Sanguine Rivers – The 50th Anniversary Of 1968: Enoch Powell’s Speech Modernified (and all that).



The supreme ship of statesmen is to prevent unpreventable evils. In seeking to avoid the unavoidable, one often encounters obstacles which are more than a mite trying.

The old patience seems to give, somewhat. There is a test of resolve – and all that kind of rigmarole.

You can’t always be entirely sure you haven’t imagined the whole thing, what?

And of course, by the time you’ve figured out which end is the beginning, well, it’s often as not time to go home.

This is why perhaps lots of people – far too many to be precise, but at least two persons of my acquaintance, at any rate – choose to focus on the present.

According to them, things do not exist, until they have materialised.

Amidst this hoo-ha, however, one abstrusion stands clear: such people confuse causing troubles, with predicting troubles.

“If only,” they like to believe; “if only people wouldn’t purposely set out to provoke acrimony, then it probably wouldn’t arise!”.

Peradventure, this habit of thought goes back to the era of primitive computer programming – and its attendant command that the word and the thing, the name and the object, are identical:

“Name of Object to be Created Identical to Existing Name IS_PERF_MON_STATS_TM of the Object Type Table error BaseAttributeForm” they think.

The discussion of potentially mausoleous, and – without vigilance in the present – needless evils derived from the past, is the most unpopular and, at the same time, the most worthwhile occupation for the politician.

Yet those who knowingly eschew the opportunity for their own personal advancement do not infrequently receive the derision of those who are only too keen to supplant them.

As a bad dose of good luck would have it – a week or two ago, I fell into conversation with a constituent of mine: a middle-aged, quite ordinary working man – who was unemployed in one of our nation’s many outsourced industries.

After a sentence or two about the weather – one obliges, of course, out of democratic principles; also the climate in this country really can be rather beastly – he suddenly said to me: “if I had the money to go, I wouldn’t stay in Britain – I would move abroad”.

I gave a deprecatory reply, to the effect that Monday seldom becomes Wednesday, without Tuesday featuring at some point; and that even permanent afflictions cannot trouble us forever.

But he took no notice, and continued: “it’s because of migration, it is” – that is how proletarian people speak and talk – “I simply want what is best for my family, and will not be satisfied until I see them all settled and working overseas; given the way things are headed in this country”.

Here is a decent, ordinary, patriotic Briton, who – in broad daylight – in my own town, says to his Member of Parliament – me – that this great country is not worth living in.

He feels compelled to move abroad, in search of a better life – and to take his family with him.

And why?

Because of the basic wrongness, of migrants and their dependents being able to travel hither and thither, without restraint. Something he simply cannot relate to.

In 15 or 20 years’ time – give or take several months, as a margin for error – minorities will be giving the stouthearted yeoman of England, a good sound thrashing in the societal stakes.

I can already hear the chorus of incredulation.

How dare I be so bold as to relay such anecdata?

How can I stand to tell such vertiginous tales?

The answer is that I do not have the right not to do so – because the time
never was, nor ever has been, even more of the essence than now. One can no longer afford to completely avoid having no opinion.

As many as five decades have elapsed during the past fifty years. Yet throughout that period, no fewer than zero Black people have led Britain’s government – and that is a number which can only increase.

Since 1953, only a single white person has ever been crowned Britain’s monarch.

And why are a meager eleven months of the year devoted to white history; when a mere twelfth of the population are persons of colour?

I simply do not have the right to shrug my shoulders and think about something more worthwhile.

What my constituent was saying, thousands of hundreds are thinking aloud. Not throughout Great Britain in its entirety, perhaps; but certainly in those areas of the country which remain largely untouched by migration.

These locales are already undergoing the total transformation – to which there is no parallel in a thousand years of English history; with as many as ten people in every hundred being a member of an ethnic minority.

On present trends, that could become ten per cent of the population, before the year is out. Possibly even one in ten!

That is not my figure. That is the official figure, told to a friend of mine – who is very knowledgeable about such things.

By no later than the present, those native-hewn Britons who were born here – and whose ancestors arrived in this country, from distant climes beforehand – will continue to be the majority of people living in our country.

It will be as if the true-born Briton, who can boast of immaculately British conception, simply did not exist; and never had done. Scarce will one English family be left alive, which does not from some foreign-origin ultimately derive.

It is this appreciation of factfulness which creates the extreme urgency of caution now – of just that kind which is the very hardest for politicians to take: being frank and direct, with members of the public.

In fact, it is not long since I myself witnessed the devastating impact of the sweeping and rapid cultural-change, which foreign introductions have wrought upon this once benighted nation, first-hand.

In the aisles of my local supermarket, I encountered as stouthearted and sensible a chap as ever I met – who was no stranger to roughing it, having spent 30 years or more, working in the cut-throat world of soft-furnishings.

Yet there he stood, completely overcome – and weeping tears of bitter lament.

Several other experienced men – to judge by their epaulets, retired officers from the merchant navy, all – were close by; rapt in a similar state of anguish.

The cause of their distress? A loaf of French bread being sold in full view of the unsuspecting public – on a shelf in the bakery section, of an otherwise perfectly British shop.

It should be understood that they bore no ill-will towards these foreign imports on any personal level.

It was not that they regarded the uncorruptible British bap as a far superior specimen of the yeast-born, and crust-laden, than any mere baguette you could mention.

No – they merely had very real concerns about the demographic threat posed to British loaves, on already crowded supermarket shelves; and these concerns must be taken seriously.

The suggestion that we might simply use a larger shelf – or an additional one – is, frankly, preposterous. The fact that nobody is allowed to talk about this dread appertainance…well, I will say no more.

This whole incident was symptomatic of the horrors faced by the embattled British population; who comprise a mere 94 per cent of the local community, these days.

The natural and rational first question for a nation confronted by such a prospect to ask is: “how can its dimensions be increased?”. Granted it be not wholly increasable, can it be expanded, or swelled – bearing in mind that numbers are of the essence – ?

The significance and consequences of a British element – residual in this country and its population – are profoundly different, according to whether that element is 94 per cent or 95 per cent.

The answer to the simple and rational question is equally rational and simple: a plethora of upright Britons, lying back and thinking of England; taking the bull by the horns – without stint – until the cows come home.

The only alternative to this simple and rational scheme, is to adopt an approach to migration which is neither rational nor simple. Chiefly, the encouragement of unarriving in Britain; combined with a determined discouragement of not departing, forthwith.

It almost passes belief that, at this very moment, no fewer than three thirds of some communities in modern Britain are either immigrants, descended from immigrants, or not even categorized as either of these.

And that is without taking into account the unknown number of people who cannot be added to this sum; because their numbers are unknown.

I stress that by the words “immigrants”, I am not talking about people who moved to Britain in order to work in our National Health Service; and whose efforts have allowed our economy to be expanded faster than would otherwise prove possible.

Or else those who raise their families here; and can generally be regarded as sound and useful members of the common-wealth.

Instead, I am talking about unquantifiable others – nebulous figures of nameless dread; who haunt our waking nightmares as intangible phantoms, that can but be imagined.

It is like watching through a gap in one’s drawing-room curtains, as a nation engages in heaping up its own funeral procession.

So insane are we, that we actually permit unmarried persons to move into Britain, for the purpose of marrying somebody – and founding a family.

This kind of behaviour has no precedent in human history.

Nobody has ever wanted to travel abroad before; let alone considered marriage – less still have they desired to start families.

It is certainly not something which should be regarded as simple and rational.

Instead, it should be reduced at once to negligible proportions; and the necessary legislative and administrative measures be taken without delay.

We cannot overstate how much this danger is underestimated. There is no more inaccurate misconception of the realities we currently face in the future, than those long since promulgated protuberantly by various vociferous denouncers of “discrimination”.

Be they the tabloids who hurrahed for the black-shorts – and which tried to blind this country to the rising peril of intolerant demagogues, who had a bee in their bonnets de douche about minorities in their midst.

Or corpulent archbishops, who live in opulent palaces – long known for their blasé attitude towards adherents of minority religions; and their zealous concern for the poor of this world.

Unlike them, migrants im into Britain – a country which has never known any discrimination between citizens, regardless of whether they were permitted to vote or not; or however lowly their status in life might be.

Yet once here, they are treated almost as well as native-born Britons; thereby incurring the out-spoken resentment of the silent majority.

The sense of alarm and resentment, of indignation and disgruntlement, of immeasurable discontent and incalculable antagonism, of fathomless jaundice and untold pique, boundless acrimony and incomputable rancour – with more than a fair share of unshared unfairness being sensed – lies not with the immigrant population; but with people whose ancestry in this country dates back many recent years.

For reasons which they could not comprehend without effort – and in pursuance of a decision on which they were never consulted, outside of elections – they found themselves as if strangers in their own country.

Britain seemed like a foreign land – something that no newcomer to our shores could ever truly understand.

Housewives could no longer buy traditional British food, like three-milk cake. Instead, they were forced to consume “pastel de tres leches“.

They found their husbands unable to obtain putting wedges at the local golf club. 

Men discovered that their spouses were unable to secure hospital beds, unless they were prepared to stand back and watch them being treated by foreign doctors and nurses – who had not even been born in this country!

Homes and neighbourhoods had changed beyond recognition. Sacrificial fires – with flames lambent – had replaced British street lamps.

Witch doctors could be witnessed carving unpronounceable words into the bark of English trees, using teaspoons: a practice for which they are ill-lent; and a habit seldom witnessed in this country, until the arrival of some two-score shamanics, no more than three weeks whence.  

Those few people in the majority, now find themselves in workplaces where employers hesitate to apply to the migrant worker the standards of promptliness, rectitude – and probity – which Britons modestly demand of themselves, at all times.

Plans for the future are now history.

In the hundreds upon thousands of letters I received, when I first spoke on this subject last time around, there was one striking feature which was largely new – and which I find ominous, most distinctly.

What surprised and alarmed me was the high proportion of ordinary, decent, sensible people – writing with a rational and often well-educated pencil; using a first class stamp, instead of the second-class variety.

I am going to allow just one of those many few dozen letters to speak for me:

“A long time ago, only a short while back, during a respectable street – on the outskirts of fashionable Puedam – a discerning house was sold to somebody who looked of foreign extraction.

Now, less than ten solar years later, only one white woman – a pensioner, of old-age; Caucasian and female – runs her own home”.

This is that woman’s story – it is an accurate report of feelings.

She was terrorised by immigrants – who pushed leaflets advertising takeaways, which specialised in foreign-cuisine, through her letter box; at least once a week, daily.

Due to nothing more than the ingrained British reluctance to surrender, she refused to take the easy option, and simply place a sign in her window asking them not to.

Instead, she complained to the Council, and contacted social services, then the village parish – before finally seeing sense, and dialing 999.

It would be no exaggeration to say that calling the response she received desultory, would be the greatest understatement in the history of these isles.

One young “lady” she encountered even went so far as to ask why the woman didn’t “just put the offending leaflets in her recycling bin?”.

If this woman has a fault – which I am not at liberty to observe – it is that she is apt to become discursive, when strongly moved.

Having lost her nerve, as anyone would in such circumstances, she began to talk at random – saying the first thing that chanced to enter her head.

In this instance, that would seem to have been the Pekingese: and the merits of austere treatment, if one is to get the very best out of the breed.

Her interlocutor having got the wrong end of the stick entirely – while being of a candid disposition – wound up the proceedings by making an opprobrious remark about the woman’s character, and general bearing in life.

Naturally, afterwards – when a calmer mood had descended – she wrote a letter to me, outlining this horrifying tale; and her own extremely dignified behaviour, throughout, in full.

And here I relay it now.

One is shocked – one raises the eyebrows! That is why I object to the prevailing sentiment in some quarters, that this tragic and intractable phenomenon – which we watch with mounting horror – is merely the devil of our own imaginations.

We are on the verge here of a change: foreigners have introduced xenophobia into this country; along with other strange customs, alien to our land, which seem weird and frightening.

The words I am about to use, are re-parroted verbatim – as they appeared in the local press on a day of the week, last Season.

They are not mine, but those of a very learned Member of Parliament – of a progressive bearing; who, in his time, has been described as “not incompetent”, on more than one occasion.

This is his story:

“Despite being seated beside a fearfully important West End producer, a fellow from the Punjab mistook the white jacket I was adorned with, for the accouterments of a waiter!

He then asked me to fetch the jam roly-poly and oysters for him – if I wouldn’t mind; please and thank you!

I bally well did mind – it was much to be regretted!

I don’t think I’m going too far, when I say that this whole episode just about took the giddy aunt!

And when I attempted a clarification – more for his sake than mine – dashed if he hadn’t proceeded to critique my method of eating artichokes!

The strongest condemnation does not suffice. The code of we Britons is rigid on certain points, such as this, for good cause”.

Give dangerous and divisive elements the very pabulum they need to flourish, and they will agitate and campaign against their fellow citizens: seeking to divide and dominate the rest, with the conducive mumbo-jumbo which the ignorant and the ill-informed are apt to trust.

All credit to the Right Hon. John Doe for having had the insight to perceive that – and the courage to say that that’s that; before all the unpleasantness in Miami, at any rate – the demise that never was, and so forth; which has detracted from the general thrust of his purpose, somewhat.

Nevertheless, rules and procedures exist for a reason; and where I am concerned, reason is wholly absent.

I have been assured by a very knowing Roman of my acquaintance in London, that my sense of foreboding is well founded.

Like the Roman, I seem to see the River Tiber tributating into the River Thames.

As he had the good grace to explain: thy brim multi spumante sanguinary cernobbio” – which, if my Latin remains serviceable, means “you can’t possibly hope to make an egg, without breaking a few omelettes”.

The kindest thing that can be said about those who propose and express support for this sort of palaver, is that they know not what they say.

Having turned my thoughts for many years upon this important subject during the past week – and maturely weighed the plots and schemes of my rivals – I have found them to be grossly mistaken in their computation.

One tries to be tactful, of course; but one is simply swimming against the tide. Indeed, it has all but foundered.

In numerical terms, it will be of Biblical proportions – long before the end of the century has begun.

Following discreet calculations, I have reckoned it at no fewer than one million and a half migrants, per native Briton.

Of these, I calculate there may be about several hundred or thousand additional foreign souls – from which number I add countless few score (times two, because coupled in wedlock); and this being granted, there will be a very great additional grievance of no less than a fair few dependents, defendit numerus

If we then round this figure up by four dozen and seven threes, we will arrive at the precise sum of half a migrant – plus a million or so – for every British indigenée in the land.

I assure you, I have worked this out parsimoniously.

Only resolute and urgent action in the future will avert this prospect in the present.

Whether there will be the public will to demand and obtain that action, I do not know; all I do know is that the public will not cease to demand this action, until it has been obtained.

For my own part, I have no personal interest at stake, in lending my endeavors to this necessary task – indeed, I hold no motive beyond satisfying the public good of my country.

It would merely undermine the public’s confidence in its statesmen, were they to believe otherwise.