Written by Donald Deadman.
John Bull’s favourite shit-rag, the Daily Mail, is still calling for Bojo the Clown to commission a lasting memorial to the only white hero English people are allowed to have. I’m talking, of course, about Captain Tom – the decrepit centenarian who hobbled into our hearts with a row of freshly polished war medals pinned to his chest. What a perfect metaphor for this floating rock of decay where the ‘Great‘ part can only be spoken off within the confines of inverted commas.
I know how this sounds. So here’s the disclaimer: I don’t mean to disrespect Captain Tom the man. And if I ever met his family, I’d express condolences in the painfully polite way that suggests the English really do have something resembling a national character. But I fail to be inspired by the fake and gay spectacle of an old man zimmering around his back garden in the name of another British institution that negates (and often openly despises) the people it was set up to protect. If you think I’m exaggerating, go and watch the “You Clap For Me Video” again.
And I refuse to express any sentiment over Captain Tom’s death. I didn’t know the man, and he was 100 years old. But, more importantly, mawkishness is a big part of the problem. There was nothing authentic about the spectacle that was Captain Tom’s final hero journey. What we saw was a carefully constructed media farce designed to tickle the hearts of people desperate to celebrate something more substantial than the ‘right‘ for two men to fuck each other’s anuses. Would those band of brothers have stormed the beaches if they’d seen what kind of flag their lispy grandsons would be waving 70 years into the future? I’m not so sure.
The noise around Captain Tom was a simulacrum of national pride. It was patriotism reduced to the level of pornography, a hollowed-out gesture that shines a bright light on Britain’s very – pun intended – dark future. The blacks have Rashford, Stormzy, and Anthony Joshua. We got an old codger who would have lost a fistfight with a kitten.
Slapping our hands together for Captain Tom was like watching a kid with down syndrome play Twinkle Twinkle on the keyboard. It’s sort of impressive, but it’s still shit. And you know that it’s never, ever, going to get any better. But you clap along anyway, and say words like ‘fantastic‘ and ‘amazing,’ terrified that the pitch of your voice has the same false notes as everyone else involved in this pathetic little charade. And you try not to look at the mong’s gaping smile. Because he doesn’t even know what the word mong means, and that makes you feel like even more of a phoney. Besides, the poor bastard is drooling all over himself again, like a French Bulldog with cerebral palsy. And then, finally, you realise that your sympathy for this unfortunate creature doesn’t come from a place of love, but from shame and disgust.
But there’s a good reason why people aren’t (generally speaking) sexually attracted to those with an extra copy of chromosome 21. And there’s an even better reason why English people should demand a hero that is more compelling and forthright than a cuddly OAP who couldn’t stand up unassisted.
Remember the statue of the raised fist negress that replaced Edward Colston following the BLM ‘protests‘ in Bristol?
And if you want to see a physical manifestation of a culture that isn’t terrified of its own shadow, check out China’s God of War statue. Try scrawling ‘racist‘ or ‘free the Uyghurs‘ on that tower of carved stone, see what happens next. Real power strikes back. It doesn’t get chased around increasingly obscure ‘free speech‘ platforms.
I wanted to call the God of War statue epic, then I remembered that it’s another word hijacked by middle-class white girls and effeminate men who think plummeting T-levels are a sign of progress. And the fact that Captain Tom would be the last old white man to have a statue built in his name is another sign that the West is now nothing more than a rotting corpse, carrion for vultures and parasites. And we know who they are. One eats us from below, the other pecks us from above. And the space in-between is getting smaller with every passing day.
The British people were encouraged to love Captain Tom because he was cute and harmless. He posed no threat to the delicate sensitivities of BAMEs and homosexuals, whose feelings and manufactured grievances have become the baseline for public discourse. And the wrinkly old Captain was never going to encourage the Football Lads to search for an identity that goes deeper than a six-pack of Carling, cheap sniff, and songs about shooting down German bombers.
I genuinely hope Captain Tom enjoyed his last hurrah, and I hope he had a lovely time sat on that Caribbean beach sipping Pina Coladas with his family. But if our so-called national leaders do build a monument to Captain Tom – the last acceptable face of English patriotism – then this is one statue that we should tear down.
Because we deserve better. And so does the memory of Sir Thomas Moore, and the millions more like him, the men whose names are disappearing from history.