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Oh, it's not about Me.   It's about Life. The Writing. But for what it's worth, my background includes both fixed wing and rotary flight instruction given, business, and various experiences all over this lost little planet, with its exquisite (albeit threatened) biosphere. People puzzle me. Their priorities bemuse me. Money? Power? Houses? Cars? Status symbols? Winning? Winning what? For me, I'd rather just back off, to my own little private place in Space. It's located just outside our Milky Way Galaxy. There, straining my eyes, I can still make out our Solar System. Although it's kinda hard, against the extraordinary backdrop of so many other stars. And I know that somewhere there, lost in the Universe, is a small, threatened, awesomely beautiful, rocky and watery planet. We call it Home.  For now, anyway. Let's tend to it, and to each other, with kindness. For we, simple ones, we know nothing.
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Old Man Thistle
Steam

Old Man Thistle



What, we wonder, is going to happen? Will the British people go quietly into the night? Quietly, with barely a murmur, just a few ultimately doomed protests, will they just meekly accept the erosion of the rights of their womenfolk? Honor killings? Female genital mutilation? Rampant Muslim grooming gangs? With cowed men wearing once-respected Police uniforms staring fixedly, even running, the other way? Incessant mountains of evidence that so many Muslim men see British women and young girls as 'fair game' and 'easy meat'? Will Churchill's once-proud Brits now accept a two-tier legal system, old British Law, that stagnant, expensive, crumbling edifice of once illustrious, world-famed Justice, increasingly usurped, replaced, and casually pushed aside by an upstart, entirely separate, competing system of Shariah Law? Will they accept unlimited more immigrants? Will the British people, with their epic love of pets and innocent creatures, just shut their eyes and accept the Halal method of killing? Commonly with no, or reduced pre-stunning? Oh, and obligatory on the school diet, of course. Will they merely grumble about the pressures on imploding NHS health care, the long waiting, often in corridors (or even in the ambulance), the rising poverty, soaring homelessness, and child hunger? Will they just content themselves to withdraw from their inner cities, withdraw, street by street, borough by borough, and tradition by tradition? Is Tommy Robinson, author of that must-read "Enemy of the State", a Far Right, hate-filled, Islamophobic, Fascist, culture baiting, etc, etc, rabble rouser? A convicted thug, who deserves to live under the constant threat of being sent back to prison, and deliberately thrust into cells with angry Muslims, where his life is on the line, and a massive physical beating is inevitable? Is he evil, bigoted, and does he deserve to damn well die? Or is he the quiet voice of reason, and the quiet witness of the Truth? Is he, in fact, the noisy canary in the coal mine, where only the silence of the tomb is officially allowed to be heard? When he tells, in simple words, yet so movingly, of the pretty teenage Luton English girl who dated a Muslim Pakistani, was introduced to taking heroin, and became his de facto helpless addicted sex slave? Whose parents locked her up, but she would climb out the windows, over any wall, to be re-united with him? And her fix? Who is now his unofficial third wife, or is it his fourth, living with her child in a State Funded apartment, of course, with full single mother benefits, of course, wearing the full black plastic bin liner bag, living the Muslim life, and wholly cut off from her family? Where he goes, twice a week, to enjoy a bit of rumpy-pumpy? A rapist, a daughter-stealer, an opportunist drug-dealer, a cynical predator, free as a bird, so it seems to walk proudly around British streets, bushy tailed, living the life, and (of course) fully protected by The British establishment. Against all these nasty Far Right wingers, like Tommy Robinson, Paul Golding and Jayda Fransen, who (according to Shariah May), constantly threaten, bully, or intimidate the poor, sweet natured, harmless, peaceful Muslims. Not one cop will look twice at Mister daughter-stealing, drug dealing, rapist pedophile. But Tommy has a squad car full of brave Cops following him around endlessly, when he goes shopping for diapers and beer. The quintessential question, is this: will her Majesty's Brits accept the flooding into what was (once upon a time) their country, of thousands, maybe tens of thousands, of war-hardened ISIS supporting radicals, who positively hate The United Kingdom, and make absolutely no secret of it? Easy fodder for the next firebrand hate preacher, to 'radicalize' (in so far as they are not already lost in the blood soaked sands of the 7th century) and incite to acts of violence against their nervous, trembling hosts? Do you believe that the Muslim population in the UK will merely "triple" by 2050? As recently reported? Do you? So there is no way that delusional, rabid Marxist Jeremy Corbynn will ever get into power, forge a love-love alliance with his radical Muslim buds, and swing the gates of Dover open even wider? If that were possible? We suppose the creaking immigration gates will still exist, for a while anyway, although their definitive surgical removal from the hinges (and ceremonial burning) by such a political marriage is, of course, a distinct possibility. Well, Brits? What is your answer? A silence? A shuffling of the feet? A looking out the window? Let me introduce to you a man I knew. Meet Bert Thistlethwaite, from a small village near Bedale, Yorkshire. He was a builder, a quiet man, who rarely swore, and who liked his pint. His mates called him 'Old Man Thistle' behind his back. He's long dead now, but for the record, he fought his way in a tank crew through fire and thirst, terror and blood. He was in the bitter and bloody retreat before the advancing General Rommel, in North Africa, and charged, via the battle of El Alamein, up through Sicily, and along the dangerous advance to the North along the mountain trails of central Italy. He fought his way through explosions, ambushes, and was strafed incessantly by the Luftwaffe. He was my uncle, and I spent holidays there, as a teenager. What, I ask you, would 'Old Man Thistle' say today, if he could see, from his grave, the wholesale capitulation of the people of the country he fought and bled for? What would a man say, who calmly smoked a cigarette, and casually talked about the weather, whilst walking past the mangled corpses of his former comrades? I know exactly what he would say. And,no, it wouldn't be pretty. He would swear like the devil.



Francis Meyrick


Last edited by admin on December 17, 2017, 7:50 am
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