Like many men across Britain I’ve become a huge fan of our new Olympic cycling champion, Laura Trott. The Olympics itself isn’t really worth watching, variations of the African genome competes against itself at running fast, weird shaped orientals lift weights and this year we also had a refugee special, though judging from their alleged drowning rate not many would be swimming in competitions. The Olympics is Global entertainment for the Global man, complete with a vacuous power ballad from Katy Perry to spur on the one-legged cripples in the Para-Olympics, in what must constitute the ultimate example of Nietzsche’s ‘Under-Man’ ruling the earth.
Usain Bolt can run faster over short distances than anybody else on earth, a man from another African ethnic group can run faster over longer distances than anybody else on earth, but both would rapidly freeze to death if they went to live with an Eskimo. It’s genetics. But Global Man isn’t allowed to discuss genetic differences so we celebrate ‘Humanity’ instead.The problem is, when we gaze upon humanity, we see nothing but a blur, a kaleidoscope of sweating blacks, freakishly small yellow women, refugees, the handicapped and Katy Perry howling.
Then Laura Trott stepped forth out of the fetid funk of universal humanity, giggling, elfin-like and quintessentially English, the weary eyes of this Englishman finally rested upon the familiar, on kin and ‘Volk’, and that’s as much down to genetics as an African freezing to death in the snow.
The Olympics offers us a microcosm into one of the worst ills which has befallen Europeans in post modernity, we simply don’t know who we really are anymore. Modernity saturates us with a ‘White Noise’ which prevents us from thinking and seeing clearly, the multinational belches out crude begging advertisements, the ‘culture’ is whatever its Jewish bosses decide to racially humiliate us with, politics is the arena of mundane zombies arguing over trivialities…and it’s all so deafeningly loud and intrusive.
But every so often the kaleidoscope freezes and the mind can focus clearly on one in a billion atomized units of wealth creation, and you think ” I know that smile, those mannerisms, those features, I had a group once, they are the characteristics of my group, we were a people, once, we were the English, and our place in the world was called England”.
There’s always been a ‘Trott’ in England:
This surname is derived from the name of an ancestor. ‘the son of Troit’ or Trote or Troyt. One of the forms of Trude, found in such compounds as Ger-trude, Hil-trude; formerly a name of itself. Hence ‘Dame Trott’ in the nursery rhyme
The Trotts eventually Anglicized their name and in the year 1206 it made its first appearance in English records when Robert Trott became a landowner in Berkshire. So Laura Trott’s family have probably been living in England for at least 1000 years. Islam was still in its infancy, the first potato was still centuries away from being brought back from America, Edward Longshanks had not yet expelled the Jews. The seasons came and went, years rolled into decades then into centuries, technological advances and cultural changes were few and far between, the very perception of time must have been radically different to ours today.
The cheerful, pretty and obviously energetic, 24 year old Laura Trott, today, is the end result, it’s where her family line was leading to for eons. Throughout the centuries the women of the Trott family would have sometimes shown Laura’s characteristics, perhaps having a slightly longer nose than is the English norm, or the large soft eyes, the slightly pointed chin, the fits of giggles, etc.
And so when Laura looks ahead to her marriage with fellow English cycling champ Jason Kenny, and posts on Twitter:
The heart sinks.
We’re at the end of our history, Laura’s genes, along with all of our English genes, are being submerged into the Globality, they will never reappear. Laura’s children will become an ethnic minority in England by the time they hit 30. At this point the White Noise static will have reached the levels of a cacophonous scream and they will forever be strangers to themselves and their people, they will be persecuted and loathed as a reminder that the land once belonged to another people, the English people.
If only we had the ability to reach our people and explain just how precious they are, if we could just manage to turn off the incessant static noise of modernity and find ourselves again, and return to living as a people, on our land, where the only faces we gazed upon left the warm glow which can only come out of kinship and familiarity.