Monday, 23 March 2009

The Death of Capitalism

As any employee of any company based in the city can attest, trudging to work under the bleak stare of early morning, then home again eight hours later with the malevolent frown of dusk upon one's back, are the two most godless times of any day.

Walking in measured steps up the stairs to the railway station, waiting passively as the escalator conveys herds of fellow grey faced humans down into the underbelly of the city to be processed once again, whisked into the cancerous, slowly beating heart of commerce that is London, Manchester, Newcastle, Liverpool, any one of Britain's metropoli, is a constant death from which there is no escape.

'Nam Sibyllam quidem Cumis ego ipse oculis meis vidi in ampulla pendere, et cum illi pueri dicerent: Sibylla ti theleis; respondebat illa: apothanein thelo', you hear another nearby whisper under his breath, head down, scratching incessantly at his throat, staring fixedly at his shoes. 'I'm sorry?', say you, but there comes no reply. How could there be in this place? There is nothing left to say.

Such is the pitiful ambition of a generation brought up to dream of nothing but homogeny and conformity under two dreadful terms of New Labour, as Blair and Brown guide us all to an acrid terminus of despair, with nothing left to hope for but the continued prosperity of the real father, The State.

These crowds of little people, scurrying to absurd, pathetically paid jobs is the dream of the Marxist. Everyone walks the same, afraid to take the narrow path away from what has been so forcibly jammed into the hive mind of Britain's populus over the past eight years.

We live in a fragmented society where politically correct ­institutions deride Christianity, marriage and the search for knowledge, that we may cease to think for ourselves and admire only the men of Whitehall, the dark machinery that drives our nation ever further through the gates of socialist hell, down, into the abyss.

These were the pillars of our civilisation but the corrupt ooze that governs Britain today has ripped them away like a jackall tearing at the jugular of unsuspecting prey, putting in their place mass ignorance, welfare dependency, worship of the State and the dogma of ­cul­tural diversity.

We forget who we are, for we are told too often what we should be; dictats from above order an end to jovial office banter for fear of offending those who should be thanking us for allowing them to live upon our once hallowed turf, townhall snoopers, faces obfuscated behind veils of the officious desire to quash even the slightest hint of disobedience, force us to abide by the inane laws of liberal councils for no reason other than to exercise the power of oppression.

This is the way Britain ends. A turgid singularity of adherance to the rules, families left destitute by spiralling taxes that benefit only the socialists at the top, paying for their new tools with which they monitor every second of our lives.

But then, once in a while, a bright light appears offering hope that we are still individuals, that we can make millions of pounds from becoming famous, and it is possible, still, to rise above the State and say: 'No. I will do it my way. Nobody can force me to recycle my waste and accommodate foreigners.'

Such beings, symbols of hope and inspiration, grow stronger in the face of adversity heaped against them by a government devoid of any morals or respect for the traditions of our forefathers. Through tormented childhoods held hostage by the tyrannies of drink and drugs, thrust upon them by an irresponsible ruling party, these luminaries become stronger and stronger, finding salvation in Christianity precisely because of the vacuum of faith that tainted their formative years (thanks to the government's interminable onslaught on religion).

They find strength in another institution so continuously mocked by left-wing, anti-family campaigners - the unbreakable chains of marriage. In spite of the best efforts of the State, we watch in wonder as these princes and princesses of the 21st century exchange their vows and go on to bring up families that radiate hope and peace on all who know them through glossy magazines and telephoto lenses.

Often these angels of the modern world might be what some snide elitist liberals would label 'thick', but their ignorance only serves to indict a State system which, despite the money lavished on it by highly paid ministers and European bureaucrats, has presided over a chronic slide in standards. Lack of vocabulary or geography skills are the sad side-effect of ineffective leadership, but such abstractions can never shackle these bright lights.

These hopeful flames remind the miserable proletariat of the possibility of glory and the immutability of ambition. These are the walking embodiment of the wonderous system of capitalism, testament to our great country's belief that absolutely anyone can become famous and make millions of pounds without posessing even the slightest hint of discernable talent or virtue.

A world without such role models would be a world succumbed to the horror of socialism; the Marxists might rub their hands with glee at the prospect of a third Labour term, but as long as there are celebrities to show us the way, the people can resist.

But the flame that burns twice as brightly only burns for less time than the smaller one which burns small but for more long, the one that lasts for ages but nobody cares because it's more dull and not as cool, not literally though because flames are hot. And with its passing dies one of the last great bastions against the omnipresent threat of communism, one of the few symbols of ambition, and possibility, and rebellion against the turgid conformity wished upon us by the Marxists.

These are dark times. But a new flame will be found, and once again the people of Britain will rub their eyes as if emerging from a cave that has imprisoned them for too long, and they will see the light once more.

The liberal elite will be ousted, and a new age of upper middle class prosperity will once again begin, supported by the strength of a million plebs holding those glorious pioneers aloft, all wishing for a better, brighter future unfettered by the dogmas of multiculturalism, climate change and tolerance.

A new shining beacon of capitalism will be born in the viscous womb of reality TV on some bright day in the future, and will live to remind us that life isn't all bad - you too can make it if you abandon all dignity, cast off the shackles of a employment and supplicance to the State.

1 comment:

  1. Wow. You sold it better than McKinstry, Quail. I'm almost sad she's gone. What an inspiration she was for us all. Truly she was the Princess of He-- no, wait, that's the other one.