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Birmingham, Saturday. Another snapshot from the slow-motion Armageddon unfolding in the heart of England. Heaving mob of young imported boys and girls, teens, not a single native British face in sight, turning the city centre into a theatre of disorder. This isn’t some one-off “youth gathering.” This is the...

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Lewis.B.Rendell Official

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Birmingham again. Of course it is 🙄 Another Saturday afternoon in what used to be a proper English city centre, and we’re watching yet another pack of imported chaos turn Victoria Square into a melee. Zombie knife confiscated moments before the fists and kicks fly, four foreign teenage boys arrested for violent disorder, all released on bail while the rest of us are left wondering how many more “youths” we’ll have to step over on our way to the shops. This isn’t “youth culture.” This isn’t “urban vibrancy.” This is the predictable, grinding result of decades of open-door madness: mass immigration from cultures that do not assimilate, they destroy. Birmingham’s white British population has been pushed down to around 40% in large parts of the city. Just Look at the footage, the demographics tell the story the politicians refuse to. Foreign enclaves, parallel societies, no-go patches where English kids now feel like strangers in their own land. And every time another brawl, another stabbing, another grooming gang scandal surfaces, the authorities mumble about “community tensions” and “a few bad apples” while the rest of us pay the price in lost safety, lost cohesion, and a lost England. We didn’t vote for this. The British people never consented to turning our second city into a low-level war zone for other people’s tribal grudges.
0:14

Birmingham again. Of course it is 🙄 Another Saturday afternoon in what used to be a proper English city centre, and we’re watching yet another pack of imported chaos turn Victoria Square into a melee. Zombie knife confiscated moments before the fists and kicks fly, four foreign teenage boys arrested for violent disorder, all released on bail while the rest of us are left wondering how many more “youths” we’ll have to step over on our way to the shops. This isn’t “youth culture.” This isn’t “urban vibrancy.” This is the predictable, grinding result of decades of open-door madness: mass immigration from cultures that do not assimilate, they destroy. Birmingham’s white British population has been pushed down to around 40% in large parts of the city. Just Look at the footage, the demographics tell the story the politicians refuse to. Foreign enclaves, parallel societies, no-go patches where English kids now feel like strangers in their own land. And every time another brawl, another stabbing, another grooming gang scandal surfaces, the authorities mumble about “community tensions” and “a few bad apples” while the rest of us pay the price in lost safety, lost cohesion, and a lost England. We didn’t vote for this. The British people never consented to turning our second city into a low-level war zone for other people’s tribal grudges.

Lewis.B.Rendell Official

30,271 Aufrufe • vor 5 Monaten

Clapham High Street on a normal British afternoon: replacement in full swing. Packs of the usual cultural enrichers swarming the road like they’ve just been air-dropped in from the world’s worst corners, blocking traffic, screaming, forcing actual English locals to scatter while shops pull down shutters faster than you can say “diversity is our strength.” This isn’t a one-off “youth event.” It’s the predictable Friday night special when you’ve spent decades importing people who despise the civilisation they’re colonising. Clapham used to be a decent patch of South London where a man could walk without checking his back. Now it’s another exhibit in the great British enrichment experiment: hooded hordes treating our high streets like their personal hunting ground, police nowhere to be seen, and the rest of us told to celebrate it. Funny, isn’t it? How every time these vibrant gatherings happen, the pattern is identical, chaos, fear, excuses about “boredom” or “socio-economics,” never the glaring demographic truth staring us in the face. We’ve replaced our own people with this, street by street, and the bill keeps coming due. the obvious truth staring every native in the face, we’ve been steadily replaced, street by street, and the price is paid in lost safety, lost community, lost England. Carry on like this and there won’t be a single high street left that feels British. The enrichment experiment has failed spectacularly. Time the adults in the room admitted it before the whole country looks like this every single week.
0:20

Clapham High Street on a normal British afternoon: replacement in full swing. Packs of the usual cultural enrichers swarming the road like they’ve just been air-dropped in from the world’s worst corners, blocking traffic, screaming, forcing actual English locals to scatter while shops pull down shutters faster than you can say “diversity is our strength.” This isn’t a one-off “youth event.” It’s the predictable Friday night special when you’ve spent decades importing people who despise the civilisation they’re colonising. Clapham used to be a decent patch of South London where a man could walk without checking his back. Now it’s another exhibit in the great British enrichment experiment: hooded hordes treating our high streets like their personal hunting ground, police nowhere to be seen, and the rest of us told to celebrate it. Funny, isn’t it? How every time these vibrant gatherings happen, the pattern is identical, chaos, fear, excuses about “boredom” or “socio-economics,” never the glaring demographic truth staring us in the face. We’ve replaced our own people with this, street by street, and the bill keeps coming due. the obvious truth staring every native in the face, we’ve been steadily replaced, street by street, and the price is paid in lost safety, lost community, lost England. Carry on like this and there won’t be a single high street left that feels British. The enrichment experiment has failed spectacularly. Time the adults in the room admitted it before the whole country looks like this every single week.

Lewis.B.Rendell Official

209,134 Aufrufe • vor 5 Monaten

Paramedics rushing a stretcher through Hounslow High Street in the middle of the afternoon. Another stabbing, cut down on what used to be ordinary English ground. In the footage, a group of black youths are shouting aggressively at the victim on the stretcher, while police detain someone nearby. This is the soundtrack of modern west London: imported aggression layered over our streets. I grew up in Feltham and Isleworth, used to knock about in Hounslow all the time, I’ve watched the place turn into an absolute cess pit of third world filth. Fast-forward to now: the place is barely recognisable. The native English population has been diluted to near-invisibility. The few remaining whites are often Eastern European, Polish, Albanian, Baltic imports who arrived later and clustered in their own enclaves. The dominant presence is from further afield: Africa, the Caribbean, the subcontinent, the Middle East. With them came the predictable pathologies, knife crime epidemics, gang rivalries, street-level intimidation. Scenes like this one, with bystanders shouting over a bleeding body and police making arrests, are no longer anomalies; they’re routine. This is not diversity. It is demographic conquest by stealth, enabled by successive governments that prioritised mass immigration over the preservation of our national character. Politicians. Labour and Conservative alike, opened the floodgates for cheap labour, electoral advantage, and ideological dogma, while dismissing warnings about cultural incompatibility as ‘racism’. The result? Our towns hollowed out, our young people stabbed in places their grandparents walked safely, our social fabric shredded. Every such incident is a direct indictment of open borders and the refusal to enforce integration or deport those who bring violence. We owe nothing to the world beyond our shores; our first duty is to the native people of these islands. those whose ancestors built this country through centuries of toil, law, and sacrifice. If you remember what Hounslow, or any of our towns, used to be, and you’re sick of watching it die, say it plainly. The time for polite silence is over, people need to hear the truth.
0:11

Paramedics rushing a stretcher through Hounslow High Street in the middle of the afternoon. Another stabbing, cut down on what used to be ordinary English ground. In the footage, a group of black youths are shouting aggressively at the victim on the stretcher, while police detain someone nearby. This is the soundtrack of modern west London: imported aggression layered over our streets. I grew up in Feltham and Isleworth, used to knock about in Hounslow all the time, I’ve watched the place turn into an absolute cess pit of third world filth. Fast-forward to now: the place is barely recognisable. The native English population has been diluted to near-invisibility. The few remaining whites are often Eastern European, Polish, Albanian, Baltic imports who arrived later and clustered in their own enclaves. The dominant presence is from further afield: Africa, the Caribbean, the subcontinent, the Middle East. With them came the predictable pathologies, knife crime epidemics, gang rivalries, street-level intimidation. Scenes like this one, with bystanders shouting over a bleeding body and police making arrests, are no longer anomalies; they’re routine. This is not diversity. It is demographic conquest by stealth, enabled by successive governments that prioritised mass immigration over the preservation of our national character. Politicians. Labour and Conservative alike, opened the floodgates for cheap labour, electoral advantage, and ideological dogma, while dismissing warnings about cultural incompatibility as ‘racism’. The result? Our towns hollowed out, our young people stabbed in places their grandparents walked safely, our social fabric shredded. Every such incident is a direct indictment of open borders and the refusal to enforce integration or deport those who bring violence. We owe nothing to the world beyond our shores; our first duty is to the native people of these islands. those whose ancestors built this country through centuries of toil, law, and sacrifice. If you remember what Hounslow, or any of our towns, used to be, and you’re sick of watching it die, say it plainly. The time for polite silence is over, people need to hear the truth.

Lewis.B.Rendell Official

51,444 Aufrufe • vor 6 Monaten

Another day, another grim reminder of what mass immigration has wrought on our streets. A group of young black males surround a lone white English lad. The footage is brief, the intent clear: numbers on one side, isolation on the other. No context needed; the dynamic is as old as predation itself. This is not isolated bad luck. It is the direct, foreseeable result of flooding these islands with young men from cultures where gang violence is routine, where the native population is viewed as prey or irrelevant, and where the state refuses to intervene decisively. The boy didn’t choose this reality. He was born into it, born into a country whose leaders decided his safety was a secondary concern to the dogma of diversity. The politicians who opened the gates will never admit the pattern. The media will never name it. They prefer euphemisms: “youth violence,” “knife crime,” “community tensions.” Anything to avoid the obvious ethnic and cultural dimension staring us in the face. you cannot import large numbers of people from profoundly different civilisations without importing their pathologies. You cannot erase borders and expect cohesion. You cannot gaslight the native population into accepting their own displacement without eventual resistance. Yet here we are. Another native lad pays the price in fear or blood so the elite can congratulate themselves on their moral superiority.
0:15

Another day, another grim reminder of what mass immigration has wrought on our streets. A group of young black males surround a lone white English lad. The footage is brief, the intent clear: numbers on one side, isolation on the other. No context needed; the dynamic is as old as predation itself. This is not isolated bad luck. It is the direct, foreseeable result of flooding these islands with young men from cultures where gang violence is routine, where the native population is viewed as prey or irrelevant, and where the state refuses to intervene decisively. The boy didn’t choose this reality. He was born into it, born into a country whose leaders decided his safety was a secondary concern to the dogma of diversity. The politicians who opened the gates will never admit the pattern. The media will never name it. They prefer euphemisms: “youth violence,” “knife crime,” “community tensions.” Anything to avoid the obvious ethnic and cultural dimension staring us in the face. you cannot import large numbers of people from profoundly different civilisations without importing their pathologies. You cannot erase borders and expect cohesion. You cannot gaslight the native population into accepting their own displacement without eventual resistance. Yet here we are. Another native lad pays the price in fear or blood so the elite can congratulate themselves on their moral superiority.

Lewis.B.Rendell Official

16,266 Aufrufe • vor 6 Monaten

There is a room in Málaga that was built to be the closest thing on earth to standing inside heaven. It is called the camarín of the Virgin of Victory, and it is hidden at the top of a tower inside the Santuario de la Victoria. To reach it, you climb and the ascent is the entire point... The building you are climbing through was completed in 1700, and it was designed as a single argument made in stone. At the bottom lies a crypt: a black chamber crowded with white plaster skeletons, a meditation on death and the brevity of life. From there a staircase rises, and as you climb it the light grows stronger and the imagery changes from bones to saints. The architects of the time understood this ascent as the soul's own journey, the dark crypt as the stage of penitence, the staircase as the stage of spiritual progress, and the room at the very top as the final stage: the union of the soul with the divine. That room at the top is the camarín, and its dome is one of the most extraordinary interiors in Spain... Every surface is covered in white and gold plasterwork. There is no empty space anywhere. The Baroque called this horror vacui, the horror of the void: the conviction that a space meant to represent heaven should not contain a single bare patch of stone. Out of that plasterwork emerge angels, flowers, birds, and mirrors. The mirrors are not decoration alone. They catch the light pouring in through the windows of the drum and throw it around the chamber, so that the gold seems to move and the whole room appears to shimmer and breathe. This wonder was built by people who believed that if you wanted to show a human being what heaven might feel like, you did not describe it to them. You built a room, and you let them climb into it... -- -- -- If you enjoyed this, I write a weekly newsletter read by over 50,000 people who love rediscovering the beauty of the past. You can join us here: If you'd like to support my work, a paid subscription is what makes it possible.
0:13

There is a room in Málaga that was built to be the closest thing on earth to standing inside heaven. It is called the camarín of the Virgin of Victory, and it is hidden at the top of a tower inside the Santuario de la Victoria. To reach it, you climb and the ascent is the entire point... The building you are climbing through was completed in 1700, and it was designed as a single argument made in stone. At the bottom lies a crypt: a black chamber crowded with white plaster skeletons, a meditation on death and the brevity of life. From there a staircase rises, and as you climb it the light grows stronger and the imagery changes from bones to saints. The architects of the time understood this ascent as the soul's own journey, the dark crypt as the stage of penitence, the staircase as the stage of spiritual progress, and the room at the very top as the final stage: the union of the soul with the divine. That room at the top is the camarín, and its dome is one of the most extraordinary interiors in Spain... Every surface is covered in white and gold plasterwork. There is no empty space anywhere. The Baroque called this horror vacui, the horror of the void: the conviction that a space meant to represent heaven should not contain a single bare patch of stone. Out of that plasterwork emerge angels, flowers, birds, and mirrors. The mirrors are not decoration alone. They catch the light pouring in through the windows of the drum and throw it around the chamber, so that the gold seems to move and the whole room appears to shimmer and breathe. This wonder was built by people who believed that if you wanted to show a human being what heaven might feel like, you did not describe it to them. You built a room, and you let them climb into it... -- -- -- If you enjoyed this, I write a weekly newsletter read by over 50,000 people who love rediscovering the beauty of the past. You can join us here: If you'd like to support my work, a paid subscription is what makes it possible.

James Lucas

69,389 Aufrufe • vor 3 Monaten

Protesters at Saint Annes police station last night. I have seen in the Echo today that politicians have come out condemning the next protest organised by the same person on County Road next week. Country Road is one of many areas in Liverpool that has undergone massive demographic and cultural change in a short space of time. Many of the locals are upset that this has been done to their home without consulting with any of them. It’s not that they were ignored. They were never part of the decision-making process to begin with. So they are taking to the streets to make themselves heard. And now they are being silenced by the very people that did this to them.
0:48

Protesters at Saint Annes police station last night. I have seen in the Echo today that politicians have come out condemning the next protest organised by the same person on County Road next week. Country Road is one of many areas in Liverpool that has undergone massive demographic and cultural change in a short space of time. Many of the locals are upset that this has been done to their home without consulting with any of them. It’s not that they were ignored. They were never part of the decision-making process to begin with. So they are taking to the streets to make themselves heard. And now they are being silenced by the very people that did this to them.

Around Liverpool

11,999 Aufrufe • vor 3 Monaten

This is exactly what controlled, sanitised Britain looks like in 2026. Yesterday in Liverpool, armed police reportedly neutralised an illegal invader who was armed with a gun. One of the countless thousands we’ve imported, housed, fed, and indulged at the expense of our own people. The legacy media stays predictably silent. No headlines, no rolling coverage, no hand-wringing segments on the BBC about “community tensions.” Just a terse citizen video from accounts showing the grim reality our elites work overtime to hide. Why the blackout? Because the truth shatters the narrative. Mass low-skilled, often hostile migration, disproportionately from cultures that do not assimilate, particularly Islamic ones that treat our laws, women, and values with contempt, has imported not just economic strain but rising violence, grooming gangs, stabbings, and now routine armed confrontations on our streets. Liverpool, like so many of our cities, bears the scars: native working-class communities eroded, knife crime normalised, and police forced into paramilitary responses because politicians refused to secure the borders. This isn’t compassion; it’s demographic and cultural suicide. We prioritise foreign criminals and failed asylum claimants over our veterans, our elderly, our children. An “illegal invader” brandishing a firearm in a British city isn’t an isolated “tragic incident.” It’s the predictable harvest of open borders, chain migration, and a ruling class that despises its own native stock. They care more about optics and avoiding “racism” smears than protecting the English & native peoples of these isles. The natives, the descendants of those who built this country, fought its wars, and made it worth living in deserve primacy in their homeland. Not to be lectured about “diversity” while dodging machetes or watching their taxes fund hotels for fighting-age men who arrive with nothing but demands. Put Englishmen and women first. Anything less is betrayal. This incident should be front-page news. That it isn’t tells you everything about who really runs the information flow in this country.
0:15

This is exactly what controlled, sanitised Britain looks like in 2026. Yesterday in Liverpool, armed police reportedly neutralised an illegal invader who was armed with a gun. One of the countless thousands we’ve imported, housed, fed, and indulged at the expense of our own people. The legacy media stays predictably silent. No headlines, no rolling coverage, no hand-wringing segments on the BBC about “community tensions.” Just a terse citizen video from accounts showing the grim reality our elites work overtime to hide. Why the blackout? Because the truth shatters the narrative. Mass low-skilled, often hostile migration, disproportionately from cultures that do not assimilate, particularly Islamic ones that treat our laws, women, and values with contempt, has imported not just economic strain but rising violence, grooming gangs, stabbings, and now routine armed confrontations on our streets. Liverpool, like so many of our cities, bears the scars: native working-class communities eroded, knife crime normalised, and police forced into paramilitary responses because politicians refused to secure the borders. This isn’t compassion; it’s demographic and cultural suicide. We prioritise foreign criminals and failed asylum claimants over our veterans, our elderly, our children. An “illegal invader” brandishing a firearm in a British city isn’t an isolated “tragic incident.” It’s the predictable harvest of open borders, chain migration, and a ruling class that despises its own native stock. They care more about optics and avoiding “racism” smears than protecting the English & native peoples of these isles. The natives, the descendants of those who built this country, fought its wars, and made it worth living in deserve primacy in their homeland. Not to be lectured about “diversity” while dodging machetes or watching their taxes fund hotels for fighting-age men who arrive with nothing but demands. Put Englishmen and women first. Anything less is betrayal. This incident should be front-page news. That it isn’t tells you everything about who really runs the information flow in this country.

Lewis.B.Rendell Official

25,787 Aufrufe • vor 4 Monaten

This is exactly what colonisation looks like when it’s happening in slow motion, right under our noses, in the heart of one of England’s historic cities. On 10 March 2026, during a full Bristol City Council meeting, Green Party councillor Abdul Malik, a halal butcher with a documented history of sharing Hamas propaganda justifying the 7 October atrocities. stood up and recited the Adhān (the Islamic call to prayer) in Arabic at sunset. This marked the breaking of the Ramadan fast, turning a secular civic chamber into an impromptu mosque. The truly galling part? This happened in the one brief 30-minute window each month when ordinary Bristolians, the native English public, get to speak directly to their elected representatives. Instead of hearing from locals about potholes, crime, housing, or the endless strain of mass immigration, the slot was hijacked for Islamic worship. Public participation sacrificed on the altar of multiculturalism. Malik, who runs a halal business and chairs a major mosque, has form: reprimanded by judicial watchdogs for posting Hamas material that called Israel’s existence a “cancer” to be eradicated, yet the Greens keep him, the Charity Commission cleared him to stay as trustee, and Bristol’s civic life bends further. This isn’t inclusion; it’s submission. England is not an Islamic republic. Our council chambers are not prayer rooms. Our democratic processes are not optional extras to be sidelined for foreign religious observances. If this were a Christian prayer imposed in the same way, the secular left would scream blue murder about theocracy. But when it’s Islam, it’s “diversity” and “understanding.” We are being colonised, not by armies, but by institutional capture, demographic replacement, and the cowardice of politicians who prioritise imported sensitivities over the birthright of the native English. The West is sleepwalking into cultural suicide. Bristol just provided the latest exhibit.
0:10

This is exactly what colonisation looks like when it’s happening in slow motion, right under our noses, in the heart of one of England’s historic cities. On 10 March 2026, during a full Bristol City Council meeting, Green Party councillor Abdul Malik, a halal butcher with a documented history of sharing Hamas propaganda justifying the 7 October atrocities. stood up and recited the Adhān (the Islamic call to prayer) in Arabic at sunset. This marked the breaking of the Ramadan fast, turning a secular civic chamber into an impromptu mosque. The truly galling part? This happened in the one brief 30-minute window each month when ordinary Bristolians, the native English public, get to speak directly to their elected representatives. Instead of hearing from locals about potholes, crime, housing, or the endless strain of mass immigration, the slot was hijacked for Islamic worship. Public participation sacrificed on the altar of multiculturalism. Malik, who runs a halal business and chairs a major mosque, has form: reprimanded by judicial watchdogs for posting Hamas material that called Israel’s existence a “cancer” to be eradicated, yet the Greens keep him, the Charity Commission cleared him to stay as trustee, and Bristol’s civic life bends further. This isn’t inclusion; it’s submission. England is not an Islamic republic. Our council chambers are not prayer rooms. Our democratic processes are not optional extras to be sidelined for foreign religious observances. If this were a Christian prayer imposed in the same way, the secular left would scream blue murder about theocracy. But when it’s Islam, it’s “diversity” and “understanding.” We are being colonised, not by armies, but by institutional capture, demographic replacement, and the cowardice of politicians who prioritise imported sensitivities over the birthright of the native English. The West is sleepwalking into cultural suicide. Bristol just provided the latest exhibit.

Lewis.B.Rendell Official

171,514 Aufrufe • vor 6 Monaten

Lads. Sit down and give me your ear a while, for I have watched from the water long enough and the hour is upon us whether we have the stomach for it or not. You remember. Or your fathers told you, or their fathers did, and the knowledge of it is in the marrow of you whether you drew breath in those days or not. The moors in the grey hour before dawn. Wet heather soft under the boot. Peat smoke rising from a low stone chimney a mile out across the bog, thin as a prayer. A sky the colour of a gun barrel and the gulls lamenting above the headland. The smell of turf burning, and wet wool, and the ferrous tang of the sea when the wind swung around out of the Atlantic and put the taste of iron on your tongue. A man could walk that land and know every stone of it was his by inheritance, because his grandfather had broken his back upon it, and his grandfather before him, back through the generations until you reach men whose names are lost and whose bones are in the soil you are standing on. The potato fields. God be good to us, the potato fields. Lazy beds cut straight as a gunwale, the ridges black and shining after a night of rain, women bent double with creels lashed to their backs and the children at their skirts, drawing the crop up by the hand for there was never any other means devised nor wanted. Hands split open at the knuckles and never entirely healed in this life. Hunger within living memory. Grandmothers who had seen the blight with their own eyes and would not speak of it from the year of it until the day they were laid down, save that a crust was kept always on the dresser which no soul in that house was permitted to touch. Not ever. Not for any reason under heaven. And the chimney sweeps. Wee lads no heavier than a sack of meal, black to the bone with soot, their lungs ruined before they were old enough to marry and old men entirely by thirty. Up the flues at first light, the skin worn off them by the brick, eyes crimson at the rim, breathing the black in with every draw of air. And the coal miners a half mile beneath our feet, down in the wet dark, the roof of the world muttering over their heads, the canary gone silent, a man's whole existence measured out in the shilling a ton and the dust he carried home in his chest to cough up of a Sunday morning into a rag. Fathers who descended and were never hauled up again. Widows at the pit head with the shawl drawn over the head and no tears remaining in them for they had spent those long ago. That was the tariff paid to keep the hearth lit. That was the reckoning of being warm in winter in the Ireland that was. And after the labouring week, Friday evening, and a man had earned the peace of what followed. Home first. Peeled the day off him in the yard. A shower of ice cold moor river water out of a tin bucket punctured with holes, hung on a nail on the gable wall, the water running clean down the back of him and carrying the week's dust and sweat away into the drain. Scrubbed till the skin was pink beneath the grime. Clean shirt laid out by the wife. The hair combed down with a drop of water. Then, and only then, did a man set himself to the table. A meat pie from the baker, tenpence if he was known to you, a shilling and no change if he was not, put down upon a proper plate. Fish and chips for threepence, the salt and vinegar soaked through the newspaper, but carried home and ate slowly at your own table with your people around you, not walked with through the streets like some vagrant tinker off the road. A man ate as a man who had earned his portion, for he had. And later, with the dishes cleared and the kettle set, down the road to the tavern. Low beams black with a century of smoke. A turf fire muttering in the grate. The air thick with pipe smoke and the vapour of wet overcoats steaming themselves dry on the backs of chairs. A pint of stout, cold and black as a cove at midnight, elevenpence laid down on the counter, a head on it thick enough to strike a match upon. A second one because you had it coming to you and no man present would dispute it. A fiddle starting up in the corner of its own accord. The old men in the snug who remembered matters the history books had long since mislaid. A song before the bolt was thrown on the door. The walk home beneath a firmament crowded with stars, the stout warm in the gut of you, the week behind you, and your own door waiting with the latch unlocked for you had no enemies in that parish. That was the country. That was the covenant. Honest labour, plain food, a cold wash, a hot meal, a cold pint, your own tongue in your own mouth, your own soil beneath your boots, and no man standing above you save the Almighty Himself. Now regard her. Regard her close. The fields disposed of to men who have never set foot upon them and never shall. The harbours signed away by the stroke of a pen in a room you were not admitted to, and foreign keels dragging out of our waters the living that sustained this island for a thousand years, while our own boats rot at their moorings for want of a quota. The tradesmen undercut by imported labour and imported goods. The shops shuttered along every main street from Donegal to Cork. The young ones scattered to London and Sydney and Boston and the Gulf because there is nothing remaining for them beneath their own roof. And the entirety of this rotten arrangement dressed up in the soft mannerly language of progress by men in towers of glass who could not tell a lazy bed from a grave, nor a trawler from a tugboat, nor an honest day's work from a pension plan. And now they arrive with the next imposition. A digital identity. A number assigned to each soul. A card required to buy your bread. A code required to draw your own earnings out of your own account. A file kept on every man, woman and child from the cradle forward. Permission asked to move. Permission asked to speak. Permission asked to earn. A levy upon every breath drawn and a regulation upon every step taken. No. And no again. And no for a third time so there is no misunderstanding of it. We do not require your digital identity. We did not request it. We did not vote upon it. We do not consent to it. We do not need your permission to exist upon the soil our forefathers are buried in. We are a free people. We have carried ourselves this far upon our own two backs. Through famine and empire and civil war and black lung and blight and the emigrant ship out of Cobh, we have come this distance under our own steam, and the arrangement appears to be serving us well enough without your intervention. We buried our own. We fed our own. We raised our own roofs and took our own fish and reared our own children in our own tongue. We are in your debt for nothing. Not a signature. Not a biometric scan. Not a single solitary inch. And while we are upon the subject, let us speak plainly of the tax man, for he has gone too long without proper introduction. The tax collector and the tax man are the one article under two names, and the article is a parasite. There is no dressing it up finer than that. A man who produces nothing, who grows nothing, who catches nothing, who builds nothing, who mends nothing, who has never in his professional life lifted anything heavier than a pen, and who arrives at your door with the full apparatus of the state at his back to carry off the fruits of labour he did not perform. He is a middleman between your sweat and some scheme dreamt up in a committee room by his own kind, and the great majority of what he takes is consumed by the machinery of the taking itself before ever a penny of it reaches the road or the hospital or the schoolhouse he claims to be funding. And I will go further while I have the floor. Finance itself, the whole apparatus of it, money breeding money in the dark without a hand laid upon a tool or a spade turned in the earth, is slavery dressed in a good suit. It is the oldest swindle known to man and it has never been anything other. A man who produces nothing yet lives off the productive labour of others through the charging of interest upon money conjured out of nothing is a parasite of a rarer and more refined order than the tax man, but a parasite all the same, and between the pair of them they have the working people of this island bled white and lectured at for the pleasure. A man who will not work with his hands, nor with his back, nor with his mind at some honest problem of the real physical world, is no man that I recognise. He is a ledger entry in a suit. The country was not built by ledger entries. The country was built by farmers and fishermen and masons and smiths and sweeps and miners and shipwrights and midwives and mothers, and those are the people whose say should carry in her councils, and no other. Here is what I put to you. Let each man and woman of this island direct the first tenth of their earnings themselves, by their own judgement, to the purpose they see as worthy. The school down the road. The lifeboat station. The hospice. The widow on the corner. The roof of the chapel. The harbour wall. Whatever it may be. Let the people who earned the money decide where the money travels. You will find the roads mended and the ports dredged and the schools standing and the old ones cared for inside of five years, and done better and for less, because the hand that earned the coin knows the weight of it and will not squander it upon consultants and committees. And let us have done with the paper currency and the numbers in a screen that can be frozen at the whim of a clerk in a tower. Bring back the coin. Gold for the great transactions. Silver for the weekly commerce of a working life. Copper for the small change of the day. Metal you can bite. Metal you can weigh. Metal that cannot be conjured out of nothing by a keystroke, nor erased out of existence by another. Real money for real labour. A coin in the hand is a free man's wage. A number in a database is a collar around a free man's neck, and they are fitting that collar now while we stand arguing over the colour of it. Feel it in your gut. That is not nothing. That is your blood relating to you what your ears will not hear. That is every forebear who starved and fought and coughed the black dust into a rag and descended the shaft regardless, standing at your shoulder and saying no further. Not one more field. Not one more harbour. Not one more son upon a plane. Not one more free man converted into a number in a ledger for the convenience of the parasites. This is the hour. Make no error about it. Ireland is redeemed in this generation or she is lost beyond recovery, and every true son and daughter of her knows it in the marrow. There is no middle ground remaining. There is no waiting it out. There is standing now, upon your own two feet, or there is watching her go under the waves for the last and final time. So stand. Stand with your farmers. Stand with your fishermen. Stand with your tradesmen and your miners and your sweeps and your mothers and your old ones. Raise the tricolour. Speak the tongue. Walk the land. Hold the line in the streets of every town and city and do not break it, for they are relying upon you to break and to go home and to forget by Tuesday. She is calling her children home. Every stone of her, every breaker on her western shore, every acre of wet heather and every coal in every hearth the length and breadth of her is calling. Answer her. Take her back. Every field, every harbour, every last inch of her. Take her back, or lose her entirely. There is no third road open to us.
0:10

Lads. Sit down and give me your ear a while, for I have watched from the water long enough and the hour is upon us whether we have the stomach for it or not. You remember. Or your fathers told you, or their fathers did, and the knowledge of it is in the marrow of you whether you drew breath in those days or not. The moors in the grey hour before dawn. Wet heather soft under the boot. Peat smoke rising from a low stone chimney a mile out across the bog, thin as a prayer. A sky the colour of a gun barrel and the gulls lamenting above the headland. The smell of turf burning, and wet wool, and the ferrous tang of the sea when the wind swung around out of the Atlantic and put the taste of iron on your tongue. A man could walk that land and know every stone of it was his by inheritance, because his grandfather had broken his back upon it, and his grandfather before him, back through the generations until you reach men whose names are lost and whose bones are in the soil you are standing on. The potato fields. God be good to us, the potato fields. Lazy beds cut straight as a gunwale, the ridges black and shining after a night of rain, women bent double with creels lashed to their backs and the children at their skirts, drawing the crop up by the hand for there was never any other means devised nor wanted. Hands split open at the knuckles and never entirely healed in this life. Hunger within living memory. Grandmothers who had seen the blight with their own eyes and would not speak of it from the year of it until the day they were laid down, save that a crust was kept always on the dresser which no soul in that house was permitted to touch. Not ever. Not for any reason under heaven. And the chimney sweeps. Wee lads no heavier than a sack of meal, black to the bone with soot, their lungs ruined before they were old enough to marry and old men entirely by thirty. Up the flues at first light, the skin worn off them by the brick, eyes crimson at the rim, breathing the black in with every draw of air. And the coal miners a half mile beneath our feet, down in the wet dark, the roof of the world muttering over their heads, the canary gone silent, a man's whole existence measured out in the shilling a ton and the dust he carried home in his chest to cough up of a Sunday morning into a rag. Fathers who descended and were never hauled up again. Widows at the pit head with the shawl drawn over the head and no tears remaining in them for they had spent those long ago. That was the tariff paid to keep the hearth lit. That was the reckoning of being warm in winter in the Ireland that was. And after the labouring week, Friday evening, and a man had earned the peace of what followed. Home first. Peeled the day off him in the yard. A shower of ice cold moor river water out of a tin bucket punctured with holes, hung on a nail on the gable wall, the water running clean down the back of him and carrying the week's dust and sweat away into the drain. Scrubbed till the skin was pink beneath the grime. Clean shirt laid out by the wife. The hair combed down with a drop of water. Then, and only then, did a man set himself to the table. A meat pie from the baker, tenpence if he was known to you, a shilling and no change if he was not, put down upon a proper plate. Fish and chips for threepence, the salt and vinegar soaked through the newspaper, but carried home and ate slowly at your own table with your people around you, not walked with through the streets like some vagrant tinker off the road. A man ate as a man who had earned his portion, for he had. And later, with the dishes cleared and the kettle set, down the road to the tavern. Low beams black with a century of smoke. A turf fire muttering in the grate. The air thick with pipe smoke and the vapour of wet overcoats steaming themselves dry on the backs of chairs. A pint of stout, cold and black as a cove at midnight, elevenpence laid down on the counter, a head on it thick enough to strike a match upon. A second one because you had it coming to you and no man present would dispute it. A fiddle starting up in the corner of its own accord. The old men in the snug who remembered matters the history books had long since mislaid. A song before the bolt was thrown on the door. The walk home beneath a firmament crowded with stars, the stout warm in the gut of you, the week behind you, and your own door waiting with the latch unlocked for you had no enemies in that parish. That was the country. That was the covenant. Honest labour, plain food, a cold wash, a hot meal, a cold pint, your own tongue in your own mouth, your own soil beneath your boots, and no man standing above you save the Almighty Himself. Now regard her. Regard her close. The fields disposed of to men who have never set foot upon them and never shall. The harbours signed away by the stroke of a pen in a room you were not admitted to, and foreign keels dragging out of our waters the living that sustained this island for a thousand years, while our own boats rot at their moorings for want of a quota. The tradesmen undercut by imported labour and imported goods. The shops shuttered along every main street from Donegal to Cork. The young ones scattered to London and Sydney and Boston and the Gulf because there is nothing remaining for them beneath their own roof. And the entirety of this rotten arrangement dressed up in the soft mannerly language of progress by men in towers of glass who could not tell a lazy bed from a grave, nor a trawler from a tugboat, nor an honest day's work from a pension plan. And now they arrive with the next imposition. A digital identity. A number assigned to each soul. A card required to buy your bread. A code required to draw your own earnings out of your own account. A file kept on every man, woman and child from the cradle forward. Permission asked to move. Permission asked to speak. Permission asked to earn. A levy upon every breath drawn and a regulation upon every step taken. No. And no again. And no for a third time so there is no misunderstanding of it. We do not require your digital identity. We did not request it. We did not vote upon it. We do not consent to it. We do not need your permission to exist upon the soil our forefathers are buried in. We are a free people. We have carried ourselves this far upon our own two backs. Through famine and empire and civil war and black lung and blight and the emigrant ship out of Cobh, we have come this distance under our own steam, and the arrangement appears to be serving us well enough without your intervention. We buried our own. We fed our own. We raised our own roofs and took our own fish and reared our own children in our own tongue. We are in your debt for nothing. Not a signature. Not a biometric scan. Not a single solitary inch. And while we are upon the subject, let us speak plainly of the tax man, for he has gone too long without proper introduction. The tax collector and the tax man are the one article under two names, and the article is a parasite. There is no dressing it up finer than that. A man who produces nothing, who grows nothing, who catches nothing, who builds nothing, who mends nothing, who has never in his professional life lifted anything heavier than a pen, and who arrives at your door with the full apparatus of the state at his back to carry off the fruits of labour he did not perform. He is a middleman between your sweat and some scheme dreamt up in a committee room by his own kind, and the great majority of what he takes is consumed by the machinery of the taking itself before ever a penny of it reaches the road or the hospital or the schoolhouse he claims to be funding. And I will go further while I have the floor. Finance itself, the whole apparatus of it, money breeding money in the dark without a hand laid upon a tool or a spade turned in the earth, is slavery dressed in a good suit. It is the oldest swindle known to man and it has never been anything other. A man who produces nothing yet lives off the productive labour of others through the charging of interest upon money conjured out of nothing is a parasite of a rarer and more refined order than the tax man, but a parasite all the same, and between the pair of them they have the working people of this island bled white and lectured at for the pleasure. A man who will not work with his hands, nor with his back, nor with his mind at some honest problem of the real physical world, is no man that I recognise. He is a ledger entry in a suit. The country was not built by ledger entries. The country was built by farmers and fishermen and masons and smiths and sweeps and miners and shipwrights and midwives and mothers, and those are the people whose say should carry in her councils, and no other. Here is what I put to you. Let each man and woman of this island direct the first tenth of their earnings themselves, by their own judgement, to the purpose they see as worthy. The school down the road. The lifeboat station. The hospice. The widow on the corner. The roof of the chapel. The harbour wall. Whatever it may be. Let the people who earned the money decide where the money travels. You will find the roads mended and the ports dredged and the schools standing and the old ones cared for inside of five years, and done better and for less, because the hand that earned the coin knows the weight of it and will not squander it upon consultants and committees. And let us have done with the paper currency and the numbers in a screen that can be frozen at the whim of a clerk in a tower. Bring back the coin. Gold for the great transactions. Silver for the weekly commerce of a working life. Copper for the small change of the day. Metal you can bite. Metal you can weigh. Metal that cannot be conjured out of nothing by a keystroke, nor erased out of existence by another. Real money for real labour. A coin in the hand is a free man's wage. A number in a database is a collar around a free man's neck, and they are fitting that collar now while we stand arguing over the colour of it. Feel it in your gut. That is not nothing. That is your blood relating to you what your ears will not hear. That is every forebear who starved and fought and coughed the black dust into a rag and descended the shaft regardless, standing at your shoulder and saying no further. Not one more field. Not one more harbour. Not one more son upon a plane. Not one more free man converted into a number in a ledger for the convenience of the parasites. This is the hour. Make no error about it. Ireland is redeemed in this generation or she is lost beyond recovery, and every true son and daughter of her knows it in the marrow. There is no middle ground remaining. There is no waiting it out. There is standing now, upon your own two feet, or there is watching her go under the waves for the last and final time. So stand. Stand with your farmers. Stand with your fishermen. Stand with your tradesmen and your miners and your sweeps and your mothers and your old ones. Raise the tricolour. Speak the tongue. Walk the land. Hold the line in the streets of every town and city and do not break it, for they are relying upon you to break and to go home and to forget by Tuesday. She is calling her children home. Every stone of her, every breaker on her western shore, every acre of wet heather and every coal in every hearth the length and breadth of her is calling. Answer her. Take her back. Every field, every harbour, every last inch of her. Take her back, or lose her entirely. There is no third road open to us.

SiriusB

15,437 Aufrufe • vor 5 Monaten

An event is ongoing on the south coast in the Eastleigh beach/Portsmouth area tonight. For the first time large numbers of migrants have been intercepted heading for that area of coastline and been picked up by RNLI and border force boats. A large number of processing tents have been set up behind the beach with a number of coaches waiting to take them to accommodation. However, a large number of the Patriots group who were present in Dover yesterday, led by Danny Tommo got wind of this and have blockaded the one road out of Eastleigh and off the island. Very cleverly may of the men who have got to the beach are standing in the water, knowing that legally police are unable to enter the water to arrest them. More men are arriving all the time, from all over England. It’s a very impressive show of peaceful force. The call has gone out for warm and waterproof clothes, boats, power banks and food/drink as the expectation is that these men are not moving and this stand off could go through the night and into Monday. Great work…show your support.
0:17

An event is ongoing on the south coast in the Eastleigh beach/Portsmouth area tonight. For the first time large numbers of migrants have been intercepted heading for that area of coastline and been picked up by RNLI and border force boats. A large number of processing tents have been set up behind the beach with a number of coaches waiting to take them to accommodation. However, a large number of the Patriots group who were present in Dover yesterday, led by Danny Tommo got wind of this and have blockaded the one road out of Eastleigh and off the island. Very cleverly may of the men who have got to the beach are standing in the water, knowing that legally police are unable to enter the water to arrest them. More men are arriving all the time, from all over England. It’s a very impressive show of peaceful force. The call has gone out for warm and waterproof clothes, boats, power banks and food/drink as the expectation is that these men are not moving and this stand off could go through the night and into Monday. Great work…show your support.

John Hannam

111,778 Aufrufe • vor 12 Tagen

They started with 50. Now they say they’re 18,000 In 1996 there were fewer than 50 of them. Today, according to the organizers, up to 18,000 walked through Copenhagen. From Dronning Louises Bro to the Imam Ali Mosque. Look at the curve. This is how it happens. First a handful. Then a few hundred. Then it fills a bridge, a district, a capital. A little at a time, until it is no longer a little. And let me be fair, because fairness is the point. There is nothing strange about them holding this mourning procession. They have done it as part of their faith for more than a thousand years. It is theirs, and they believe in it. There is nothing strange about that at all. What should stop us is the other half. There is nothing strange about Europe allowing it either, and that is exactly the problem. Europe allows it because Europe has forgotten who it is. A people that remembers what it stands for does not need to ban anything, it simply knows where its own line runs. We have lost that. And so the issue was never them. The issue is us. Now look at what actually moved through the streets. Men in front. Women in the second row. That is not a detail, that is the whole point. It is a view of women set into a system and marched out into the public square, in a city where generations fought for women and men to stand as equals. The real question is not whether people may believe what they want. They may. The question is why our capital should cultivate a political law-religion that commemorates a 7th-century power struggle by dividing people by sex on Nørrebrogade. One of the organizers is the Imam Ali Mosque, repeatedly described as the Iranian regime’s extended arm in Denmark. The same regime that hangs women and young men from cranes. We are not importing culture. We are importing a system. And we let it grow, not because they are strong, but because we forgot why we were. First a little. Then a lot. Then too late.
0:10

They started with 50. Now they say they’re 18,000 In 1996 there were fewer than 50 of them. Today, according to the organizers, up to 18,000 walked through Copenhagen. From Dronning Louises Bro to the Imam Ali Mosque. Look at the curve. This is how it happens. First a handful. Then a few hundred. Then it fills a bridge, a district, a capital. A little at a time, until it is no longer a little. And let me be fair, because fairness is the point. There is nothing strange about them holding this mourning procession. They have done it as part of their faith for more than a thousand years. It is theirs, and they believe in it. There is nothing strange about that at all. What should stop us is the other half. There is nothing strange about Europe allowing it either, and that is exactly the problem. Europe allows it because Europe has forgotten who it is. A people that remembers what it stands for does not need to ban anything, it simply knows where its own line runs. We have lost that. And so the issue was never them. The issue is us. Now look at what actually moved through the streets. Men in front. Women in the second row. That is not a detail, that is the whole point. It is a view of women set into a system and marched out into the public square, in a city where generations fought for women and men to stand as equals. The real question is not whether people may believe what they want. They may. The question is why our capital should cultivate a political law-religion that commemorates a 7th-century power struggle by dividing people by sex on Nørrebrogade. One of the organizers is the Imam Ali Mosque, repeatedly described as the Iranian regime’s extended arm in Denmark. The same regime that hangs women and young men from cranes. We are not importing culture. We are importing a system. And we let it grow, not because they are strong, but because we forgot why we were. First a little. Then a lot. Then too late.

Krisztina Maria

38,814 Aufrufe • vor 2 Monaten

There's been an unfortunate incident in LA with a Uhaul plowing into a crowd of anti-Khameini protestors This man should never have been able to get near the crowd with a uhaul but some info about the situation seem to be - signage on the truck is anti both the shah and the current ayatollah. is this his actual position or is this camouflage to have gotten into the protest to perpetrate an attack? "no Shah, No regime, No Mullah" Mullah is a religious leader so possibly referring to the current leader and not a king like Pahlavi Timeline appears to be - anti-Khameini protestors try to rip signs off his vehicle and are bashing on the windows and eventually his passenger side window is broken - guy in uhaul then stutterstops forward into the crowd, eventually accelerating further, then stuttering again, then full stopping down the road - there is a man surfing on top of the uhaul in the 3rd video, below I have posted another video showing the man on top of the uhaul trying to take the posters off the side, so he is likely part of the anti-Khameini protestors - uhaul driver is taken into custody by police is this a case of police not having the street sufficiently blocked off and so a guy was able to get a uhaul in here? He should not have been able to drive a uhaul this close to a massive protest crowd There are a lot of people saying this is a terrorist attack, it is possible it could be one but I don't think there's enough information to accurately assert that at this time The chronology of events also shows it is possible that the driver was in fear of his life since protestors were banging on the uhaul, windows, and removing signs+ eventually breaking his window Whatever turns out to be the actual case, it is an unfortunate event and as of right now a seeming silver lining is that no deaths have been reported
0:34

There's been an unfortunate incident in LA with a Uhaul plowing into a crowd of anti-Khameini protestors This man should never have been able to get near the crowd with a uhaul but some info about the situation seem to be - signage on the truck is anti both the shah and the current ayatollah. is this his actual position or is this camouflage to have gotten into the protest to perpetrate an attack? "no Shah, No regime, No Mullah" Mullah is a religious leader so possibly referring to the current leader and not a king like Pahlavi Timeline appears to be - anti-Khameini protestors try to rip signs off his vehicle and are bashing on the windows and eventually his passenger side window is broken - guy in uhaul then stutterstops forward into the crowd, eventually accelerating further, then stuttering again, then full stopping down the road - there is a man surfing on top of the uhaul in the 3rd video, below I have posted another video showing the man on top of the uhaul trying to take the posters off the side, so he is likely part of the anti-Khameini protestors - uhaul driver is taken into custody by police is this a case of police not having the street sufficiently blocked off and so a guy was able to get a uhaul in here? He should not have been able to drive a uhaul this close to a massive protest crowd There are a lot of people saying this is a terrorist attack, it is possible it could be one but I don't think there's enough information to accurately assert that at this time The chronology of events also shows it is possible that the driver was in fear of his life since protestors were banging on the uhaul, windows, and removing signs+ eventually breaking his window Whatever turns out to be the actual case, it is an unfortunate event and as of right now a seeming silver lining is that no deaths have been reported

Kirsche 🥥 🧁

41,247 Aufrufe • vor 8 Monaten

This is Britain now. some imported savage striding down a British street, swinging a massive machete like it’s his personal battlefield. English people scattering, watching in shock, trying to go about their day while this enrichment plays out in broad daylight. Not a fantasy. Not “isolated.” This is daily reality in towns and cities our ancestors built. This isn’t mental health. This isn’t “a few bad apples.” It’s the inevitable import of incompatible peoples who bring their tribal violence, their contempt for our laws, and their refusal to become civilised in a land that was never theirs. England’s streets were never meant to host machete diplomacy from the failed corners of the world. We owe these people nothing. They owe us our safety, our peace, our country back. Deport them. Every last one who raises a blade against our folk. Strip the troublemakers of any claim they think they have and send them packing to the hellholes that forged them. Protect the natives. Reclaim our islands. England first, last, and forever. No more weakness. No more tolerance for those who hate us.
0:12

This is Britain now. some imported savage striding down a British street, swinging a massive machete like it’s his personal battlefield. English people scattering, watching in shock, trying to go about their day while this enrichment plays out in broad daylight. Not a fantasy. Not “isolated.” This is daily reality in towns and cities our ancestors built. This isn’t mental health. This isn’t “a few bad apples.” It’s the inevitable import of incompatible peoples who bring their tribal violence, their contempt for our laws, and their refusal to become civilised in a land that was never theirs. England’s streets were never meant to host machete diplomacy from the failed corners of the world. We owe these people nothing. They owe us our safety, our peace, our country back. Deport them. Every last one who raises a blade against our folk. Strip the troublemakers of any claim they think they have and send them packing to the hellholes that forged them. Protect the natives. Reclaim our islands. England first, last, and forever. No more weakness. No more tolerance for those who hate us.

Lewis.B.Rendell Official

190,343 Aufrufe • vor 5 Monaten

The Islamization of Denmark... In a show of power, Muslims seized control of City Hall Square in Copenhagen! Islamic "prayers" echoed throughout the city... Muslims constantly hijacking public property for so-called "prayer" is not about prayer; it's a display of Islam's imperialistic and political nature. Young Muslims even took to social media to celebrate the Islamization of Denmark on social media...(they are laughing at the West) Despite Denmark having some of the most restrictive immigration policies in Europe, its efforts to preserve local traditions and values in the face of mass Islamic migration, runaway multiculturalism, and the systematic encroachment of political Islam have failed. As in other European countries, mass Islamic migration has resulted in increased crime and social tension. Danish cities have been plagued by shootings, car burnings, attacks, sexual assaults, and gang violence. Not to mention the fact that many critics of Islam in Denmark must live under 24-hour police protection and are marked for Death. On a positive note, in March 2021, their parliament approved a law that banned foreign countries from funding and financing mosques in the country. In recent years, Algeria, Kuwait, Libya, Morocco, Saudi Arabia, Turkey, Qatar, and the United Arab Emirates, among others, have distributed hundreds of millions of euros to finance the spread of Islam in Europe and America. Do you know which country is funding your local Mosque?
0:12

The Islamization of Denmark... In a show of power, Muslims seized control of City Hall Square in Copenhagen! Islamic "prayers" echoed throughout the city... Muslims constantly hijacking public property for so-called "prayer" is not about prayer; it's a display of Islam's imperialistic and political nature. Young Muslims even took to social media to celebrate the Islamization of Denmark on social media...(they are laughing at the West) Despite Denmark having some of the most restrictive immigration policies in Europe, its efforts to preserve local traditions and values in the face of mass Islamic migration, runaway multiculturalism, and the systematic encroachment of political Islam have failed. As in other European countries, mass Islamic migration has resulted in increased crime and social tension. Danish cities have been plagued by shootings, car burnings, attacks, sexual assaults, and gang violence. Not to mention the fact that many critics of Islam in Denmark must live under 24-hour police protection and are marked for Death. On a positive note, in March 2021, their parliament approved a law that banned foreign countries from funding and financing mosques in the country. In recent years, Algeria, Kuwait, Libya, Morocco, Saudi Arabia, Turkey, Qatar, and the United Arab Emirates, among others, have distributed hundreds of millions of euros to finance the spread of Islam in Europe and America. Do you know which country is funding your local Mosque?

Amy Mek

533,681 Aufrufe • vor 2 Jahren

If your country is trying to ban your country’s own flag, something is gravely wrong with your country. That is what is happening in a British city right now. Birmingham City Council filed an injunction this week to stop unauthorized Union Jacks and St George’s Crosses on lampposts. The penalty would be unlimited fines or two years in prison. This is insane. You should not need a permit to show national pride. Yet they’re trying to limit it on the grounds of what they say is public safety and community cohesion. That is globalism run amuck. Next they will treat being British in public like a disruption. When unsanctioned national pride is treated as a crime, you do not have a nation. You have a country collapse. Think this cannot happen in America? Watch how rarely many Democrats fly the U.S. flag, and how often it is missing from their conventions. What happens in England is often a preview of what the same crowd will try here. Keep displaying national pride. It matters more now than ever.
0:15

If your country is trying to ban your country’s own flag, something is gravely wrong with your country. That is what is happening in a British city right now. Birmingham City Council filed an injunction this week to stop unauthorized Union Jacks and St George’s Crosses on lampposts. The penalty would be unlimited fines or two years in prison. This is insane. You should not need a permit to show national pride. Yet they’re trying to limit it on the grounds of what they say is public safety and community cohesion. That is globalism run amuck. Next they will treat being British in public like a disruption. When unsanctioned national pride is treated as a crime, you do not have a nation. You have a country collapse. Think this cannot happen in America? Watch how rarely many Democrats fly the U.S. flag, and how often it is missing from their conventions. What happens in England is often a preview of what the same crowd will try here. Keep displaying national pride. It matters more now than ever.

Paul A. Szypula 🇺🇸

11,587 Aufrufe • vor 19 Tagen

The Termination Shock was in the past and now we will see a new state of Climate Regime a lot warmer one. With all the nasty consequences. Most Top Tier voices have not started to rethink everything. Ignoring the Crisis is a luxury common people do not have, they will feel the brutally of more heat. From city planers to economist and however we name all the high paid planning entities, you have no more excuse. Come forward and discuss your Adaptation and Mitigation strategies, or just admit that you wanted to start to think never or maybe in the future and you really honestly trusted in the magical reduction of greenhouse gases.
0:10

The Termination Shock was in the past and now we will see a new state of Climate Regime a lot warmer one. With all the nasty consequences. Most Top Tier voices have not started to rethink everything. Ignoring the Crisis is a luxury common people do not have, they will feel the brutally of more heat. From city planers to economist and however we name all the high paid planning entities, you have no more excuse. Come forward and discuss your Adaptation and Mitigation strategies, or just admit that you wanted to start to think never or maybe in the future and you really honestly trusted in the magical reduction of greenhouse gases.

Thomas Reis

44,192 Aufrufe • vor 2 Jahren

Viktor Orbán is once again one of the very few leaders in Europe willing to say what every rational observer already knows — the European elite is fully committed to prolonging the war in Ukraine, no matter how much it costs in lives, economic ruin, or regional stability. Instead of working toward peace, they’ve chosen to escalate, blindly following the disastrous path laid out by the Biden administration and its enablers in Brussels. The fact that this latest war council took place in London is fitting. The same British establishment that cheered on every disastrous intervention over the past two decades is now at the forefront of pushing Ukraine into further bloodshed — all while European economies collapse under the weight of sanctions, energy crises, and spiraling inflation. None of these leaders have the courage to admit the obvious: Ukraine is losing, Zelensky has no path to victory, and the only real option left is negotiation. Orbán’s opposition to this madness isn’t just common sense — it’s a recognition that the survival of European economies and the long-term security of the continent depend on ending this war, not prolonging it. Every day the war drags on is another day European industries bleed out, farmers go bankrupt, and working families watch their savings vanish. All for what? To protect the pride of globalist elites who refuse to admit they were wrong from the start. The reality is that the people pushing to extend this war have nothing to lose. It’s not their sons being dragged into trenches. It’s not their businesses closing under the weight of energy costs. And it’s certainly not their luxurious lifestyles at risk. They can sit in their ivory towers, safe from consequence, while the rest of Europe pays the price. Orbán stands on the side of peace — and history will show that it was the only responsible position to take.
0:13

Viktor Orbán is once again one of the very few leaders in Europe willing to say what every rational observer already knows — the European elite is fully committed to prolonging the war in Ukraine, no matter how much it costs in lives, economic ruin, or regional stability. Instead of working toward peace, they’ve chosen to escalate, blindly following the disastrous path laid out by the Biden administration and its enablers in Brussels. The fact that this latest war council took place in London is fitting. The same British establishment that cheered on every disastrous intervention over the past two decades is now at the forefront of pushing Ukraine into further bloodshed — all while European economies collapse under the weight of sanctions, energy crises, and spiraling inflation. None of these leaders have the courage to admit the obvious: Ukraine is losing, Zelensky has no path to victory, and the only real option left is negotiation. Orbán’s opposition to this madness isn’t just common sense — it’s a recognition that the survival of European economies and the long-term security of the continent depend on ending this war, not prolonging it. Every day the war drags on is another day European industries bleed out, farmers go bankrupt, and working families watch their savings vanish. All for what? To protect the pride of globalist elites who refuse to admit they were wrong from the start. The reality is that the people pushing to extend this war have nothing to lose. It’s not their sons being dragged into trenches. It’s not their businesses closing under the weight of energy costs. And it’s certainly not their luxurious lifestyles at risk. They can sit in their ivory towers, safe from consequence, while the rest of Europe pays the price. Orbán stands on the side of peace — and history will show that it was the only responsible position to take.

Torsten Prochnow

52,211 Aufrufe • vor 1 Jahr

Setenil de las Bodegas - the historic Spanish town, living under the 'Rock' : Setenil de las Bodegas in Spain brings a whole new meaning to the term “living under a rock”. The strange rock buildings and the houses made of caves are among the most alluring attractions in Andalusia. While this town of 3,000 may literally be under a rock, the town itself is inspiring, full of history, and very current on many tourist directories. Town is the most unique of all the white villages of Andalusia in Spain. This beautiful town is nestled deep within a canyon, surrounded by fields of olive trees. However, its most impressive feature is the huge rocks that overhang the pretty white houses. Wander among the narrow streets, where you’ll find houses emerging from boulders and delicious cave restaurants. This canyon was formed naturally by the water from the creek below, creating this incredible landscape. In prehistoric times, it was believed Troglodytes (cave dwellers) lived within the caves in this village. Caves and rocks have revealed artifacts that prove they’re about 5,000 years old. For at least this long, the people of this small village in Andalusia have been using the overhang of the rock as shelter. Further to this, they also used to store produce and food under the rocks to keep them cool and extend their shelf life. In more modern days, the villagers built houses in the spaces between the rocks, preventing them from getting too hot in the summer and too cold in the winter. Main street in Setenil de las Bodegas is called ‘Calle Cuevas del Sol’ (Caves of the Sun), which is built under a massive slab of overhanging rock. This beautiful, sunny street is home to many cave restaurants sandwiched between mammoth boulders and a charming river. Although Calle Cuevas del Sol is the most famous street in the town, we recommend exploring other areas too. Wander among narrow streets like Calle Cuevas de la Sombra (caves of the shade) or go further uphill into the village to look at the white houses and viewpoints. One of the top things to do in Setenil de las Bodegas is to visit the remains of the historical Arab Castle from the 12th century. Named Nazari Castle, it was once very impressive and had around 40 towers. During the period of ‘Reconquista’ between the Moors and Christians, it’s said it took the Christians 15 days to capture the castle and over 7 attempts to take back the village. This story gave the town the name ‘Setenil’, coming from the Latin ‘Septem Nihil’, which means ‘7 times no’. In later times, following their occupation by the Catholics, the residents began to use the cool areas under the rocks to store produce and create large store rooms. This is how the town came to the second part of the name “Bodegas”. This translates to “warehouse” in Spanish. 🎥© butnomatter.theroadislife (IG) #archaeohistories
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Setenil de las Bodegas - the historic Spanish town, living under the 'Rock' : Setenil de las Bodegas in Spain brings a whole new meaning to the term “living under a rock”. The strange rock buildings and the houses made of caves are among the most alluring attractions in Andalusia. While this town of 3,000 may literally be under a rock, the town itself is inspiring, full of history, and very current on many tourist directories. Town is the most unique of all the white villages of Andalusia in Spain. This beautiful town is nestled deep within a canyon, surrounded by fields of olive trees. However, its most impressive feature is the huge rocks that overhang the pretty white houses. Wander among the narrow streets, where you’ll find houses emerging from boulders and delicious cave restaurants. This canyon was formed naturally by the water from the creek below, creating this incredible landscape. In prehistoric times, it was believed Troglodytes (cave dwellers) lived within the caves in this village. Caves and rocks have revealed artifacts that prove they’re about 5,000 years old. For at least this long, the people of this small village in Andalusia have been using the overhang of the rock as shelter. Further to this, they also used to store produce and food under the rocks to keep them cool and extend their shelf life. In more modern days, the villagers built houses in the spaces between the rocks, preventing them from getting too hot in the summer and too cold in the winter. Main street in Setenil de las Bodegas is called ‘Calle Cuevas del Sol’ (Caves of the Sun), which is built under a massive slab of overhanging rock. This beautiful, sunny street is home to many cave restaurants sandwiched between mammoth boulders and a charming river. Although Calle Cuevas del Sol is the most famous street in the town, we recommend exploring other areas too. Wander among narrow streets like Calle Cuevas de la Sombra (caves of the shade) or go further uphill into the village to look at the white houses and viewpoints. One of the top things to do in Setenil de las Bodegas is to visit the remains of the historical Arab Castle from the 12th century. Named Nazari Castle, it was once very impressive and had around 40 towers. During the period of ‘Reconquista’ between the Moors and Christians, it’s said it took the Christians 15 days to capture the castle and over 7 attempts to take back the village. This story gave the town the name ‘Setenil’, coming from the Latin ‘Septem Nihil’, which means ‘7 times no’. In later times, following their occupation by the Catholics, the residents began to use the cool areas under the rocks to store produce and create large store rooms. This is how the town came to the second part of the name “Bodegas”. This translates to “warehouse” in Spanish. 🎥© butnomatter.theroadislife (IG) #archaeohistories

Archaeo - Histories

26,154 Aufrufe • vor 1 Jahr