THE DRENCHING ARMS
PART THREE: RAVEN IN THE PAST
It’s true that in England, our past isn’t even an earlier time. It’s oxygen, mother’s milk - and gold. Progressives hate it and see only a crime scene. But the true crime was their murder of this country - slow, deliberate and shameless - and the evidence is piling up daily. Our towns are filled with abused girls, their rapists empowered by an establishment of diversity cretins enforcing an ideology of callous absurdity.
Raven sat staring into his battered laptop. Tonight he was too depressed even for the Drenching Arms, which lurked nearly empty beyond net-curtains and a lonely milk bottle rolling down Fore Street in the January gales.
Onscreen was a heart-breaking YouTube video, of 1935 London. He remembered that solidity, the purpose and unassertive self-assurance, even from his 1970s childhood. Left-liberals - many with no memories of the place nor roots there - painted a stygian pit of prejudice, basted in Dickensian poverty and monochrome ennui. But the feelings of freedom and belief negated this cartoon portrayal. Our elite’s obsessions with such ‘evils’ had reduced London to an uneasy shell, showy yet silly - and painfully aware of it.
He reread the opening chapter of Our Mutual Friend, in a first-edition inherited from his father. Maybe the city would survive, the Thames slowly carrying away the bodies of its wreckers.
