From Patriotic Alternative.
It was not that I cared for the World Cup, nor for the most part, football in general. Whether I appeased that inkling of curiosity to check the score or not, really wasn’t an issue with my neighbour’s lager aided raucous updating me every few minutes, against my will, through our adjoining terrace wall. Though not entirely opposed to mass sport, my affections never extended beyond that pie and a pint down at The Valley, watching Charlton Athletic get dismantled by some team which had afforded a more noticeable import of foreign ’talent’. I have divided opinions on football, and I observe its cultural effervescence as a fascinating case study of our own nation, germane to other post-racial phenomena that exists before us now.
Let’s begin positively; football and other sports in the same societal vein, across the European world, provide this seemingly vital outlet synonymous with the indigenous working class, usually males. In those leagues outside the premier divisions, where there exists considerably fewer non-White athletes, teams are often constituted of local boys from the youth academy. It all too often transpires that a struggling club’s board of directors ends up financially hamstrung, then ingratiates foreign ownership (thus vast sums of capital) after some oligarch transacts one of these dubious deals with the FA. Alas, suddenly buying in Africans with European passports becomes a far more attractive arrangement for potential success than training White working class lads whose families have no doubt supported their specific team for generations.
It is indisputable that, over the last 10 years of attending right-wing and patriotic rallies, never have I seen even a fraction of another social class in so great an attendance. These football devotees draw on that tribal sentiment that rivals the sea of alien ethnic groups and terrifies the cowardly leftists bourgeois. Through their individual firms, they can amass hundreds and thousands at street level when there arises that compelling feeling of resentment toward the self-righteous Westminster Cabal and its Zionist dog of war- the media. It is observed that, these working class folk possess those last dwindling strains of ethnic awareness that will on great occasion, bind them in protest, superseding the petty divides of age-old football rivalry. But herein lies the shallowest of conundrums, for if the intermittent positives aforementioned are to be swept aside for a moment, we see these pseudo rivalries between fan bases, hooliganism and that the post-national service disease of proletariat lumpen has become synonymous with the football culture. Let us refrain from turning a blind eye to the ridiculous distractions of inter-club conflict, police clashes and inebriated-by-1pm behaviour. These contentions between dedicated fans should have their vigour channelled toward those who have kept them dis-privileged at the behest of those more recent, artificial inhabitants of our isles, to which the working man now finds himself beholden.
Though dying down here to an extent, but still alive and kicking in both Latin and Slavic football supporter bases, the media often happens upon and brings to light more open expressions of racial feeling- with links to ultra-nationalist causes and parties often commonplace. It is interesting also to note that many of these continental teams have maintained ethnic homogeneity and even the provincial representation of the very fan-base that ardently supports them. When bouts of ‘hideous racism’ are howled by the media to the odd incident in a Premier League game in England, the conspicuous irony is that, just as the team toward which the ‘abuse’ is hurled is racially alien to the heckler, so too is his own team which he endlessly, year after year, forks out money for a season ticket. It’s all rather strange, it’s as if these angry White men need a good shaking up and tearing away from that next pint and perhaps should start questioning why they still fund their own racial extinction in a sport that once represented their town, community and kin.
Attention should be drawn to this willingness to form these vanguards of White working class collectivism centred around certain sports. Praise should be given when this vigour extends to questions of national identity and is manifested on the pavements of Whitehall. For in the fast approaching racial confusion that this nation finds itself quickly succumbing to, it may indeed be those working class lads, under the scapegoat banner of football, that come to the revelation they have little left to lose. The question remains as to whether the cretinous totems of sport fandom can be entirely sidelined before it’s too late.
Support at the local club level constitutes a degree of provincial identity that is partly an absurdity when utilised as some supreme medal of pride, but also understandable given the north/south cultural divisions within most nations. Fine. The spirit of hooliganism that pervades throughout almost all teams, is no more than a product of extreme boredom. Baring this evident disillusion of purpose, the men of our lower economic rungs are so marginalised by the governing bourgeois rectitudes, that they cling to civic nationalism, with their adoration never extending beyond last week’s 2-1 win over Nowheresville FC. There’s a softness around the eyes here, a pudginess and a wetness, perceptible beyond the veneer of restless militancy. Was there not a time when even the lowest private in the ranks looked to the likes of Fairfax, Ireton, Nelson, Wellesley or Prince Frederick Duke of York. Yet today we have the same spirit of these fanatical troopers of working background, besmirched by ale and the worship of overpaid nincompoops, tumbling over one another as they pine for a football.
Displays of occupation
Whilst purposeful aggression is all too often superficial amongst our own fans, a recent contingency that stirred our rotting capital once more proved to us that, other groups may exercise their own whip hand in the ethno-vacuum created by post war liberalism. For it was several minor Moroccan victories in the World Cup, that for a reason known only to the hot-headed, uncultured races of the world, justified a series of near riots that brought parts of the city to a halt. As I cycled down Piccadilly, all that could be heard was the incessant honking of horns, Arabic screeching and the clamour of some ungodly hordes, congesting the circus junction. Desert folk, draped in the pentagram banner of Morocco, had mounted the Shaftesbury memorial fountain and took it upon themselves to ignite signal flares. Sitting idly by was a line of police vans, just waiting there as if bystanders needn’t be alarmed at such sights. Before learning from one of the pot bellied constables that it was merely a celebration of a qualifying football victory, I had genuinely considered that perhaps such radical displays of jubilation regarded the recent fall of some military dictator, toppled by a more secular regime… you know how it goes. Not only are these scenes quite frankly embarrassing, when tourists stand by with iPhone in hand to record this bizarreness, but they resemble this estranging idiosyncrasy unique to areas of racial bedlam. For as tourists and locals alike gawk from behind the smart-phone, little do they realise what this occupation of physical space represents: It is no more the celebration of a sporting prowess as it is a flexing demonstration of ethnic homogeneity. Cast aspersions at these ridiculously minor causes for celebration and what remains is the insidious crux of a purposefully disruptive gathering.
Is it not so great an indignity of the Englishman, that a swarm of foreigners would deface the monuments of his great forebears in the name of an alien nation’s presence in his city? The aforesaid monument in question, is to the 7th Earl of Shaftesbury- the great Victorian reformer who replaced child labour with mandatory education. Surely a philanthropy deserving of working class exultation. If only our own were educated in these ever-salient matters of our past! No! That bronze fountain is of no more significance to our contemporaries than the mixed race models leaping about in Adidas trainers on the animated billboards above it!
Maybe, it is in the circumstances, where, discretely beneath the banner of football, that our own barmy army need to reassert themselves as the protectors of their home, for at present it lies open for the taking.
Erosion of identity
Not dissimilar to other all inclusive ‘world’ competitions, where the virtues of a untied, liberated humanity radiated through the television screen are funded by the advertising campaigns of internationalist conglomerates. The World Cup, like the Olympics, is far more profound than most in this bitter age would even begin to realise. Patriots almost immediately endeavour to tune out of such globalist guises of celebration, partly for our own mental stability but let us enlighten ourselves further as to the connotations proffered during these sporting instances. During the opening ceremonies of the Olympics, it is obvious that the nations, parading their colours with pride, are a biological representation of the soil from which their flag originates. Then, when the cameras pan to the North American and British teams, a slippage in that televised exhibit of natural ordination is unveiled upon the world stage. For it is these unfortunate nations, along with, to a far lesser extent (though increasing), some other smaller White nations, where the racial presentation as the creator intended, is sundered by a glaring incertitude: That we are an increasingly post-racial society whose national and identifiable specificity is being eroded by those whose presence beneath the very flag they now wield, bares no relationship to it. People with nationalist and patriotic leanings typically dismiss these blatant symptoms of racial confusion as ordinary.
But whether one cerebrates on their own nation’s international presentation at these events as realistically reflective of their internal demography or a mere gesture of inclusivity, is actually an irrelevance. For, as the supine masses gorge themselves before the screens, barely can they fathom their own psychological conditioning, one that morally prepares the onlooker for a future without the White man. This rank humiliation, cavorted before those other ethnically preserving nations, is no more than the product of a deracinated rabble that once stood proudly as a national body.
In these mass competitions of immediate racial implication, it becomes impossible, even for the most ardent Marxist underman to repudiate the sheer differentiation in biological constitution between nations in their racial element and its effect upon performance within particular sports.
Why adopting racially alien athletes is not considered cheating is an affront to the rules of any given event that adheres strictly to those laws of biomechanics i.e the nations of the world and their particular strengths or shortcomings of physical and mental anatomy. Transposing this glaring dilemma to the recent World Cup and those of yesteryear and in particular, the final, we see yet more bewilderment. Argentina, a team far from the shores of Europe, fielded a squad more ethnically representative of a European nation than the once mighty France, which has ceded its own national identity to the domineering attitudes of its former colonies. The same is so of our own England. Though to those adherents of that Saturday afternoon ritual of attending the local stadium, or even just the harmless viewing of the highlights on the multi-channel television, having international representation that informs the world you no longer maintain your god given identity, is not all that extraordinary. When those premiership divisions of our post-colonial nations poach 85% of its players from Africa, who can barely string together a sentence in our Celto-Germanic tongues, it’s actually not an entirely unreasonable state of affairs. The teams of London, Manchester, Merseyside and the Midlands. The teams of the Frankfurt, Munich, Leipzig and Berlin. The teams of Paris, Marseille and Lille. Visit these remnants of great European societies and see first-hand the racial decay that saturates every cobbled alley, Gothic muse and neo-classical façade. It is also these teams that are always owned by the vast wealth of international swindlers looking for a ripe investment.
When the news of the final result came through the common room television at work, a slow motion clip of the slippery Macron celebrating a goal prior to a deserved defeat, momentarily drew my attention away from my instant coffee. There, behind him, slouched in the shadows sat one of Monsieur Macron’s Arab handlers, a spitting exemplar of how France is totally superintended by those avaricious Muhammadan zealots and their distant financiers. So, we have the urban and suburban racial displacement represented at the club level, where it undermines the pillars of white working class community; this inevitably translates to the international level and suddenly our entire presumption of who we once were is thrown to the bloated globalist leviathan, chewing as it does on European identity in a bid to create an endless stream of cash.
From Patriotic Alternative.