And I appreciated him for saying that, because it was as if he spoke for my family, who understand well their own country. Who understand even better their own capital, London town, as we used to call her. As we strolled in her parks, as we marveled at her palaces, as we did buisness in the city, went west for a dance, took a boat on the river. The pale ale and eel pie of old London. The London of my family for as many generations as I know. The London that will in less than fifteen years will be less than fifty percent white. London, where in fifteen years a white person will be in the minority.
Am I racist? No. Do I have anything against people of other races? No. So what then is my gripe?
My gripe, and I speak on behalf of seven men called George and five women called Victoiria, my gripe is quite simple.
My gripe is that we were never asked. My gripe is that we were told, not asked, and everyday we are told again and again how we are to be and how our country is to be. We are told by them, and we know who they are, they're English too. They are the class that has always set themselves apart, they are the class that has always taken what they wanted for themselves, and now they are the class that is giving England away.
They have never asked us, and they never will.
Do we allow them to sell our heritage? Or is it time for us to speak?
To speak, to refuse them the right to give away our holy, or bountiful, our only England that has, that has nurtured us, naked, grown us as the oak. Is it time for us that England know to come yet again and defend our country? With our fire, our fists?
Is it time for us sons to rise again?
I say yes.
I say yes.
I say... Yes.