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Under the Black Flag

Goodbye, Britannia

I first visited England in 1953, when I was 16 years old.  It was a very different country back then, a green and pleasant place, where weekend cinemas were packed with enthusiastic movie fans all cheerfully whistling and applauding the action.  The film palaces were thick with tobacco smoke, and no one left his seat until after “God Save the Queen” was played.  Working-class men were shabbily dressed, but in caps, suits, and neckties.  From the doorway of every pub came the tinkle of pianos or jukeboxes and group choruses of mawkish ballads.  People were extremely polite, except for those strange-looking men who wore bowler hats and striped trousers.  Mums in Wimbledon village mussed my hair when they saw my American clothes and button-down shirt.  In Dinas Powis, Wales, exhausted after a day’s walking the hills, I rang a doorbell and asked for a glass of water.  Mrs. Boxall—I still remember her name—invited me in and offered tea and cakes.

Those were halcyon days.  In the ensuing years when I lived there, I made some awfully good friends and enjoyed some awfully good times, but as they say, everything has to end one day.  The England of village greens, of cricket and gentle afternoon teas, lives in memory only.  Today’s Britain is a hellhole, her major cities cesspools of crime inhabited by feral white youth and gangs, black and Muslim.  Racial tensions are...

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