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Sunday 27 May 2012

Low Life

Anger management

But I know I must be careful. I try not to get carried away and let my perceptions be shaped by my beliefs, instead of vice versa: that way madness lies. It isn’t easy if those beliefs are coloured with hatred and vivid with spiralling fantasies of violent retribution. I mostly fail. But I try.

One of the ways I try to remain level headed and objective is to cease complaining about the government. I’m sick and tired of hearing myself complaining. Everyone I know, virtually, complains to one another in private, especially about the absurdity of political correctness. But in public, it’s as though we’re all paralysed with moral uncertainty. What gentle people and modest people we English must be, to be thrown into submissive confusion by the lectures of a few priestly half-witted politicians about how we must treat each other — especially our guests from overseas! If theirs was a gamble that we’d swallow multiculturalism because the English culture of deference is far from dead, it was a shrewd one.

But many of their crucial lies and fake statistics have now been stripped away, fortunately, and the evidence of our own eyes is enough to realise what fools we’ve been. We no longer need to say anything. Most people in Britain have only got to look around them to see whether unbridled capitalism plus social engineering equals Utopia.

So now when the same old conversation crops up, I keep quiet. I keep quiet in case my hatred of the political class has made me mentally ill. I keep quiet due to natural modesty reasserting itself. And I keep quiet because if I’m not mad, sweet heaven, and things are as wrong as they look to me, then I must save my breath for the long and bitter struggle ahead.

Frankly, I don’t know whether my hatred is entirely justified. Perhaps I am simply wearing it like a comfortable old cardigan. And there is, of course, a further consideration to be made about whether hatred can ever be justified. Certainly it is always self defeating in the long run. But most of the time my hate makes me feel fully alive because I know that here, at last, is a certain evil against which the shedding of my blood would be gloriously justified. But, like I say, I don’t talk about it any more. I’m saving my breath.

‘How much, Jim?’ I said. ‘Will a fiver be enough?’ ‘Every little helps, my old son,’ he beamed, snatching it from between my fingers. 

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