The Boomer-Doomers

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I despise all forms of Doomerism. That is, the mindset of doom: the belief that everything is already lost and there is no point in fighting on. I find it terribly weak. It is rank fatalism; defeatism. Something akin to Nihilism. It is unspeakably cynical. Frankly, it is sickening.

Nothing is over. Nothing stops. The war has barely begun. The spirit of retaliation has barely been awakened. Some Doomers, often—though not exclusively—of the Boomer generation, will even suggest that the only solution—which is, of course, a non-solution—is to emigrate, leave, and run away. This is the height of cowardice; a folly in the extreme. It is a spinelessness that makes me want to tear my teeth out.

Regardless of the timidity and capitulation it demonstrates, where exactly are we supposed to go? Given that our opponents are global in their reach and design, where are we supposed to flee to? These islands are our ancestral home, the islands of our forefathers; there are no alternatives, no other places to go. Most Boomer-Doomers refuse to answer that question, because they aren’t even authentic in their position. It’s just gaslighting. They will brazenly, smugly call for the abandonment of this sceptred isle with no thought of the consequences for their descendants, with no intention of actually leaving it themselves. All they do is sanctimoniously wallow in their own despondency. What a disgusting thing to do.

Where are their guts? Where are their balls? Did they ever have any? Where would we be if Alfred of Wessex had just given up in the face of adversity? What if the men of Agincourt had just thrown down their longbows? How would history have remembered them? Where is the spirit of 1588, faced with a seemingly overwhelming foe? Where is the spirit of 1940 and the axiom of never surrendering, despite how terribly slim the chances of victory seemed? Would the Boomer-Doomers have been arguing the case to stop building fighter planes, would they have advocated the cessation of pilot training programmes? I tell you it sickens me to the core. We are Englishmen. This is what we do. We stand up in the face of near-certain defeat and throw two fingers up. We refuse to be beaten, we insist on fighting to the last gasp, and we’ll bellow out a hearty rendition of The Minstrel Boy or Men of Harlech while we do it. Anything less would be a dereliction of responsibility, both to our ancestors and to our progeny.

I am simply not going to roll over and give up; I won’t move away. Never! I will not abandon England in her time of need. I will not take one step back, not while there is ink in my pen and breath in my body. For we, we are the music-makers, we are the dreamers of dreams. The future is not yet written; nothing is inevitable. We have barely begun to fight. We have faced far worse than this in the past and we have answered those challenges with aplomb; we’ll do it again. I have the heart and stomach of a man, and an Englishman too. I chose stubbornness over fragility. I choose hope over despair. I choose to act, not surrender.

A great historian once said, “We can destroy ourselves by cynicism and disillusion just as effectively as by bombs.” He wasn’t wrong; all it takes for a civilisation to be annihilated is the acceptance of the inevitability of their annihilation as fait accompli. This devilish device is, in fact, our enemy’s greatest weapon—one that the leftists and communists, feminists, and globalists rely upon. Well, their Jedi mind tricks shall have no effect on me; I will not bend to their will, I will not even entertain it. You shouldn’t either. Recognise it for what it is—poison.

The Boomer-Doomers are, in a sense, doing our enemy’s work for them. They are effectively collaborating with those who wish to grind England, Britain, and the entire Western world to dust. They are sowing seeds of despair, acting as agents of destruction and harbingers of ruin. Just because the Boomer-Doomers have no more fire in their belly doesn’t mean the rest of us share their dejection. Just because they lack the imagination to come up with solutions to our myriad problems doesn’t mean we don’t. They may have no trousers, but there are literally millions of us who do. Just because they are an empty bag, doesn’t mean we all are. They are a room without a view, but there are still many of us who have the vision and the will to battle on. They should step aside and let us get on with it. They have had their time and they blew it; now it’s our time. Down here, it’s our time.

If the Boomer-Doomers and yellow-bellied milksops truly wish to run away, let them depart. Their passports shall be made and coins for convoy put into their purses. I don’t want to fight alongside them as they constantly try to undermine our efforts. For if we win, if we miraculously overcome the hordes of ideological, religious, and sectarian enemies ranged against us, then I would not want to share the glory with them. If we win this culture war—which really only requires a government with a steely resolve and a giant programme of remigration—we will be righteously remembered. Those that stand and fight with us in this generation will be a band of brothers worthy to stand alongside any of yore. And gentlemen of England not yet born shall think themselves accursed that they were not here, and wish that they had had the chance to share in our struggle; to fight with us in the great culture war of the twenty-first century.