“Dear Americans. The British Aren’t Cowards, You Are”
That title alone alerts you that this one’s gonna be very provocative indeed.
Americans don’t realize how screwed their own country is or why Brits aren’t pussies for only responding now… So I’ll explain.
In Britain you’re broke and can’t afford a house and the government’s flooding you with migrants… but you can still walk down the street to a bar where everyone’s white and knows your name, see your dad and granddad talking with the old guys inside, hang with your friends from school, everyone cheers during the game, and then go back to your miserable little apartment with a girl you had a crush on in grade 10.
Maybe 1 in 10,000 Americans could imagine something like that ever happening to them on the best night of their life. This is just a good weekend out of the year in any English town.
Likewise in America its nightmarish to imagine a little white girl would be harassed by brown and black foreigners… Because Americans already fled that in the 1960s and every subsequent decade and every hour of work of the average white American is so they can afford to avoid brown and black people.
What we are seeing in the UK is Britain becoming 20% as bad as America was just getting in 1961.
And the Brits are on the brink of Civil war over it.
What’s your excuse Yankee?
White Americans suffered 10,000x worse to be done to their children, daughters and communities… And then agreed that their friends should lose their job for being racist, that their kids should be back of the line for school admissions, and that Bill Cosby was an authority on fatherhood.
You don’t get to call Scots and English “cucks” when America has had grooming gangs and mass rape since THE 1960s, and you all are such buck-broken cowards that you will watch the NFL and cheer for all the black guys out on the field. Or insist that Will Smith is your favorite actor, or you voted for Barack Obama over a white Vietnam Veteran because you didn’t see color.
Rishi Sunak never won a single British general election… Obama won Twice.
Ouch! Dude, no need to be cruel about it, y’know.
Update! Point, meet counterpoint.
Requiem for a Dying Realm: Us Bastards Are Your One and Only Fucking Chance
You are perched on a precipice of your own making. The British Isles tremble, not from some external foe, but from the internal rot of a nobility that has forgotten what strength looks like. You have traded your swords for scepters of straw, your honor for hollow treaties, and your birthright for the approving murmur of your equally enfeebled continental cousins. And now the bill has come due.Look at what you have wrought. Your cities seethe with the consequences of your weakness. You imported your own destruction, then handed it a pamphlet on human rights and a council flat. The native spirit—the one that once carved out an empire under men of iron—is now prosecuted by the state you let fester. You jail the men who would stand for you and coddle the barbarians who dream of your subjugation. You are a kingdom policing its own funeral.
And who leads you? An establishment softened by decades of peace they did not earn, and have not paid for, led by instincts of surrender, not command. They prattle of NATO and global obligations—chains that bind a lion to a tree while the hyenas close in. Do not look across the Atlantic for salvation. America will watch, she will perhaps arm you, but she will not bleed for a people who have forgotten the taste of their own blood. You must be broken on the wheel of your own folly before you can be remade.
And who, pray tell, will remake you? Not your precious legitimate sons. Those polished, entitled scions clutch their silver spoons like daggers, terrified to get blood on their waistcoats. Look at how they already prepare to run. They’re nothing more than mere spectators of decline, not masters of resurgence.
No. The only steel left in the spine of this crumbling realm is the steel you cast out. That you choose to ignore. For we frighten you. Though you can never admit it and hate us the more for this cowardice. Us.
The bastards.
The pattern is older than your crumbling castles. When the legitimate line grows weak and inbred, chins too softened to take a blow, you summon the bastard stock from the provinces to restore the walls. You grant us the titles you left to molder in dusty ledgers—the viscountcies of barren moors, the earldoms of neglected highlands, the baronies of windswept isles. You give us lands choked with thorns and memory, and we will make them flourish again, because we understand that land is not an asset—it’s a charge. We are no threats to your crown, to your lofty titles; we’re their only conceivable bulwark. Oh, we’ll do the brutal, ruthless necessaries your polite society hasn’t the stomach for. We’ve the chins and scars on our dark souls for the rough bits.
This is not a request. Neither is it a threat. It’s an indictment and your final offer. Swallow your pride and summon us. Grant us the right to defend what you cannot. Or will not. Or do not.
Methinks the bastard just might be onto something here.
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