Bloody Well Right

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The globalists’ raging nervous breakdown over the Brexit and their hysterical cries for swift vengeance reveals the true nature of the ‘union’ Britain is leaving and is only further proof that polygamist marriages don’t work

By Mark Cromer

Just over a week ago I was sitting in a box seat at The Village Theatre in Issaquah, Washington, enjoying an inspired production of playwright Lee Hall’s Billy Elliot, the compelling story of a young boy’s perilous decision to pursue ballet instead of boxing while growing up in a working class British village. A minefield of cultural traditions bound with gender role expectations in any era, Hall sets his story of standing at a personal crossroads and seeking individual liberation against the bare-knuckled backdrop of the coal miners’ strike that rocked the United Kingdom in 1984-85 before Prime Minister Margret Thatcher prevailed in crushing the industry into privatization.

In the same vein of powerful social movement musicals that came before it, from Hair to Evita to Rent, the Elton John-composed music of Billy Elliot drives a variety of scenes that capture the grinding of societal tectonic plates as they build to a quake that violently erupts along the picket and police lines. The mythologized romance of struggle at the barricades blooms sweet and early in the play during ‘Solidarity,’ a biting number that features the cops and the miners trading wicked taunts in the verses before circling back to the underlying contradiction of the fight in the chorus:

“Solidarity forever,

we’re proud to be working class

solidarity forever.”

The nationalistic fervor of the coal miners’ struggle, underscored onstage with historical footage of Britain’s nationalization of the mines following the end of World War II and amid the vow that the nation’s coal would now belong to the British people, sparked the well-heeled regional theatre-goers in Issaquah into rousing applause that was well deserved, and it brought them to their feet cheering at the end of the show for longer than any other play I have watched there yet (and Cabaret last year was a tough show to beat).

And now just over a week later, the world has enjoyed a box seat view as it watched another nationalistic struggle unfold across the stage of the United Kingdom and boil to a crescendo once more.

But in the more than three decades that have passed since Maggie Thatcher choked out the National Union of Mineworkers and laid waste to an industry that employed hundreds of thousands of Britons, the rise of the elitist oligarchy pushing globalization and its vast network of media assets, think tanks, public policy groups, educational systems and entertainment enterprises that supports it has changed the dynamic almost as profoundly as it has the countries it seeks to erase off the map. The fight for a nation’s people to secure their destiny as they embrace their heritage is much less of an uplifting drama for internationalists and their ‘One Planet, One People’ boosters, but rather much more of a horror show. And they are terrified it is likely to produce spin-offs.

In the precious few days that have followed Britain’s historic vote, the globalists have not disappointed.

Their sky is falling.

Accordingly, the first divorce ever filed in the polygamist marriage of the European Union has produced, within but 72-hours, the manic desperation of the governing elites that sound like a spurned spouse, veering from frantic pleading of ‘Baby, I promise I’ll do better, just give me another chance’ that evaporated to ‘Bitch, walk out that door and you’re dead’ as soon as the papers were served. Inside Britain and throughout the world, the elitist camp that was standing on the doorstep with flowers and a box of chocolates in hand and bending down on their begging knee has transformed virtually overnight to the menacing cat in a car parked across the street, making sure the UK got the note it taped to its door reading “Come home or else. Restraining orders don’t mean shit to me.”

On Britain’s voicemail there must be the diplomatic equivalent of 62 messages that swing from “Hey, it’s your boy EU, look, I just want to talk. Ok? Can we talk? Please? Alright, so call me back. Seriously, call me back. And hey, I love you” to “Uh, I don’t know if you got my last five messages, but I’m trying to reach you, so the courtesy of a call back is appreciated” to “Alright then, I see how it’s gonna be, I should have known. You know what bitch? Fuck you. What, because you sailed around the high seas for centuries spawning your bastard children around the globe that are now powerhouses in their own right you think you’re all that? Sheeeeit. I didn’t want your lumpy, pasty-looking, bad-teeth, scone-eating ass anyhow. Fish n’ chips mother fucker. Try me! Just let me catch you in the Mediterranean. What’s your summer cottage in South America called again? ‘The Falklands?’ Think again bitch. It’s ‘The Malvinas.’ The Malvinas! Oh yeah, get ready ” that’s followed by a dozen hang-ups and a few voicemail messages of silence punctuated only by heavy breathing, another one that just says ‘I know you’re there!’ and then finally ‘Hey baby, uh, look, you know, everything I said before, you know, uh, it’s not like I meant that, I’m just losing my mind here, ya dig? Come on, baby, work with me. I swear I’m gonna get off that mass immigration, cheap labor junk. I ain’t even like that anymore. I’m going to get clean and start enforcing our borders, baby, I am. Just like your kid Uncle Sam says: this time I mean it!”

Those messages and more have swept across the bulk of the Establishment Media, which today serves effectively as the Information Department for the governing elites, which have delivered wildly ominous threats that range from economically isolating Britain to stripping it of its role in the Atlantic Alliance; NATO, which is a sign of just how immediately desperate the European Union and its globalist masters have become. Consider that were the UK marginalized within NATO to the point of being shown the door, it would leave a once mighty but now long anemic military confederation with only two major conventional field armies—the United States and Turkey—and two nuclear-armed powers, the U.S. and France. Still nothing to sneeze at, of course, but an already weakened NATO would lose even more boxing weight were the UK to leave.

Marine Le Pen
Guess who’s coming to dinner? Meet Marine Le Pen…be still my beating heart.

This surely should not be lost on Britain and it should channel its inner-Churchill accordingly by informing Washington, Paris, Brussels, Ankara, Madrid, Berlin (especially Berlin), Rome, Warsaw and all the rest that in the event the UK is hit with what amounts to economic sanctions for taking back its borders and reasserting its sovereignty, then it will not only leave the Atlantic Alliance but begin a strategic rearmament program and will look for new partners to execute bilateral agreements with, also known as ‘Hello operator, yes, this is 10 Downing Street, I’d like to make an international call. Yes, that’ll be the Kremlin, which is in Moscow, Russia.’

If the EU wants to play hardball then London should show them what it looks like.

But all recrimination and threats of reprisal the proponents of globalization have unleashed is informative, as it underscores the true nature of the ‘union’ that Britain was sold on and willingly accepted.

Globalization of the economy was the tide that would lift if not all boats, certainly more than any geopolitical construct that had preceded it. And what a run that sugar-sweet lie had: the EU, WTO, IMF, NAFTA, GATT and more. And more to come.

And yet as the governing elites grew obscenely plump like cupids fluttering about with their economic bows drawn to match-make the takers with the mass of speared losers, the long war of attrition against nations and their people across every corner of the globe went from increasingly clear to simply undeniable. Far from a tide that raised more ships, it was a tsunami that rolled over the working middle classes in developed nations around the world, drowning them in a sea of cheap labor, gutted factories and a government that kept them on hold listening to that old jazz standard ‘The joke’s on you.’

The globalist reaction to the Brexit at its core lays bare the lie of all such transnational economic nuptials between those that have and those that work for them, the lie that President Bill Clinton spoke with clear-eyed conviction to the American people—one of but his many his lies spoken while in office that wasn’t about strange pussy (note: I voted for him both times)—was that in the event NAFTA turned out to be a bust for the average American worker: “We can get out of it in six months.”

Well NAFTA was a bust for the American worker. Six months? Hell, that was 1994 and more than a million jobs ago. What’s the hold up?

It’s a rhetorical question, as Britain just discovered.

Amorphous ‘free trade’ blocs and fine ink ‘free trade’ pacts are little more than the internationalist economic equivalent of Catholic marriages among the globalist class; true in the eyes of the only God they worship—profit—and forever, no matter how bad the spouse may be beaten. David Cameron and Hillary Clinton are merely the priests sent around to say ‘Hey, he didn’t really mean it, and we’re going to keep an eye on him. Pressing charges right now is a mistake. Go home, fix dinner and watch the kids. We’ll sort him out.’

Divorce, as the UK has just learned, was never really an amicable option.

With Britain serving papers on the EU, some of her sister wives are waiting in the wings with no more potent of an avenging nationalistic angel than the fair-haired femme fatale of Marine Le Pen in France who’s ready to go upside Brussels’ head with an open-handed slap with her hazel-eyed conviction, returning high voltage electricity to the cry of ‘Vive la France.’

If the EU was as a benevolent entity as its masters advertised, it would have taken considerably longer than a few heartbeats to think about what just happened, indulged some introspection. Walked through a few fields, down some lonesome roads, and thought about it.

Instead, it erupted in a rage manifested in ‘markets’ that plummeted merely at the news, rather than anything tangible that’s happened yet. Not a tax was raised, not a tariff issued, not a border closed, and yet the markets plunged.

And this was the ‘stability’ they sold the world.

Watching Billy Elliot reminded me in part of the summer of 1984, when I landed in London as a young man eager to get lost in Europe for awhile, and started my sojourn courtesy of TWA shuttling me from LAX to Heathrow. The musical production in Issaquah reminded me of things I had not thought of in a long time, such as the graffiti I encountered on walls outside of London that read ‘Coal, Not Dole!’ and the ever-present sense that the Irish Republican Army was as ready, willing and able to ‘say hello’ to the Brits in the heart of their homeland as much as Her Majesty’s Royal Army was able to do so in Northern Ireland.

After the show was over, I stepped outside on Front Street to light a smoke and I considered the comfortably progressive crowd indulging their make-believe support of nationalism, comfortable in the security of it as long as it was presented on a stage with music written by the mad man across the water.

Ah, the trouble with white liberals. They’re only as liberal as their pocketbook and their neighborhood allows them to be. It’s why most of them live in ‘gated communities’ with cameras and armed security patrols now.

And I wondered where they were in the summer of 1984, when the working class of Britain’s Billy Elliot was making their decision, win or lose?

That was a summer long ago for me, one of getting lost in a Europe that is no more in so many ways; no more Soviet threat, no more Irish car bombs served outside a bar perhaps with a phone call once the fuse was lit. It was an era of beautiful nations and beautiful national liberation movements that I lost myself in—the IRA, the PLO and the ANC.

I’d say ‘ah, to be young again’ but it seems the past is about to be present again.

I sure hope so.