Open Your Eyes And Think Of England

I know I've been in England too long.
I know, because I am beginning to feel at home. I've been feeling at home, as have many others and it is beginning to show.
The knowledge shows in our faces-the tight, high-pressure grinning, with bulging eyes, the gleam of madness never very far away.
The look of men going mad without quite understanding why.
Sure, we used to understand. But we've been here so long, we've forgotten why.
We've forgotten why because of the chronic deluge of inductive coercion, not practised against us, always, but rather dripping from every action, word and look of the inhabitants who have absorbed the social climate.

We are going mad. And that's just the humans.
We are going mad. Official mental illness has grown phenomenally in this country, all the while mirrored by the decline in the strength, volume and righteousness of any other form of complaint. Such as cogent protest.

Meanwhile, what of England? England has become world-renowned for non-cogent protest, the protest of the veritas in vino followed inevitably by blind, incomprehensible violence.

And the slaves and masters may pretend nothing is wrong. Or they may pretend we need ever more repression. Either side of the same coin of course. Either pretend this is normal, and always has been, or pretend that it used to be different because we weren't free.

But don't disturb the status quo in this septic isle, this slave ship to Hell that sails to and from the European coast like a satellite about to burn up in the black-hearted Sun of Brussels.
There, they cling to their ancient notions of nationality while proclaiming the modernity of their immolations for each other and tut-tutting approvingly of England's peculiar form of self-destruction, like old men gambling that the alcoholic one will die first.

What more can I say?In this dirty old part of the city, where the Sun refuse to shine, people tell me there ain't no use in trying.
But many of us are trying.
And the most the vermin let us keep is a day's worth of self-satisfaction and a hovel to feel it in.

When will the British end the rationing of dignity?