Murder on our streets, political opportunism and what Jo really wanted, is this as low as the left can go?
Not one person I know can have taken any pleasure in the senseless murder of the clearly intelligent, passionate but in my opinion misguided politician and charity worker Jo Cox. That this young woman was needlessly and callously murdered when going about her day to day business by an obviously disturbed and confused man whose motives are yet to be fully (if ever) disclosed makes it all the more tragic.
I feel for her parents and siblings, no one should live to see the death of a child, although all too many have suffered this fate in this modern “peaceful” world of ours. I feel even more deeply for her children, although I am certain they would have been indoctrinated in the politics and world view of the left, had she lived, they have been denied a mother’s love and that is a terrible shame.
Jo Cox was murdered on the same day that the UKIP Leave campaign released a poster with the slogan “Breaking Point”. It showed, so far as I am aware, a sorry queue of humanity, mainly male migrants from the Middle East, attempting to get into Europe via Hungary. These people, if they had gained asylum, would have been able, in due course, to apply for citizenship in the country granting asylum and would then have been entitled to free movement under EU labour rules. Many of them could and would have come to Britain. Some of them would have not bothered to try to claim asylum but taken their chances on crossing the porous borders of Europe and again could easily have ended up in Britain, The Breaking Point slogan alluded, quite legitimately I feel to the fact that Britain cannot continue to support unlimited immigration.
Continue reading “The Killing of Sister Jo”
Before you read on you must know that my avatar is the king in yellow, you have been warned.
Who runs the country, parliament, the political establishment, old style capitalists in silk hats, banksters (wink ,wink browndog) or a self-appointed liberal inquisition? We are about to find out. I guess you know what I think and I also think that we are about to see it exercise its overwhelming power by overturning the referendum result. ‘How will they do that you ask’. To know that first we need to know who they are.
So what do I mean by the liberal inquisition? Do I mean a secret organisation , a kind of illuminati that meet cowled in subterranean temples to work their fiendish schemes? No, common purpose notwithstanding, of course not. They are more pernicious more powerful than any lizard freemasonry could ever be. They are what the French call the 68ers, what we called in my far off hard left days as the bourgeois intelligentsia. Those patrician class brats who demonstrated in Grosvenor square. Outside of the American embassy in 1968 waving their rolled up copies of ‘Red Mole’
PMQs live stream here on Going Postal TV.
|Please don’t hurt Dorothy: Public enemy number one|
Dorothy is 92. She is a gentle soul. She has never hurt a fly in her entire life. It is now forty years since she lost her beloved Arthur. They had been together for 25 years when he died, the result of silicosis. She lives alone, in a small bungalow in Lytham St Annes, their dream home although a dream that Arthur never lived to see. She has a small pension and is content with her lot. Living through the war years taught her that it is foolish to hanker after small things when there are much larger matters to contend with.
Dorothy is a wise old owl. She has managed to save as well as pay her bills. (She has never seen a final demand in her entire life.) She has a few shares and £400 in Premium bonds which she keeps there just in case her gas fire needs replacing.
Not blessed with children Dorothy and Arthur have always had a special fondness for her two nieces. They are her next of kin. Her cat Tommy is her surrogate child. She muses gently, “I really don’t know what I will do if I ever lose him. He’s my baby.”
After this week’s momentous majority decision by the UK’s populace to leave Europe, I have noticed people slowly regaining their pride with each new minute of realisation. Then, I noticed the nostalgia for the “Good Old Times” creeping back.
It just so happens that I’m currently reading “Bestie”, the authorised biography of George Best. (I know, I know, he dies in the end).
I have just reached the part where George plays his first game against Fulham at Craven Cottage and needless to say the author mentions the glamour at the time of the Swinging Sixties. And how Best was the sixth Beatle (Or was that Jimmy Tarbuck? A funny, funny man right up there with Lenny Henry).