The worst civilian massacre in the United Kingdom between the Second World War and the 7/7 attacks of 2005 was the Birmingham pub bombings of 1974. For good or ill, it convulsed the nation. In contrast to the now traditional response that the worst thing about an Islamic terror attack is that it might lead to a “backlash” against Muslims and the urgent priority is for everyone to pretend that they’re “united” in “one love”, the pub bombings led to the immediate cancellation of the city’s St Patrick’s Day parade, the third largest in the world, for the next decade. Twenty-one Birmingham pubgoers died that night. Now 22 people get slaughtered at a pop concert, and the public shrug it off with some candles and flowers. Eleven civilians were killed in the 1987 Enniskillen Remembrance Day massacre (a twelfth died after 13 years in a coma), and public outrage was so fierce that the Dublin parliament passed a fast-track UK extradition bill, the IRA apologized, Sinn Féin’s electoral support didn’t recover for 15 years, and Bono declared on stage “F**k the revolution” – which on the whole I prefer to Katy Perry saying touch the person next to you and tell her “I love you”.
The inertia in today’s Britain seems telling. We are, as the French Prime Minister and the London Mayor and other eminences have advised, getting used to it. Terror doesn’t appear (from this distance) to have played much part in the election campaign: in a certain sense, the remorseless Islamization of Britain seems to have passed beyond politics. If you still think the major parties can ameliorate the situation, Mrs May is just about preferable to Jeremy Corbyn: In a choice between a dissembler and a dupe, vote for the marginally less unsafe pair of hands. If you feel the need (as they did after Enniskillen) to be outraged and impassioned, direct your outrage and passion wisely and join your fellow Britons in excoriating the President of the United States for Tweeting about the Mayor of London. If you feel the need (like Mrs Thatcher after South Georgia) to “rejoice, rejoice”, join the patriotic employees of LBC radio in cheering the defenestration of Katie Hopkins, also for Tweeting. If you feel the need (as Mrs May’s COBRA meeting did) for an instant policy prescription, then draw the logical conclusion from the above and blame the Internet. The Prime Minister’s plans to lean on Google, Facebook et al will discombobulate the next bombers not a whit, but they’ll almost certainly lead to a Robert Spencer or Geert Wilders having his YouTube channel taken down or Twitter account suspended, and that’s great news, isn’t it?
In similar spirit, the aforesaid mayor has called for the aforesaid president’s upcoming state visit to be kiboshed. Given the current levels of vigilance by UK officialdom, it wouldn’t entirely surprise me if Trump were to be declared persona non grata but still sailed through British immigration to bang on the door of Windsor Castle asking where his state banquet is. Or perhaps I’m doing the amusingly named “UK Border Force” an injustice: Unable to prevent even the most obvious “Soldier of Allah” from breezing past the desk at Heathrow in his Isis T-shirt, they mysteriously discover hitherto unknown levels of efficiency when faced with such threat priorities as Pamela Geller or Michael Savage. Maybe Mrs May will set up a PREVENT program to prevent Katie Hopkins, or Douglas Murray’s book tour.
That’s not an idle fancy: the Prime Minister is no friend of free speech, and, as we’ve seen in the last few days, the biggest obstacle to “getting used to it” is a relatively small number of people who keep harping on about it.
Mayor Khan is a slippery customer, and he used a slippery phrase in reassuring the public after Saturday’s carnage: London, he declared, was “one of the safest global cities in the world”. “Global city”? What is the difference between a “global city” and a mere city? The latter are more or less ethnically homogeneous places with insufficient vibrancy and diversity for the likes of Mr Khan. A “global city” is a microcosm of the global. Saturday’s dead, for example, number four of Her Majesty’s subjects (one English, one Canadian, two Australian) and three citizens de la république française. In part because of the socialist sclerosis of that republic, London has become home to one of the largest French populations on the planet. That’s a “global city” – where an Aussie can head across London Bridge to a fashionable pub and fall into conversation with a charming demoiselle.
All these Canadians and Australians and Frenchmen were killed by a jihadist born in Pakistan, another born in Morocco, and a third from either Morocco or Libya. In London and the other “safest global cities in the world”, a New Zealander can meet a nice Danish girl and be blown up by a Yemeni on the way home. The conceit of the global city is that there is no distinction between a Dane and a Yemeni.
It’s not a conceit, actually; it’s a delusion, and a dangerous one. But for Progressivists, it must be maintained at all costs, up to and including your life—though not the lives of Theresa May and the rest of them living behind stone walls and fences, stuffed into armored limousines, and surrounded 24-7 by squads of military guards armed with weapons they’ve decided you and me just can’t be trusted with.
That delusion must be maintained, because its pathetic failure merely highlights the fact that their juvenile philosophy is shot through and riddled with them; in fact, it rests entirely on delusions, and nothing more. Acknowledge it just once, and the whole house of cards comes tumbling down around it. And in England, maybe even more so than the rest of Europe, those delusions have had a mighty long run, are firmly entrenched and accepted, and will take one hell of a lot of dislodging.
But it ain’t as if we’re all that far behind ourselves; witness the idiots jumping on board to support May’s blaming of Trump’s OUTRAGEOUS!!!™ rhetoric for the latest in the long string of Muslim mass murders, if you have the stomach for it. Which leads me yet again to my oft-asked question: how much, libtards? How much blood is enough for you? How many more of us must die before you finally admit that your simple-minded, feckless fantasy doesn’t work, has never yet worked, never will work, and never can work?
We’re waiting, assholes. But we won’t much longer. The process of kicking your dumb asses to the curb at last has already started here. Maybe not enough Brits have died violently at the hands of your troglodyte allies yet, but as Steyn concludes, the light is dawning:
On Saturday night in Borough Market, when the three knife-wielding jihadists stormed in to the Black & Blue restaurant, they found themselves confronting a 47-year-old football fan. “F**k you,” said Roy Larner. “I’m Millwall” – a footie club with supporters of surpassing ferocity. He held the Soldiers of Allah at bay with nothing but his fists, enabling other diners to escape, and is now recovering in hospital with stab wounds to his arms, head and chest.
“F*k* you, I’m Millwall” turned out to be the “Let’s roll!” of the night. If you’re having trouble keeping your London rail termini straight, the Battle of Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eton; the Battle of London Bridge was won on the playing fields of Millwall. Mr Larner seems disinclined to get used to it – and “F**k you, I’m Millwall” is a more encouraging sign of a societal survival instinct than “one love”.
“One love” is a nice, cuddly, soothing fantasy. But it’s absolutely nothing more, and will founder on the rough shoals of remorseless reality every time. When the British rank and file fully realize what their leaders have done to them, how thoroughly they’ve been sold out—on purpose and with malice aforethought, by people who will never themselves confront the plague they’ve inflicted on their subjects: will never be stabbed, shot, blown up, or even punched in the nose by the violent hordes they’ve clasped to their subjects’ unprotected bosom—then those rank-and-filers just might unleash a little terror of their own.
And that’s the day the tide will begin to turn at last. To defeat the Muslims, we must first crush the Left. Here as well as there. No more, no less.