Why Am I Involved? #4
[Pulled this out of the archives while I'm waiting to get my main computer back up and running. - HAC]
Not so long ago I went through a depressive spurt thinking over just this question.
At times I feel I would have been better off to have chosen the life of consumerism, bought all of my nice little toys, TV's and a sports car, married someone, settled down and paid my dues like a good little white man. Ultimately, I didn't do that, nor would I want to change what I did do with my early years, not that I am that old now. I am pleased with my lot really.
Well, the question "Why am I involved?" is actually three questions in one: "Am I involved?", "Why did I get involved?" and "How am I involved?”
Am I involved? Well, I am the typical "involved" individual. I drink beer, complain a lot, occasionally put out leaflets, join a party, go to right-wing music gigs, and all of that aside, try out of it to rescue some sort of "normal" life.
I am involved to the extent that it's about all I think over. I hate the lot other people have, and that effects me, albeit not very much, but there is nothing worse than having to spectate while some Afro-clad black moron gropes at a physically beautiful young white girl as they sit in my local park (Wardown park....a green speck in the concrete landscape that is Luton) trying to have a romantic evening.
The initial effect is that I get annoyed at the idea of a black groping a white. The secondary effect is seething anger at the white girl who lets him. And the final, and worst effect, is the idea that this is not a one-off occasion. This then has effects on my life as it spurs me on to go and either preach to the choir, commit acts of mindless violence, or do something constructive (put out leaflets, empty my bank account on donations to the National Front or whatever organization manages to be at the right place and the right time and hit the right chord on why I am pissed off).
These instances aside, my involvement stretches to social life; my friends are all of the right-wing "nasty Nazi" category. So, together, we will preach among the choir, commit acts of mindless violence, or do something constructive.
Bear in mind this is gauged by money; to preach you need lots of alcohol to numb the senses and make you speak up in a voice of truth, same is needed for violence, then when no money and no beer is the situation, you resort to putting leaflets through a door praying that either a small niglet will come out and have a go at you, subsequently getting kicked several times at various points on his body, or that no one will come out at all.
I have to say that there are plus sides; occasionally someone says "thanks mate, nice to know I'm not the only one who is fed up!" but they are few and far between [about 1 in 40 houses.] And as for the rest of my involvement, it merely amounts to thinking and displaying some nasty patches that cause offense and get oneself arrested if spotted by the Thought Police.
I think before I move on to the next question I ought to justify some of my life. The violence is useful, or that is what we tell ourselves when we are kicking someone in the ribs. It is supposed to make them think that the Socialists can't ensure everything goes their way. In a few cases (and I can’t give particulars) little immigrants will run home for a month or so, and then return for their next beating. Though this is normally because they are illegals and can't go to a hospital in my land in case those nice immigrant workers their ask them "iff dey got der ID" which in itself shows ignorance in their community; the hospitals will be more interested in getting the police to find the despicable perpetrators of an abominable act of......racial violence! *gasp*
To justify the preaching to the choir thing; it's my sanity check. Without talking to like minded individuals over a cool pint with one of those cancer-releasing death sticks in my mouth I don't think I'd have the will left in me to resist. I'd probably be making a noose, talking with others ensures me that I am not alone, there are others doing the exact same things and thinking the exact same things, so things can change. And leafleting/campaigning/marches/protests...well, what can I say? It is not always effective, but it's about the only thing that has some effect and is still legal, and I praise anyone completely who has the nerve and balls to leave their safety-nest and hand out literature that spreads malcontent among the masses, or goes on a march that lets our far left enemies know who to hate and scream "scum" at in ridiculously loud voices...we may be scum but we can hear without shouting.
Oh, and if you go campaigning, then good on you. This year we scored rather well in elections with the national front (26.1% in Yarmouth I do believe...wow, to think that over 1 in 4 people voted for that hatemongering Nazi scum party...things can look up from time to time!).
Okay, second question: why did I get involved? Well. A long story, so I will take it in steps.
Step 1. Starts at five years old (or 0 years old if you consider I was born with white skin...that should be reason enough, but we'll just say 5 to make this interesting). At five began my obsession in a childhood way of soldiers and everything military, and particularly anything World War Two. I remember that when I spoke about AH I said that he was a genius for getting as far as he did with wars, but just a little insane as he picked on so many countries.That's right; I said Hitler was a little insane when I was 5 years old. Please, 1933 perfectionists! Forgive me!!
My dad was ready to agree with me at this point in my life, he also pointed out that we too had our hero, Churchill (spit, cough, scum!), and that we too suffered in the war. I thought nothing of it, I was only five.
Some years later I moved up into Junior School; Bushmead, a concrete maze somewhere in the pit known as Luton (I know, second mention of my hometown. Believe me; it's that bad!) There I met niggers. Oh what fun!
I told my dad about the first black kid who tried to be my friend by talking in some unknown language and was replied with "eh?!” I was told by my father, who has years of wisdom regarding the subject of our African friends, and he said to me "All blacks are bastards who don’t belong here, and half-castes are freaks." He was rather worked up at the time, and didn't mean it like that; I’m sure he meant to add not to repeat that to my teachers, which would have been helpful.
Well, you guessed where it goes next, and this little episode ends with a teacher calling parents up and saying their child has been put into his first ever detention.
Step 2. After my wonderful time in detention, I realized that teachers had weapons I could never hope to wield myself. So, I picked on the little black kids instead. I was a smart enough young boy, well, smart enough to get them when no one was looking and thus avoid detention. I had a happy few years, going to school, pinching, punching and kicking little blacks, then going home to draw pictures of tanks and German soldiers (a skill I was quite good at, and still rather good at to this day, only now I paint small figures whenever my father is kind enough to buy me some....which is only when he wants me to keep off the streets for a weekend. It's a good hobby, clears the mind and makes some nice ornaments that impress fellow right-wingers....okay, not impress, occupies their eyes for a short while).
All of this happy life was soon to change, and it changed with the dawn of a new chapter in my life: high school. My first day at high school was an interesting one; I saw the strange creatures that the little nigglets I pinched, punched and kicked would grow into. Swinging arms and Neanderthal faces, smoking dope in school and grabbing as much "whitey aaasss" as they could, trying not to get too many slaps in the process (which they normally did well at, given the quality of the white female moral fabric in this town...).
As well as these there were these hordes of curious brown creatures...busy huddling into groups and grinning like hyenas at some unknown joke which people such as me could never even hope to understand, given that it was spoken in an exotic, arrogant tongue. Their "females" (if they can be called that, I don’t know what they are really....given their dress sense it makes it hard to figure out) crowded around clutching folders and books to their chests with a strange piece of apparatus I assume was designed to keep their hair dry drawn around their heads, some even had them to ensure their faces remained dry too.
These hordes I now call "Pakis", a phenomenon the American readers of this will not fully understand given the racial "make up" (here read "mix up") of their country. The closest America comes to the hordes of sub-continent scum we have here is a couple of pesky little traitor cunts flying planes around without licenses (forgive me here if I offend some, take into account that 7/11 also has an effect on my life....how many Brits dead in Iraq? Fucking Jews...). And so began my life of struggle.
Step 3. The finalization of my racist ways came about by pure co-incidence. My step brother also had racist ideas and even got hold of one of those rare things known as DVD's, a DVD of magical visions, depicting violence against gooks and all sorts of delightful things. I saw in that film (Romper Stomper) some foolish Skins pratting around with their celestially-portrayed neighbors.
However, I also saw a swastika flag over a big bloke's bed. Suddenly it was all clear. Hitler never was "a little insane" as I had thought. The two things I enjoyed in life came together immediately; World War Two and racism, married in a thorough reading of Mein Kampf. Not long after that, my brother, a few of his friends, a few of my friends, and I, formed a Luton-based skinhead gang. Violence was in store for every nigger, Jew or paki in Luton.
How am I involved? Now, I deal with the question. The emphasis of this last section is on "involved". What the hell is "involved?" To be honest, I don't have a clue, though I imagine it has something to do with what you think.
You see, after looking back over all of this, I have come to the conclusion that the only difference between me and your average white lemming is what I thought, think and will think; I am naturally logical (my girlfriend is ready to testify to that, I bore her with long drawn out logical answers to her problems with my racism, though she herself is racist.)
I am also naturally a thinker. I think a lot each day, every bit of literature I get, be it email, poster, newspaper or leaflet is read thoroughly and thought about. This has put me in the position to say that I know exactly what I believe in, what I hope to achieve, and why it needs to be done. Your average white lemming I feel does not have this luxury; he does not know what he believes in at all.
And what made me think? Well, I guess the thing that made me think was being unpopular, you see, all the way up to the point of watching romper and consolidating my ideas, I had had very, very few friends, and the ones I did have from time to time I didn’t think very highly of at all. Once you are alone, you are left with only your blood, your thoughts and your dreams. And that results in realization and truth.
And so, finally, the answer to the question "Why am I involved?" is simple; because I should be.