that Stone."             There was or rather will be a sword in a stone. Much is made of the sword.             We are back in 2001 and Jason places in the centre of his carpet a turf, a lump of chalk. I waited. Nothing continued to happen.             "Touch it," suggested Jason.             It chimed.             "Something for the tourists?" I sneered. Jason sighed heavily. Clearly I was being very obtuse. "So long as you don't tell me it's the Rock."             "It is," he said, "the Matter of Britain."              Sea-farers found this tropical paradise, though the history-books will tell you that men (women and men) migrated across the land-bridge. Did I say they were human? Sprites and spirits too may be affected by Wanderlust, even dryads. There came the Celts and the Celts did what they do best, which is produce poets. Any poet worth his or her bardic crown lives in two worlds, the Irish fili, the Welsh derwydd, seers, priests and judges, thinking to have invented the goddess and keeping faith with her though somewhat off the edge, with the disconcerting habits of speaking in tongues and constructing Tree-Alphabets. Then came the military man, the Roman, the practical man, the Saxon not yet Anglo, the Norman not yet English and with them their gods but though there was physical conquest there was intellectual defeat for the poets took these strange languages and made them their own and Reason paired off with the goddess. The power of poetry grew and the heart of England remained on the wild side, which in modern parlance means free because no-one who has a stunted, rigid, rat-like little brain stuffed with dogma and regulations ever got near to writing a poem (this peculiar cultural synthesis is why the King James Version of the Bible and the Book of Common Prayer are among many other things pure poetry) and the stunted, rigid and rat-like had to put up with it and coped as best they could by dismissing poetry as nothing to do with anything that matters. The goddess became a democrat. Her statue is in New York Harbour. Cultural syntheses indeed are strange things, nothing less resembling the goddess than the squat and warty figure of Cromwell who said the king-god had to go, and you will not be the first to note that the nation's successes and excesses were magnified under its queens, with the exception of course of poor Queen Anne, who as we know is dead. The Christians naturally put their own cover on the allegory of the grail, as the goddess had before them, the Great Womb and all that. The grail is filled with blood signifiying life. While the grail is unrecognized, the land remains a wasteland and the Fisher King unhealed. I could think of a number of candidates for the Fisher King. None of this explains why the damned thing chimed.             "The Acacia Avenue effect?"             "It has a sense of humour."             "Ah," I said. "What else can it - you do?"              "Change state," suggested Jason.             I glowered at him.             The Matter of Britain jumped onto my lap – I say ‘jumped’. Lurched, propelled itself, sprang. It seemed almost weightless.             "I scratch your ears? You are not big enough," I scolded, "to have a sword embedded in you."             "Shakespeare," said Jason.             "Interesting chap. Even when not - oh no. 'This precious stone set in the silver sea,/Which serves it in the office of a wall,/Or as a moat defensive to a house.'"              I fingered the grasses.             "Narnia," said Jason.             "Yeah, yeah," I said. "Bigger on the inside than the out. It's terribly symbolic, of course." So far this was a war of words and lies. I was at a loss to see what even a magic clod could achieve when it became a shooting-war. "I suppose this isn't the grail?"                      I began, not to put too fine a point on it, to stroke the Matter of B.             "This isn't the grail. Puck took it as seizin, and so it passed into the hands of the Guardian." Merlin.             It was responding - purring, not to put too fine a point on it.             "It? Is that quite polite?"             The Matter of B stretched and rubbed its head against my jacket. That at least was the illusion.             "I think you have been adopted."             "Oh, I see," I said. It figured. It was not that the sword allowed Arthur to take it, but that the Matter of B let the sword go. What we have learned to call the gender-dynamic is here too obvious to need stating.  "Don't I have to be sans peur et sans reproche?"             "Just don't do a Lancelot."             I found this an unnecessary intrusion on the complications of my domestic affairs.             "The Frigid Four are looking for it. Apocalyptics Inc." I do not doubt that matters are dire, but that seems to me excessive. "Who stands if England fall?"             It is a difficult question. The rugged self-determination of our American friends - a difference is they have got/the Second Amendment: we have not - the dogged independence that willed the settlers out West to build lives unfettered is related to but not synonymous with our English wild side.       Before even the ancient Briton came to Rye or out to Severn strode, 'twas Puck he made the rolling English road. Pook's Hill, Puck's Hill, on such did we tread before we went to Birmingham by way of Beachy Head. There is a wound, a breach deeper than Party divides. There had been no such breach since Crown confronted Commonwealth. Hoity-toity, divine appointee! Poor Charles. They had come, the men in black, and built their shrines on the hill-tops, but Rome fell early. Now Canterbury too had fallen and in her place was the little red god.               Indeed there are now two nations. No-one went about proclaiming we detest democracy, we loathe individual liberty, meritocracy is disgusting; people just ran on other rules. It was a bit scary. It had irritated Dez, of course, being frightened. After a while she decided fear was a luxury, a self-indulgence granted those not in the firing-line, who could witter, bad business! what a shame!              The word was small and fat and bespectacled, an anorak, a geek. The word was an ageing hippy. The word was a stout, balding middle-aged doctor. The word was a housewife in Luton. The word was liberal and it lay spattered in the middle of a traffic accident, blood running from its eyes, its nose, bruised, broken, while the Leftist consensus crowed and cackled, took its clothes, kicked it in the stomach, but it summoned the last vestiges of its strength and said you do not give a fuck about the rights and freedoms of others. In America it was dead and they danced on its grave.               Dezzi wrote, increasingly confident no-one would pay the faintest attention.  
What’s sensitive about upholding the free world and telling its enemies to go fuck themselves, gallows-food vermin, scum, unspeakable vermin who refuse to uphold freedom and democracy because sick animals don’t like them, dirty sick little animals who think they own other people, filthy little animals who think everyone is their fucking property.  Who the fuck cares about sick mongols who can’t cope with other people thinking differently, can’t cope with reason, can’t cope with morality. Bloody psychopathic animal hysterics, freaks, nutters who think they can't be criticized, it's an intolerable slight to their bloody perfection, perfection of filthy little arse-wipers, illiterate ignorant tards, can't you filthy monkeys stand being told you're stupid, stupid, tards, spastics, mongols, fucking tards, stupid, stupid, stupid, Plucinski, stupid, stupid, McGuckin, stupid fucking little arse-wipers, devoid of intellect, devoid of education, devoid of intelligence, devoid of ethics, devoid of reason, bunch of sick criminal tards. 
How do you fucking dare hand them my body and my life?  How do you fucking dare, you bloody vermin, how do you fucking dare suck the cocks of the enemies of individual liberty and put chains on us to please them, how do you fucking dare assure psychopaths, fascists, traitors, intellectually and morally completely corrupt trash,  they’re in the right and shouldn’t be offended?  The seminary boy, McDonnell, does it understand simple words of English, when it’s finished jabbering about its own people, the Irish,  not a Catholic country, this ape Goldstone, does it understand simple fucking words of English.  Insolent, insolent, insolent vermin.  
Why will not tell the enemies of freedom to go fuck themselves?  Because you're absolutely bloody evil, absolute bloody filth and vermin.  After the trio of filth and disease Corbyn, Abbott, McDonnell have been in office, there won't be anything left of a free country.  Try asking your dirty sick monkey friends in Iran just what is their fucking problem?  You, Whelan, you stupid mad sick cunt, what is your fucking problem, you sick filthy little man, just what is your fucking problem, dirt-boy, sick spastic monkey that can't speak or reason, no point in wasting language on an animal like you, a perverted yawning monkey, no point in wasting intellect or fact on a bonehead bag of rotting flesh, something disgusting, crawling, diseased, a creature that finds every simple fact of history, every simple fact about me, about me, about anything, a huge yawn, a creature grotesquely mentally ill.
The point as ever is there is no point.  You’ll just hand them everything and crawl while you do it.  I'm sure it comes as a huge shock to you, May, but South American slum Nazis do not govern England.  What did you leave me in the hands of, Blair, a hand-picked bunch of England's enemies?  You were after all Prime Minister.  I'm sure you were able to check with the security services how many of them are IRA supporters.