Some years ago my friend and neighbor Baron Philip Lambert had my wife and me to dinner in his chalet in Gstaad, Switzerland, and the talk turned to Belgian history. Philip’s grandfather, a banker, had lent money to King Leopold II of Belgium to buy real estate in Africa. He bought the Congo. Then paid back the debt in full and made Philip’s grandfather a baron.
Speaking of Belgian kings, I opined that a latter King Leopold III had done the right thing during World War II when he decided to remain in the country as an imprisoned head of state after surrendering to the invading German army. The British had other plans. They wanted Leopold III to escape and lead a resistance from London. But the king refused to leave his country, saying, “I have to share the same fate as my troops.” At the same time, he also refused to cooperate with the occupying Nazi government, but used his position to lobby Hitler for concessions on Belgium’s independence and the release of Belgian prisoners of war.
For this, Leopold III was excoriated in the press as the “Traitor King” and “King Rat.” After the war he had to give up his throne and was openly called a collaborator by the winners. Some collaborator! Rather, he was a nationalist in the best sense of the word, remaining with his flock and doing his best to alleviate their burdens.
That is when one of my fellow dinner guests, an EU bureaucrat with no lips, shifty eyes, and the manner of Uriah Heep, patted me on the shoulder and told me that I should leave such matters to the experts. “You seem like a very nice chap, but we know better” captures the gist of his remarks. I know his type very well, as Europe is chock full of them. They live off our taxes, decide how we live our lives, and pretend to represent us—although they are merely unelected officials appointed by other unelected officials.
Unfortunately for that shifty eyed freeloader, I tend to forget my manners when being condescended to by creeps. I told him what I thought of him and his kind, threatened him with physical violence, and warned him to keep his mouth shut—or else. My host, Baron Philip, pretended not to hear and poured himself a stiff drink, while his butler looked abashed. Philip and I laughed about it the next day. “I wonder what he’ll say when back in Brussels—that the Lamberts have really gone rogue?” he asked.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I am not a Neanderthal who goes around threatening to beat up people for disagreeing with me. But this man reminded me of the type that write for the New York Times: lefty propagandists who promulgate smart lies to the detriment of Christianity, Western civilization, the armed forces, the family, and of course the police. A recent example in that New York rag by one Jill Lepore, a woman posing as a historian, exhorts readers never to use the word “nation.” She writes,“To confuse nationalism with patriotism is to mistake contempt for love and fear for valor.”
Lepore’s kind puts the immigrant before the native-born, the transnational interest before the national or local one, the racial minority before the majority. I am rather proud of the Greek myths and of German tales of Wotan, plus the fact that the ancient Greeks invented almost everything.
Lepore is flattering the “woke” mandarins of social media, big tech, and the Fortune 500 managerial class. Basically, she is for the 1 percent before the 99 percent. Yet she disguises her subversion with polemical anti-Trump politics and facts twisted to suit her arguments. Again, you know the type: the kind that likes the metropolitan brand of democracy, concocted in elite Georgetown and Los Angeles fundraising circles, who backs the kind of politician who gives speeches in Congress about art funding in Harlem and never about jobs in Ohio.
The N-word—and I don’t mean the bad N-word, I mean “nationalist”—I predict will soon join the bad word as one and the same. It won’t be hard for the left to construct arguments against it. On the internet, the more polemical and dubious the evidence, the better.
Meanwhile, globalists who backed disastrous wars in Iraq, Afghanistan, and Libya continue to do so. And while hundreds of thousands of illegal aliens storm our borders, malignant organs such as the Times harp against cruel nationalists like you and me who prefer law and order. So the next time you are at a dinner party—I cannot get you invited chez le baron because poor Philip died some time ago—and some shifty-eyed bureaucrat or journalist pompously gives his or her opinion, do a Taki and threaten them with a pie in the face. They’re all cowards anyway and will most likely faint.
And if they do, eat their pie.
Taki Theodoracopulos is a writer living in New York, London, and Gstaad. In addition to his long-running High Life column in The Spectator, Taki writes Under the Black Flag for each number of Chronicles, and publishes Taki’s Magazine, a webzine.