Ooooh, I like the sound of this, oh yes I do:
Football hooligans are planning to ‘team up’ and ‘protect’ the Cenotaph from pro-Palestine protestors… with police fearing more than a thousand will come to London where a rally against war in Gaza is set to take place.
For those Murkins who are unaware what this is all about: unlike party-latecomers U.S. of A. to the fun and games of the WWI trenches, the Brits and French had been ritually slaughtered for several years in the trenches of northeastern France.
The First World War, in other words, had a far greater impact on British society (and it still does) than Over Here.
The Cenotaph in London is the great monument to the fallen of that war, and it is probably the single most unifying day in Britishland, where the entire nation falls silent at the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month, and wreaths are placed at the foot of the monument by kings, queens, princes and princesses. It is, in short, important.
So the Great Unwashed — in this case the fools who are protesting the current unpleasantness — announced that they were going to hijack the ceremony to make their little strident protests.
Whereupon the working class of Britain — then and now the most patriotic of the British citizenry — have apparently decided that this shall not stand. (Note that they’re called “football hooligans” by the Loathsome Jackals Of The Press, instead of “people who have a sense of honor” who, it should be said, have had enough of all this bullshit.)
Incidentally — and this predates the Balfour Declaration — had Britain not invaded Judea (the area now mistakenly called “Palestine”) back in that selfsame World War, the area might still be a satrapy of Turkey.
But enough history. What I want to see is the lads from the Millwall, West Ham, Crystal Palace and other such fan clubs stop beating each other up (the normal Match Day pastime) and converge on the Cenotaph en masse. Then they can start beating the shit out of the terrorsymp protesters, without the cops doing anything but nod approvingly and, if there were any justice in the world, corral the terrorsymps and prevent them from escaping the festivities.
That won’t happen, of course, more’s the pity. But I hope just a few hundred terrorsymps get fucked up so badly that they have to wait in the interminable NHS waiting lines to have their broken bones, skulls etc. patched up.
I’ll be Over Here, raising a pint of Fuller’s London Pride in the lads’ honor, oh yes I will. I’m even going to tune in to the ghastly BBC World TV channel in the hopes that a few BBC journos (who are almost without exception terrorsymps themselves) get their heads broken as well as they try to put their pathetic spin on the event.
That would call for magnums of champagne, never mind pints of ale.
Dogs of war, baby, dogs of war. I want to see them unleashed, with extreme malice.
If I were in London right now, I might even put on a Millwall supporter’s shirt and catch the Tube over, just to see what I could do to help. I haven’t been in a decent street fight since I battled apartheid cops in the streets of Johannesburg, and it’s about time.
