"You're going to SPLIT the Right!" | David Starkey Talks... to RESTORE BRITAIN founder Rupert Lowe

 

As soon as I heard that my friend Rupert Lowe was turning his Restore movement into a political party, I knew we needed to discuss the move. Another political party on the Right of British politics is precisely the thing I have been arguing against since the election in 2024. The last thing we need is to splinter the small-C conservative vote and allow some monstrous Left-wing coalition, possibly including Zack Polanski's Green Party, to return to government. Nonetheless, in the tradition of British parliamentary politics, it's important to discuss these things openly and respectfully, which of course Rupert and I did. I found it interesting when he told me that the impetus for turning Restore into a political party came from his rape gangs inquiry, and the insight he says it has given him into just how corrupt the British state really is. However I had to challenge him on his dismissiveness about Nigel Farage's political talent. I have often criticised Nigel, but that Brexit would not have happened without him is, to me, inarguable. And he is repeating the feat by bringing Reform to the position it is currently in of consistently leading the polls. My final question was the most obvious one. What if you peel enough voters away from both Reform and the Conservatives that the Left manages to scrape a majority again in 2029? I will let you judge Rupert's response for yourselves. Thumbnail credit: Copyright © European Union 2019 - Source : EP

THESE are the most-read TCW articles we have published in the past week

 

THESE are the most-read TCW articles we have published in the past week.

1 Is the Mecca bandwagon built on myth? – Gillian Dymond

2 Same-sex marriage and the neo-Marxist takeover of the Church – Julian Mann

3 Eco extravaganza exposes Charles as a self-righteous, deluded fake – Bruce Newsome

4 When did child sex abuse become a petty crime? – John Ellwood

5 My TCW week in review: Rupert Lowe and Ben Habib, your time is now – Kathy Gyngell

6 Victory for professor who mocked the woke anti-colonialists – Dr Frederick Attenborough

7 Why France’s child-free train carriages should worry us all – James Jeffery

8 Farage’s Tory Cabinet: A necessary evil or a disastrous miscalculation? – Kathy Gyngell

9 The road to Keir Zero — my Starmer dictionary – Steve Doughty

10 Smart meters are simply a way to control us – David Hulland

 

Lepanto 1571 - Short Story by Nick Griffin Something very different for you today, a piece of historical fiction, firmly rooted in fact By Nick Griffin follow Nick on substack follow Nick on X The Men The wind had dropped after midnight, leaving the sea calm, flat and grey as beaten lead in the cold light of a moon waxing towards full. Here and there the still water caught the glow of a lantern from one of the galleys, scattered all across the wide bay where the Holy League fleet was at anchor. More than two hundred ships, waiting out the last few hours before the battle every captain had told the men would decide the fate not only of Christendom, but their own families. The men aboard the Santa Catalina were silent now, or close to it. Some – the oldest of old hands and exhausted new oarsmen – snored. A few spoke together in hushed voices, most sat or lay silent, stomachs churning as their minds kept returning to visions of the horrors the day would quickly bring. Somewhere out there to the east lay an even bigger host of warships: The gigantic fleet put together by Selim the Sot, the drunkard son of Suleiman, whom the Turks called “Magnificent” and despairing Christians had branded a blood-soaked monster. It was now more than a year since the young Ottoman Sultan had unleashed his navy on Cyprus, where the Muslim horde they carried to war slaughtered scores of thousands of Christians. Every man on the Catalina had heard the lurid accounts of the horror. Fear and the thirst for vengeance vied to keep them awake. It was the same on all the other Spanish, papal and city state ships. If the rumours were true, the new day would decide whether Cyprus would be avenged, or whether the Turkish infidels would turn the Mediterranean into a Mohammedan lake and fill it with the blood of every Christian still living on its shores. Word was that the Sultan himself had sworn to raze Rome, the Eternal City, to the ground. The Spaniards and southern Italians especially knew exactly what another Mohammedan victory would mean back home. On the deck of this Spanish galley, a small group of men huddled beneath a canvas awning stretched between the gunwale and the mainmast. They sat close against the chill of the October night, their backs pressed to crates of shot and coiled lines. The smell of the sea, tar, and old sweat clung to everything. Pedro clutched his woollen cloak tighter about him and shifted on the smooth-worn planks of the deck. He was a soldier, not a sailor, from the mountains, not the coast, but he had already grown accustomed to life at sea. Partly to keep warm, partly to be ready for action, each man was already wearing his brigandine. The metal plates sewn between the rough wool outer and the scratchy linen inner weren’t exactly comfortable, but the weight was reassuring and it was better than having your teeth chatter and the other think you were shivering from fear. Their helmets—some morions, others simple iron caps—sat beside them, ready. They were infantería de galera, supposedly seasoned shipborne soldiers trained to fight on cramped, blood-slicked decks or storm the narrow streets of enemy ports with sword and pike. Pedro’s own steel cap sat heavy in his lap, his short boarding sword hung from a wide leather belt alongside a dagger. He wasn’t seasoned at all; the only blood he had seen at sea was on the backs of the men flogged for infringing the iron discipline of the fleet. “Cold, lad?” came a voice beside him. Pedro looked up. Martin, they called him. No one knew if it was his real name. Whispers had it that he had killed his wife and another man, and joined the infantería to disappear, but no one dared to ask him if this was true. Martin was as wiry as his temper was short. Leather-skinned, his hair the colour of ash, with a beard to match. He’d been rowing and fighting since before Pedro was born, but there wasn’t a scar on his face. “Don’t be scared of a man with scars,” he had told Pedro one evening, when a saved-up wine ration had briefly put him in a kindly mood. “Worry about meeting the man who gave them to him.” Was he cold? “No, I mean—yes. A little. Not too much.” Martin chuckled softly. “Your cloak’s as thin as my patience”. A long pause. “Wish you were back in the hills tonight?” “Guadix,” said Pedro, absent-mindedly hearing the question as a query as to where he came from. “Near the Sierra.” “No mountains here. Though we’ll be scrambling over piles of spilled guts and severed heads in a few hours. Maybe one of your arms or legs. Or your cock”. There was a low murmur of laughter. The little band sat in the half-light like ghosts, faces etched with toil, eyes gleaming in the glow of the charcoal in the small brazier between them. “Leave the boy alone,” said Esteban, a broad-shouldered Galician with scarred knuckles and a voice like gravel under nailed boots. “He’s tough enough,” sneered Martin. “He’s seen more battle at home than plenty of men out there tonight. The Morisco revolt was no child’s tale.” Pedro nodded, remembering it vividly: the night his uncle’s house burned, the screams in the gorge, the injured rebel he’d finished off in a red-mist madness of terror, grief and boundless hate. “Still, this is different,” said Juan, a lanky Catalan musketeer, who kept his beard tidy, his boots polished and his weapon spotless. He flicked his fingers toward the eastern sky, where there was perhaps a hint of false dawn. “That’s where they’ll come from. And it’ll be like nothing you’ve ever seen. They were fighting treacherous peasants in Granada, not Janissaries.” Martin spat. “Janissaries. They’re tough. Christian flesh and blood, with the damned souls of infidels. But slash their bellies and they spill their guts and squeal like the pigs they really are.” Pedro said nothing. He’d sharpened his sword three times that evening, then said his prayers twice. And still the fear gnawed his innards. Silence fell again. Someone stirred the embers with a stick. Sparks danced upward like souls flying up to heaven and judgement. “Were you snoring, or did you see it?” Martin asked suddenly. Pedro frowned. “See what?” “The comet,” said Esteban. “Last night. Split the sky like the edge of a blade.” Juan crossed himself. “It was no comet. It was a sign. The tail forked in three, like the Trinity.” Martín spat into the brazier. “Then let’s hope that’s how we fight—three parts, one cause. If the grand Almirantes don’t work together, this will be another Los Gelves and we’ll all be feeding the fish by next nightfall.” No one argued. They knew it was true; any weakness or mistakes and the Turks and Moors would smash this, the last Christian fleet, as they had destroyed so many ships off the coast of Tunisia a decade earlier. Even the Genoese and Venetians had kept their quarrels in check these last two days, knowing what lay ahead. Pedro swallowed, and strove to keep his voice steady and low. “Do you think we can win?” Martín leaned back and scratched his chin. The fire glow just showed the angles of his face, like an old carving on a church wall by candlelight. “Lad, I’ve seen battles lost that we should’ve won, and battles won by fools with luck and the saints on their side. But this… this is different.” He pointed toward the blackness where the Ottoman fleet waited. “They’ve got more ships. More men”. He gave a sour chuckle. “But they’re stretched thin. And they think we’ll scatter. They don’t reckon on us standing fast. Not the Venetians. Not the Pope’s men. And certainly not Spain.” He paused, then added, more quietly, “And they don’t reckon on the fury that burns in this fleet. Not after Cyprus.” A hush settled again. A faint gust of breeze came from the west, where the outline of the coast showed as a darker line higher than the horizon. A light gust, a mere hint of a night-time land breeze, stirred the sea. The ripples slapped gently on the hull, but nothing else broke the silence. Even the galley seemed to have stopped its incessant creaking. Pedro had heard the stories, like everyone. Of Nicosia, where the defenders had been slaughtered. Of Famagusta, where they’d surrendered under promise of mercy—and been butchered. Of Bragadino, skinned alive and stuffed for a trophy. Of the girls hauled off to slavery or perverse torture. Of the dozens of boys who died for every eunuch who lived to be sold in the market in occupied Constantinople. Of how Joseph Nasi, the Sultan’s advisor, moneybags and purveyor of fine wine, had manipulated his drunken master into slaughtering the Christians of Cyprus, in order to have the empty land for his own tribe of Christ-killing infidels. He thought of the village priest who’d wept as he gave him absolution, and of his mother’s pale face when he boarded the galley in Málaga. Then of his father, his eyes gouged out and throat slit at the very start of the Morisco rising. Esteban broke the silence. “They think they can do the same to our people, one port at a time.” Juan nodded. “Christ’s blood. That’s what we’re here to stop.” Pedro felt a strange calm fall over him. These men, weathered and foul-mouthed and scarred, were not frightened. Or if they were, they carried it as a familiar burden, one to which they would never admit. He only had to do the same. Martin, still gazing out into the darkness, which was now something less than dark, spoke again. “If not us, then who?” It wasn’t meant to be profound. He said it as if he were commenting on the weather. But it struck Pedro hard. He sat still, the words repeating in his head. “If not us, then who?” Then another question sprang up unbidden to join it. “If not today, when?” The brazier hissed as Juan tossed in a scrap of salted cod skin he’d spotted on the deck in the now fast-growing light. Smoke curled upwards. Normally, the smell would have made Pedro hungry, but not now. Esteban reached into the neck of his brigandine and pulled something out. “You must take this,” he said, holding it out to Pedro. Pedro blinked and stared hard to confirm what it was. A little wooden cross, which he’d seen the man take out and kiss when an autumn storm had hit them a few days earlier. He’d seen then that it was darkened with age and sweat. “But it’s yours. You need…..” “An old soldier gave it to me just before we sailed to relieve Malta. It’s brought me through worse than a scuffle on the briny. You wear it today. Pray with it. Fight with it.” Pedro took it, clumsy with surprise. The little cross was warm from Esteban’s chest. “Thank you,” he whispered, dropping his head lest the others see the tears in his eyes. “Don’t thank me yet,” Esteban muttered. “Just give it back tonight.” Martin gave a low snort. “Stupid boy! He’s planning to die gloriously. I, on the other hand, intend to crawl back to Cartagena drunk and find myself two plump, talented, whores.” Laughter again. Softer this time. Not because the joke was better, but because, in their own very different ways. they were all picturing the same things: Return; home, and a future. A bell clanged across the water. Then another. And another. The bell of their own ship answered. The watch changed; cold, weary men grumbling in the night. The stars wheeled slightly in the sky and the moon sank even further towards the west. The brazier was dying now, the warmth ebbing and the glow fading in the growing light of this most dreadful day. Footsteps approached. A young voice, sharper than needed, rang out from beside the mast. “¡Carajo! What in God’s name is this lousy mess? Who tied a line across the deck like that? Get it clear, you fools. Now. And that awning — down. You want men breaking their Goddamned legs before the Turks so much as show themselves? If we had time, I’d have you flogged.” The group stiffened. The voice belonged to the Alférez, barely older than Pedro, his breastplate already buckled, his tone wavering between command and fear. A green boy, but a green boy who could have a man whipped half to death for a hint of defiance, or for hesitating to obey some damn-fool order. He stepped closer, spotted the dying brazier, and swore again. “¡Hostia! And put that bloody fire out — do you want us to go up in smoke before we even weigh anchor?” “Someone can’t sleep,” muttered Martin, though he was careful to do so low enough that he wouldn’t be heard. “Louse-ridden pup.” Juan smirked and began folding back the awning. Esteban moved to untie the rope and coil it away into his snapsack. No one complained. But, all too soon, the job was done and each was left still and alone with his thoughts. Juan leant against the mast, the others sat down again, though no-one bothered to lie down and go back to trying or pretending to sleep. Out over the bay, trumpets sounded. Drum beats began to float over the water. From below deck came the first crack and creak of timber: the groan of men shifting in the rowing benches, and the muffled voice of an overseer. A command rang out. From the bow came creaking of the windlass and rattling of chain on the deck as the anchor was hauled up. A rope hissed across wet wood. Then another shout of command, followed by a powerful drum beat. The ship lurched forward. The drum beat again, and again. Slow at first, then faster. The Santa Catalina trembled as the oars dipped and pulled. They were under way. The whole fleet was stirring, the noise spreading like a waking city. Across the bay, sails began to shake out where the wind allowed it. Not many — not yet. Galley sails, with their great lateen yards, could move these mighty warships at a seemingly irresistible speed. Once the sea breeze picked up later in the day the sails would fill again, taking them to whatever fate awaited, but for now the power had to come from the banks of oars. Pedro sought to calm his churning guts with the thought that, however bad it was to be a soldier, it was better than being a convict down below the deck, chained to an oar, governed by a whip, and doomed to drown like an unwanted kitten in a sack if an Ottoman ram caught the Catalina amidships. He shuddered, and gripped his sword for reassurance that he did at least have a hand in his own fate. The huge Venetian galleasses further out to sea were raising their spars in the hope of catching a breeze. The great masts on the Real, Don Juan’s flagship, loomed above the others, but the flags at their mastheads barely moved. The crosses under which her crew would fight and die were still hidden from view. Pedro looked out with growing awe. He could make out more ships every moment as morning put the last stars to flight. Their hulls, dark in the half-light, began to show flashes of colour. The stern of the Real was red and gold, most of the galleys around her had hulls of maroon with black stripes. On the closer vesselsd, the men could make out heraldic beasts on painted shields and streamers. The sea reflected it all in broken shards. Banks of oars rose and fell in perfect rhythm. They were going to war. But, for now, the action was for the oarsmen. All the soldiers could do was to wait. Or to saunter up to the heads and squat over the holes over the sea, pretending that it was just a matter of morning routine, rather than an urgent need as their guts turned to water. Then they stood in their little knots of special comradeship, stretching aching limbs and rubbing their arms. Pedro remained sitting, the cross in his hand. Martín stayed beside him. Eventually, Pedro spoke again. “Were you afraid? In your first battle?” Martín didn’t answer at once. Then, softly: “I pissed myself halfway to the boarding rope.” Pedro grinned despite himself. “But I went over,” Martin added. “And I’ll do it again today. And you will too. There’s nothing wrong with being scared. A man’s not a coward because he’s frightened, but only if he lets fear unman him. Which you won’t, even if you do shit yourself. Stay close to me. You’ll be fine once it starts.” They sat in companionable silence once more. It wasn’t just the eastern sky which was light now. It was, indeed, the day. “Get yourselves ready. Break your fast. Prayers and blessings at the next bell. Sunday mass early today, we’ve got God’s work to do.” Even the Alférez sounded reasonable for once and Martin didn’t mutter his usual contempt. Instead, he simply stood and stretched his back, joints popping. “Well, that’s that. Time to die, or to earn a little more pay and a bit of extra wine. Remember Cyprus if you want, I’ll remember those two plump whores.” Pedro followed him to his feet, hoping that Martin - tough, dauntless Martin - wouldn’t see he was trembling. His sword was ready at his side. Esteban’s cross was in his hand. More ships were sliding ahead now, cutting the glassy water like sharp knives through meat. Officers barked orders; the thudding of the drums kept time, the beating giant heart of a fleet which nothing could resist – unless it was the even bigger one which rumour said had been assembled by the Turks. The infidel fleet, whose masts Pedro was suddenly sure he could make out to the east. Hundreds of them. God, what was he doing here? The boy crossed himself. Martín clapped him on the shoulder. “Remember Cyprus, lad. And the ones back home. Keep your head low. And your faith high.” Pedro nodded. Took a breath. And eased his sword an inch from its scabbard. “If not us…” “…. then who?” Lepanto, Its Consequences, And an Age-Old Question Our hero Pedro and his equally nervous comrades represent the 60,000 or more men who served in the fleet mobilised in the Holy League effort to check the rampant aggression of the Ottoman Sultan. Worries about Muslim expansionism had been brought to a head by the invasion of Cyprus, where the Greek defenders and civilians had been massacred by the scores of thousands. Lepanto, known today as Naupactus, is a coastal town in western Greece, situated on the northern shore of the Gulf of Corinth. It lies near the narrow entrance to the Gulf of Patras, a strategic chokepoint for fleets entering or leaving the eastern Mediterranean. The Christian fleet which challenged the Turks at Lepanto was made up of some 40,000 oarsmen and sailors. Most were free men, convicts promised freedom, or volunteers. The Ottoman ships were rowed by slaves, including thousands of Christian prisoners. Pedro would have been one of roughly 25,000 soldiers. Mainly Spanish tercios – pikemen and musketeers - Italian infantry, papal troops, and volunteers from across Europe, they were stationed on the galleys for boarding actions. The Holy League commanders were so worried about the engagement that, shortly before the fighting began, the order was given to unchain the convicts and arm them, so they could join in the fight to repel Turkish boarding parties. The clash, on Sunday 7th October, 1571, ended in a decisive victory for the Holy League. The Turks lost 180 of their 250 ships. Christian casualties were about 7,500 dead, while the Ottomans lost an estimated 25,000 to 30,000 men, with 12,000–15,000 Christian galley slaves freed. Most of the Christian dead fell in the Venetian ships, so the chances are that Pedro would have been able to give Esteban back his cross, and that Martin made it back to Cartagena. All of Christendom rejoiced as news of the victory spread. Lepanto marked the end of Ottoman naval dominance in the western Mediterranean. It was the largest naval battle of the age of oared warships, and it was a turning point in the history of the Mediterranean – and beyond. Its long-term importance lay not in territorial change - Cyprus remained lost to the Ottomans - but in the psychological and strategic check it placed on the great Muslim power of the age. The myth of Ottoman supremacy at sea was shattered. Turning Point Though the Holy League dissolved soon after, and the Ottomans quickly rebuilt their fleet, the latter never again attempted large-scale naval offensives into the western Mediterranean. The victory secured Christian control of key sea lanes and gave breathing room to vulnerable states like Venice, the Papal States, and southern Italy. Had Lepanto gone the other way, the whole of the central Mediterranean would have been at the mercy of the victorious Ottoman fleet. This would not have reversed the Reconquista of Spain, which had been sealed by the crushing of the Morisco revolt, but Malta, Sicily and the coastal settlements of Italy would have been threatened. More important still, Lepanto gave Europe time. The battle did not end the Ottoman threat, but it stalled its momentum at sea - buying time that Christendom used to transform itself. Over the following century, Christian states - especially Spain, the Dutch Republic, and England - invested in new naval technologies: ocean-going sailing warships, improved artillery, and better logistics. Europe surged ahead militarily and scientifically, reinforcing the maritime dominance that would shape the early modern world. The Ottomans, by contrast, remained committed to galley warfare and failed to keep pace with Western naval innovation. Indeed, they fell steadily behind in terms of technology in general. Even the great Ottoman army which besieged Vienna in 1683 relied on artillery supplied by Louis XIV of France, as part of his broader policy of undermining the Habsburgs, his chief rivals. This reminder of the long-standing problem of elite treachery brings us to the final consequence of the victory won by the courage and sacrifice of the men who fought at Lepanto: It severely weakened the power of Joseph Nasi, who for some years previously had been perhaps the most dangerous enemy of Christendom in general, and Spain and Portugal in particular. Originally João Mendes, his Portugal-based family had feigned conversion to Christianity and taken the surname Miques. Nasi was a Sephardic Jew who took refuge in Ottoman Constantinople after being expelled from Iberia. He rose to high influence at the Ottoman court, first under Suleiman and later under his son. Described by contemporaries as “the Sultan’s favourite”, Nasi harboured a deep hatred not only of the Habsburgs who had expelled his family from Spain, but also of Venice, which had confiscated some of his aunt’s assets and expelled his agents from Cyprus in 1568, when it was discovered that Nasi was plotting with local Jews to bring about an Ottoman takeover. Joseph Nasi and his aunt, Gracia Mendes. Almost forgotten by mainstream historians, but hugely important, and dangerous to Christendom, behind the scenes Nasi saw himself as the future king of Cyprus, which he aimed to turn into a Jewish colony, although both he and his aunt – the hugely wealthy and powerful spice merchant and money-lender Gracia Mendes Nasi - also funded Jewish settlements in Palestine. Joseph Nasi became notorious across the whole of Catholic Europe as the man behind the invasion of Cyprus. It is also clear from Selim’s reaction to the disaster at Lepanto that he had also played a big part in persuading the Sultan to go to war against the Christian alliance which had been brought together by the Pope. According to a report by Don Cesare Carafa to the Duke of Urbino, Venetian spies had informed him that on learning of the fleet’s destruction, Selim had reportedly sighed “so, these treacherous Jews have deceived me!”. Nasi managed to survive the crisis, though on Selim’s death three years later his wealth was seized by the new Sultan, Murad III. Nasi was permitted to keep his titles and his pension, but his hopes of establishing a Jewish kingdom in the eastern Mediterranean were gone. His effort to incite Islam against the hated Christians were not, of course, an isolated quirk. The phenomenon was already more than eight hundred years old, having been seen when Jewish leaders in what is now Spain invited the Moorish invasion and opened the gates of key cities, including the capital, Toledo. Nor was it to end with Nasi. To give just one example, the so-called Young Turk revolution was dominated by Donmeh Jews – a sect of millennialist lunatics (widely condemned by mainstream Judaism as heretics - who became the Islamic equivalent of the fake conversos of Iberia. This not only overthrew the Ottomans, but also led directly to the 1915 genocide of the Christian Armenians, Greeks and Assyrians. Coming right up to the present day, we see the unholy alliance between Zionists and the Sunni fundamentalists of Al Qaeda and Islamic State. The way in which the Deep States of Britain and the US have long weaponised Islamist terror as a tool of foreign policy is likewise an updated version of the way in which Louis XIV of France provided the cannons which Mehmet IV used to besiege Vienna in 1683. The uneasy but deadly relationship between fanatics and schemers among the two other “Peoples of the Book” is one of the oldest, though least known, factors in the history of Christendom, Europe and the Near and Middle East. Fortunately, however, it has always been countered by something even older: The willingness of young men to stand up to such hatred, and to resist the tyranny and genocidal impulses which it unleashes. It has been seen from the first blows of the Reconquista at Covadonga, through the great victory at Lepanto, the charge that saved Vienna, and on through the liberation revolts and wars which restored freedom and European civilisation to the Balkans. Unlike the Ottoman galley slaves and the kidnapped Christian boys who became brainwashed Janissaries, the vast majority of the defenders of Europe and Christendom at Lepanto were there of their own free will. It was their choice; they volunteered to fight. Why? A few were no doubt escaping from something even worse; some were surely there for adventure, glory or the hope of personal enrichment. But surely, for most of them, it was the same small but burning question that has motivated freedom fighters and rebels throughout history. The question that is once again set to become the most important of all as the men of the West face a new version of an ancient peril. “If not us, who?” Become a free subscriber to Nick Griffin Beyond the Pale. For the full experience, upgrade your subscription.

Neil Oliver: A financial MELTDOWN - could this be the trigger!?

 

Neil Oliver Interviews Nick Ward, CEO Gold Bullion Partners To help support this Podcast & get exclusive videos every week sign up to Neil Oliver on Patreon.com   / neiloliver   To Donate, go to Neil’s Website: https://www.neiloliver.com Gold Bullion Partners & Nick Ward for more info about buying gold & silver go to this affiliate link, https://goldbullionpartners.co.uk/dow... To Shop: https://neil-oliver.creator-spring.com YouTube Channel:    / @neil-oliver   Rumble site – Neil Oliver Official: https://rumble.com/c/c-6293844 Instagram - NeilOliverLoveLetter:   / neiloliverloveletter   Podcasts: Neil Oliver: News Comment History Neil Oliver: History Neil Oliver: Interviews Available on all the usual providers https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast... https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast... https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast...

Did Jews Lobby For Immigration In The UK? Mark Collett

 

The most censored man in the UK, Mark Collett speaks out against the forces attacking the UK and the west, not just the immigration but the forces behind the endless waves affecting us. Have you noticed the political landscape shifting like never before? The collapse of traditional parties in the UK is sparking conversations on community and activism! In our latest podcast, Mark Collett shares insights on how groups like Patriotic Alternative, Nationalism/ Ethno Nationalism are stepping up in ways political parties can’t. Guest - Mark Collett Find Mark on rumble - https://rumble.com/c/MarkCollett?e9s=... 0:00 Intro 0:20 Jewish Influence on immigration 7:48 hypocrisy england for the english? 15:55 ....'conspiracy' confirmed? Follow us on : Insta -   / bluntclarity   Rumble - https://rumble.com/c/BluntClarity Sportify - https://open.spotify.com/show/6MqUieM... Telegram - https://t.me/+ObXSrxwy95dhMGVk

 

"If Not Us, Who?" Community Observation Patrols in Practice. What Is To Be Done - Part 9 By Nick Griffin Feb 2026 It’s time to look at concrete proposals for community-building work. This is the point at which nationalism shifts from being an abstract idea, or the motivating factor for an inward-looking group of activists, and moves on to become a force for good in the lives of ‘ordinary people’. This is where we stop fretting over dangers faced by our entire race, nation or generation – problems about which we can do nothing except talk - and instead begin to do things in a specific place, somewhere in which our practical efforts can make a real-life difference. Ideally, you will have studied all of the preceding articles in this series. If not, I recommend that you pause here at and least read this one, and that, having read it, you carry out the exercise at its end before returning to read the rest of this section. Community Action - Principles of National Resistance Nick Griffin · Feb 7 You’re ready to get serious about helping to create the strong community network which all sorts of nationalist commentators agree our people need for the troubled times ahead. Good, because I’m ready to first clarify the basic principles, and then to give you a list of practical examples – the hard core of the answer to the question “What Is To Be Done… Read full story Let’s assume you understand the principles behind the practicality, and that you are seriously interested in Community Action, let’s dive straight into the first example of the sort of choices available to serious would-be activists and community leaders. I remain (writing in early 2026) convinced that forming local Raise the Colours style Flagster Teams remains by far the best opening effort in this regard, so what follows is likely to be most useful for local groups who have already cut their teeth and begun to build their local base with ladders, flags and cable ties, as per my earlier recommendation. (See link at end of this article.) That said, if for some reason the RTC option is not practical, this is the first of the places which would be a very good place to start. The question of which you pick, once we’ve examined all the options, will depend upon you and your team, and your abilities and existing contacts, on simple choice, and on circumstances within your chosen area. The right starting option will probably choose itself. The first part of what follows was published here last Friday as a ‘taster’ article entitled Community Security Team. If you’ve already read it, the new material continues below it. Just scroll down to the subheading Wild Claims and Press Hysteria and resume reading from there] ‘Private police’. The rich have hired and uniformed security guards for their gated communities and leafy boltholes. Companies have them for their premises. The Jews have their Community Security Trust, complete with uniformed officers and even their own Shomrim ‘police’ cars. The Muslims have team which turn out to protect their mosques, and recognised ‘community leaders’ with whom the real police consult before undertaking ‘sensitive’ policing operations. They all have this added layer of security, and good luck to them all. The problem is not that the rich, the Jews and the Muslims have this extra reassurance and community spirit, but that our people do not. Readers with an above average understanding of real power relationships, and of the special pressures on indigenous Britons as second-class citizens, may be inclined to raise objections here, along the lines of “the Power That Be will allow it for minorities, but they’d come down on us like a ton of bricks if we did anything similar”. It is a very reasonable concern, and we will examine this issue in the very next part of this series. For the time being, please park any such worries. The purpose of this section is to set out realistic possibilities for constructive and wholly legal Community Action and, please believe me, this is absolutely one of them. The only further thing to say with regards to legality right now is that readers should not – under any circumstances – finish reading this chapter and immediately rush out to set up such an operation. It is absolutely vital that the forthcoming next section is read, digested and fully taken on board before a single step is taken towards this end in real life. That said, here’s an actual example of such an operation is practice because, here is in many other things, the much-abused activists of the old British National Party were way ahead of the times. Message Nick Griffin Our experiment with local security patrols took place in Corsham, a town of about 13,000 in the west of Wiltshire, where the main employment is provided by nearby military bases and by quarrying and working Cotswold stone. It has a historic centre, with some fine architecture from the mediaeval wool trade and its position on the old London-Bristol road, but there is nothing notable or unusual about the couple of ex-council estates and newer private developments which cluster around it. The only thing different about the place when budget cuts closed the town’s police station in 2006 was that Corsham already had an active BNP unit, headed by an ex-soldier, Mike Howson. With a couple of local taxi drivers among his activists, Mike quickly became aware of growing public concern about bored youngsters making nuisances of themselves. It was nothing really serious, but the withdrawal of the police presence left local people, especially pensioners and families with young children, feeling insecure. Complaints to the police about the marked lack of the promised regular vehicle patrols produced empty reassurances, but zero action. Mike and his team sat down to discuss the situation, and came up with a plan. They all chipped in a few quid to get a batch of yellow high-viz vests printed with the words “Community Observation Patrol” on the back. The letters COPS were much larger than the rest so they stood out clearly. Each of their three- or four-man patrols also had at least one camera phone (at the time, that was a gadget which was still possessed only by a minority of people), a couple of big Maglite torches and a notebook. That was it. They had a slightly more extensive wish-list, particularly for walkie-talkie radios and big torches for after dark, but they concluded that stab-proof vests were not necessary in their town. They also decided that it would better to start straight away with what they had, rather than waiting until they had everything. A simple leaflet was produced to hand to local residents they met as they began their patrols, and a copy was sent to the local paper and to county police headquarters. It took a few weeks but, inevitably, the proverbial duly hit the fan. This, after all, was the work of one of the most demonised and controversial political parties in the whole of British history. Wild Claims and Press Hysteria The local press went berserk, amplifying wild claims by political opponents that neo-fascist vigilantes were on the prowl. Wiltshire police joined in, condemning the operation as unnecessary. It was ‘divisive’, ‘potentially illegal’, ‘intimidatory’, blah, blah, blah. The local BNP response was that they were filling a gap left by the closing down of the local police station, and that they would continue with their completely legal observation patrols unless and until this decision was reversed. As they carried on, Mike and his team were buoyed up by the great reception they received from local people they met as they did their regular patrols. As the weeks went by, they learnt several very important lessons. First, the operation was working. Anti-social behaviour diminished, daily life got just that little bit better for ordinary people in the area, and everyone knew why. Second, while they had started out always wearing high-viz gear, they found by experiment that going out ‘in civvies’ had an extra value all of its own. When out in bright yellow over-vests, they were of course very noticeable. Youngsters inclined to mischief could spot them a long way off, but if they weren’t around could misbehave as before. Once their activity was widely known, however, by going round sometimes without the give-away bright yellow, something new kicked in: Knowing that any group of two or three men might be a COPs patrol, the tearaways had to quieten down or make themselves scarce every time they saw any such group out on the street. This magnified the effect of the real patrols’ efforts. Third, they found local people approaching them and tipping them off about the perpetrators of actual anti-social behaviour and criminal acts. On the town’s working-class estates, there was a tendency to be reluctant to report such things to the police; even law-abiding citizens preferred not to bring themselves to their attention, and there was an instinctive dislike of the idea of being a ‘grass’. No-one wanted a police car parked outside their house while imparting such intelligence. But people who wouldn’t tell the police were willing to tell our COPs. Knowing the law as they did, Mike’s team made no attempt to usurp the powers of the police by acting on such knowledge. In minor cases of mere rowdiness by younger teenagers, they had a quiet word with their parents. Invariably, the problems stopped. With anything actually illegal, they quietly took it direct to the police, leaving the job of doing something about it to them. After their initial surprise, the police quickly got used to the idea; a discrete back-door relationship was established. The importance of this will be explored further shortly. The patrols began in February 2007 and Mike kept me updated with phone call briefings. Three months later, with the obvious success of the operation, I visited Corsham during a speaking tour of the South and South West. Early one evening, I joined the team on patrol. By now, the media frenzy had died down. In fact, the local Gazette and Herald ran a reasonably straight report on my presence the next day, under the neutral heading: BNP leader patrols Corsham. ‘The chairman of the British National Party, Nick Griffin, joined local members to patrol the streets of Corsham last night. ‘He joined new BNP councillor for the town Mick Simpkins and other party colleagues including Michael Howson on an evening patrol to identify incidents of anti-social behaviour. ‘The vigilante walkabouts began in February this year and BNP organisers say they set up a group in the area after residents expressed concerns about intimidating groups of young people and badly behaved adults. ‘Wiltshire BNP organiser Mike Howson said: “The patrols started in February because we had been approached by concerned residents about anti-social behaviour in the town. “They are community patrols, which are made up of groups of four, and are estate-based. We are simply acting on the worries and concerns of the residents who have contacted us.” ‘Mr Howson said the majority of the members involved are from Corsham and the surrounding areas and many of them are ex-servicemen. ‘He said: “We walk around and show our presence in the area. We talk to people and inform parents if their children have been involved in acts of anti-social behaviour and may on occasion escort them home. “People were more than happy to see us out on the streets and we are fulfilling a public need. We will continue to patrol as long as the public want us there.” ‘Mr Griffin congratulated his colleagues for their efforts over recent months.’ What happened to Corsham COPs in the end? The operation, strangely, became a victim of its own success. Not long after my visit, Wiltshire police did a U-turn. Even more abruptly than it was closed, the mothballed police station was reopened. Having justified their initial setting up of COPs patrols as a response to the withdrawal of local policing, Mike and his team decided to take the victory and to wind them up. By that stage, in addition to doing their hometown a significant service, they had also successfully concluded a very valuable experiment. That original COPs activity is now nearly twenty years in the past. But continual cuts in policing and the general decline in civil society and standards of behaviour make the scheme even more applicable than ever. Like so much that the BNP did back then, we were ahead of our time. It worked when tried out by a seriously demonised political party back then, it surely has even more potential for groups of ‘non-political’ patriots now. To quote Enoch Powell though, ‘I can already hear the chorus of execration’. How dare I make such a statement, when we all know that “the Powers That Be would come down like a ton of bricks on any such venture by nationalists”? Well, as I’ve just pointed out, they did not do so when it was done by the BNP. But let’s accept that a more widespread development of Community Observation Patrols by people on our wavelength would attract the hostile attention of the institutionally anti-British state. What would the actual position be? UK Legal Prohibition on Private Militias The UK law prohibiting the organisation of private militia or paramilitary groups was established by section 1(2) of the Public Order Act 1936. This provision was enacted in response to the emergence of politically organised uniformed groups, particularly Sir Oswald Mosley’s Blackshirts, and remains in force, now included in the Public Order Act of 1986. The operative statutory wording provides that: “Any person who organises or takes part in the organisation of, or trains or takes part in the training of, any group of persons for the purpose of usurping the functions of the police or of the armed forces, or for the purpose of engaging in physical force or violence in promoting any political object, shall be guilty of an offence.” This offence is purpose-based. It criminalises organisation or training where the purpose is either to substitute for state coercive power or to employ or prepare violence to advance political objectives. Actual violence or armament is not required; it is a sufficient for the prosecution to convince the jury that ordinary people observing the operation could “reasonably” conclude this to be the purpose of the activity in question. Read that paragraph in italics carefully once again. The offence is not organising or training a group of men to keep an eye on their home streets. It is doing so for the purpose of usurping the functions of the police or the military, or for the purpose of using physical force to promote a political objective. As long as you do not do, and cannot be presented as seeking to do, those things, you can organise people – and do things with them – any way you like. Would a properly-run COP in any way usurp the functions of the police? No, because they do not claim, or exercise, police powers beyond those available to any citizen. They do not investigate crimes, routinely detain suspects, or present themselves as a substitute police force. Their role is purely observational and deterrent. Does it give rise to the apprehension that it may seek to use force for a political objective? Again, the answer is no. If a political party sought to organise its members into bodies of men to patrol the streets on the look out for opponents delivering leaflets, it obviously would break this law. But the Public Order Act does not prohibit a non-political group of citizens walking around their neighbourhood, or observing and recording possible anti-social behaviour, grooming gang suspects parking outside schools and such like. I will set out a simple and precise Code of Conduct and operational guidelines all COPs need to use in the next section of this series. This will include the legal question relating to uniforms. In the meantime, just work on the basis that – carried out properly - the initiative is entirely legal. The One Exception There is a grey area, created by the closely related question of whether the police and Crown Prosecution Service think they can justify action against such a group, and what is the reasonable chance of securing a conviction. If an already established group of self-defined fascists, with a Telegram channel awash with crude racial slurs and admiration for the Austrian painter, were to start a COP, they would be arrested and locked away on remand on their second outing. During their subsequent trial, the prosecuting barrister would show all their idiotic posts to the jury, activating all the buttons programmed into them by a lifetime of liberal propaganda working on their innate sense of decency and politeness. The jury would be told that the secret aim was to intimidate innocent members of ethnic minorities, and having such people strutting round the streets is a serious danger to multicultural harmony. Result? Guilty verdicts and prison sentences. Their few sympathisers would then complain bitterly about how biased the British legal system is, pointing out the fact that the Community Security Trust’s Shomrim patrols in heavily Jewish areas of north London are not merely permitted, but are subsidised by taxpayers’ money. Self-Inflicted Disadvantage The sad truth, however, is that the divide here isn’t between what is legal for the CST versus what is dangerous for everyone else. Rather, it is between the legal persecution to which little groups of Hitler admiring idiots make themselves uniquely vulnerable, and the far greater freedom to operate within the law which is enjoyed by everyone else. This is true not just of their chances of being left alone to run COPs. Little groups which go out of their way to shock, to stick two fingers (more, since they are heavily influenced by semi-ghetto ‘culture’ from the USA, one finger) up at established social norms, and to cut themselves off from their own families, communities and roots, make everything ten times harder for themselves than would otherwise be the case. They tell themselves that dressing all in black is “great optics” and a clever tactic to attract teenage rebels. To be fair to those proposing such things in the USA, the legal position and possibly popular sentiment over there may be sufficiently different that they have a point when it comes to their own country. But in Britain, Australia and much of Western Europe, it’s dangerously out of touch with reality, and the end result is isolation and impotence. They may mean well but, let’s be blunt, it’s just another youth cult, perfectly honed for Generation Autism, but not as the base for effective community activism in a hostile liberal state, or for the Hundred Years of Struggle which lies ahead. It is of course true that - despite being non-political and adhering to strict legality - indigenous working-class community patrols are liable to be criticised by liberal media outlets. Likewise, they most certainly are not going to be sponsored by the Home Office or equipped by the Metropolitan police. But neither are they in danger of prosecution under the present law of the land. That, of course, might change. In the event that COPs caught on in largely white working-class neighbourhoods, one can envisage a BBC-directed liberal ‘moral panic’, demanding action to put the peasants back in their place. It is further foreseeable that a Labour-Green-SNP-LibDem coalition (an entirely possible result in 2029 if Restore split the Reform vote) would change the law to forbid such operations. But that would also either outlaw the Shomrim patrols, or exempt them. The former result would be challenged by their powerful legal teams, and any victory they won would establish the precedent for the benefit of every one. The latter decision would be an education to everyone involved in, or sympathetic to, the banned indigenous versions of the precise same things. “All animals are equal, but some are more equal than others.” This is the sort of lesson which our people badly need to learn. Drafting a law to prevent small groups of law-abiding citizens from walking down their own streets, or standing outside their children’s schools, would also be extremely difficult in its own right. Enforcing it would be even harder, particularly for police forces hamstrung by repeated austerity cuts, withdrawn to fortified, central police stations and largely confined to high-speed police patrols of main roads and town centres. In any case, that’s three or four years down the line at least. In the meantime, and until then, the only thing preventing the establishment and operation of Community Observation Patrols in every primarily indigenous part of this country is the fact that the people who should be organising them are too tied up promoting fantasy political solutions online. There they are, sitting on their backsides; excusing their inaction with social media chatter that Nigel, Ben, Rupert, Tommy, or the ghost of Adolf, is going to build a power-winning machine, be permitted to win a free-and-fair election, come to power, stay in power, and sort it all out from on high. The revolution will be 'simples’, bloodless and televised for their gratification. Heaven preserve us from such naïve stupidity and cowardly excuses for laziness. Read my lips: There is no parliamentary road to sort this mess out. No party is going to come in, turn back the clock and save us from the collapse of this mortally sick version of civilisation; it’s way too late for political solutions. No white knight is going to ride in to save your community. But you – you could be the nucleus around which grows the team which eventually turns your locality into a cohesive, confident and resilient community, a place and a people capable of facing whatever the uncertain and often unpleasant future throws at it. Since you’ve read this far, it’s fairly likely that you appreciate that NO-ONE else is working consistently at this level. If so, I’d like to invite you to show your appreciation and help me build support and resources for the future by becoming a paid subscriber. “If not us, who? If not now, when?” Upgrade to paid RTC - A Gift for Nationalist Community Builders Nick Griffin · December 18, 2025 We have settled on the true meaning of “building community”. It is not helping a community in search of votes. It is not building comradeship in an isolated nationalist organisation. It is finding ways to help to strengthen the bonds within an existing community. Read full story