Brits Pray And America Holds Its Breath As The Vote-Printing Begins
A high-stakes showdown with all the elegance of a hippo fight on a mudslide
It’s the question the whole world will be asking afterwards: which came first, the victory or the votes? Roll up, roll up for the post-pandemic Presidential Print-Off! Not even Wokipedia knows when voting started or when it will end (in Democrat-run states, anyway.) Will history repeat, like a fish taco you shouldn’t have swallowed in the first place? In the classic Covidian count of 2020 they were ‘finding’ boxes of Joe Biden ballots for just as long as it took to hit WINNING TOTAL on the CNN map of 100% genuine votes. The Dems are still armed with the only printers ever made that never run out of ink, so who cares if legions of the undead support Kamala Harris from beyond the grave? Even if if 300,000 illegal aliens tip the presidential scale by two and a half votes in Bogbrush Pennsylvania, that’s Dee Mock-Race E for the brave and the free. Every vote counts, be it red, blue, rainbow, postal, zombie, anonymous, phantom or gender-fluid. Nothing is final until King Google declares the winner, to herald four more glorious years of migrant mayhem, proxy-war and virus bingo. See you all next time -byeeee!
Or perhaps -just maybe- the Democrat party’s legendary ‘firewall’ of 6 million fantasy voters will be ever so slightly Trumped by an unprecedented and unstoppable turnout of jack-booted Deplorables. This prospect is, of course, the nightmare scenario of the ancient vampire-colony still infesting Washington. If Trump somehow succeeds against the hostile odds, broadcasters and bullets, congressional and senatorial bloodsuckers will be swarming from their dollar-lined coffins to have him prosecuted for breathing while white.
Whatever emerges from the chaos there must surely be an overhaul of America’s scarcely believable cut & paste electoral machinery. There is something very wrong about any 21st century system which is incapable of counting votes within 24 hours. Never has so much technology been deployed by so many to record such simple information. A host of (all democrat-run) counties have already shamelessly announced they will take ‘many days’ to deliver a result. This reeks of corruption. The solution is clearly a return to paper-only ballots, and to have election day declared a national holiday, providing access for all. Provable ID should be compulsory (if ethnic minority citizens are incapable of presenting theirs they shouldn’t be voting in the first place) and mail-in ballots must be the rare exception rather than the norm. Britain’s political landscape was transformed after the mail-in procedures introduced by Tony Blair (who else) opened the door to mass forgery. [READ ABOUT THAT HERE] That a nation the size of America should be so vulnerable to election fraud is an insult to its people.
For far too many on both sides of the Atlantic, this election will be an online experience as maddening as it is compulsive. The web, alas, makes voyeurs out of victims and victors alike. Only America’s voters should be involved, but for the last month the presidential contest has felt like an all-embracing campaign akin to war. It’s partly down to the rise of the allegedly-global but USA-centric internet, which has sparked an epidemic of digital narcissism. Glued to their X-feeds and twitching at ‘notifications’, hopelessly ungifted British pond-life now imagine they are tiger-sharks snapping at the heels of Hollywood producers and international fame. It’s a delusion that knows no bounds, capturing morons of all stripes from gangstas to cabinet ministers. Most people under 30 think there is no human flaw that can’t be erased by a Tik-Tok filter, and thanks to the Daily Mail most people over 30 think there’s a vaccine for eternal life. On the other hand, it’s likely that around half of American voters will refuse to believe the official ‘result’ of this electoral contest, and that’s a wretched state of affairs.
THERE’S A PLACE FOR US
I sometimes have to retreat into the fictional past to face the actual future. I well remember how the 1962 musical West-Side Story illustrated the inevitability with which hastily-imported cultures lock horns. Set in the crumbling slums of New York City, WSS highlighted the shameful but unspoken truth of post-industrial street-life. I certainly got the message; the dying boy bleeding in the arms of his teenage sweetheart struck a dark, familiar chord. Born into 1950’s Glasgow -a dirt-poor city divided by religious hatred- the movie seemed a parable of our daily experience. My own city was a slum, a post-war landscape of rubble that was both a battleground and playground for ghetto-children.
But when ghetto grown-ups are dumped in foreign backstreets by the thousand it’s a whole other ball game. Half a century after West Side Story, we are approaching peak migration. As Germany, Italy, Sweden, France and Britain discovered, an unchecked illegal horde is the fast-track to machetes, guns, rape, murder and economic disaster. Of course, America’s deep-state had already been quietly pioneering migrant-invasion programs for decades, in collaboration with the unelected United Nations and a host of Soros-funded NGO’s, but few paid heed. The land-mass of the USA being so vast, a relatively small percentage of citizens had any idea how wildly out of control the influx had grown.
The wheel turns, however, and the chickens of open-border America are roosting in Manhattan now. Kamala Harris and Donald Trump stand on opposite sides of a demographic battle that threatens every shore still blessed by the gift of civilisation. From the perspective of newly miserable Europe -and the rest of the English-speaking world- America is simply too big to fail. We are all waiting, impatient, oscillating between hope and fear, because the road chosen by Washington is the one down which the rest of us will inevitably travel. Only those addicted to the democratic illusion still think there is a future for countries like the UK anywhere outside of the American nuclear umbrella -like it or not.
A WORLD GROWING SMALLER EVERY DAY
I lived for several years in a little border-town, where keeping secrets was near-impossible. Locals said if you fart by the clock tower they hear it in the pub. (These were 300 yards apart.) Globalisation -or more likely just the internet- has turned the entire world into a similar instant-communication free-for-all. When America sneezes Britain catches a cold etc. And now we live it everyday, by the hour, in this week’s new slang, the latest Netflix, this morning’s Youtube vloggers and the best memes on X.
In this 24/7 carousel of input the increasingly common experience of finding yourself surrounded by aliens in your own streets became impossible to conceal. People notice when the invasion starts. In England the most conspicuous change was the transformation of London into an open-air colosseum for tribal combat. In Mayor Khan’s capital of conflict, jews and arabs are now slugging it out in public, while publicity-hungry black politicians diss each other for being the ‘blackface of white supremacy’. None of these degrading squabbles belong in our country. 20th-century Britain was not exactly a hot-bed of Ku Kux Klan lynch-mobs; this was the most welcoming, civilised island on the continent.
Why then must we adopt the worst sins of our cousins? Do the all far-left’s diversity dimwits think the world began with their first facebook post? Living high on the hog in the country that launched the abolition of the slave- trade, Britain’s poster-girls of the ‘global majority’ now communicate in crude, race-baiting insults. If, god forbid, Kamala Harris defies the laws of natural selection and somehow ends up in the White House, international diversity girl-bands will be kicking off big-time. I can’t wait to see the gig where Michelle Obama, Dawn Butler and Kemi Badenoch get together and fix Africa. Perhaps they’ll make it so attractive some of its inhabitants might actually choose to stay there.
A NOT VERY SPECIAL RELATIONSHIP
Presidential elections bring out the worst tendencies in our mongrel tribe. Like a patient but unloved stray, Britain waits in the NATO doorway -tail wagging in anticipation- for America to set the course for the next leg of our joint voyage into (a) the sunny uplands of political sanity or (b) global humiliation and despair.
Now that history students can graduate by simply scribbling the words WHITE SUPREMACY on a Post-it note it’s harder to explain the truth of years gone by to the young ‘educated’ voter. And not just trifles like ‘Africans didn’t build the Eiffel Tower.’ Some poor souls don’t realise that Britain and her colonies were effectively sold to the American government in 1942, for giant wads of cash and some much-needed help with fending off those pesky German chaps in the flashy uniforms. According to a clutch of top historians, the price of our survival as a nation state was approximately ‘everything you’ve got and twenty percent of the same again in interest every year from now till Armaggeddon.’
As result, American military bases blossomed freely in the post-war world like poppies in a cemetery, everywhere from the south seas to Timbuctoo. In addition to which, every British Prime Mister since Churchill has found themselves caught in the jaws of a debt-repayment scam worthy of Godfather Don Corleone. Nice little island you’ve got there -be a shame if anything happened to it…
Seen through this sadly accurate lens, the 2024 American Presidential print-off is more than just an economic curiosity to the current crop of Westminster sock-puppets. The result will determine exactly how much of Britain’s remaining gold teeth will be pulled, how fast and how painfully. Let’s all cross our fingers and hope Trump’s love of the magnificent golf-courses in Scotland pushes him towards affection and away from indifference. After the amount of random abuse heaped on his head by our lame-brained political class, you couldn’t blame him if he sent us Lizzo to run the Bank of England and gave Wales to Elon Musk to use as a launching pad.
In the days if not weeks to come, amid the post-election hurricane of outrage and disbelief that is guaranteed -whoever claims victory- we in Europe can only nod and prepare for the worst. One way or another, the thin end of the Pentagon’s imperial wedge will either advance or retreat from the slivers of real estate separating us from the eastern bears. The true victims of the Biden catastrophe -the last remaining citizens of Ukraine -should be on their knees praying for a Trump landslide. If that fails to materialise, all the poor bastards left in Kiev will be better off heading for the Mexican border pronto Tonto. To my American readers I will say only, please vote as if your lives depend on it.
As we steel our weary nerves to cope with whatever hell is coming next, I am reminded of a popular joke from the Cold-War era of Communist Russia: