A question beloved by leftists, government officials, members of their ethnic vote crop, celebrities, journalists, BBC presenters, assorted agents of the state and Marxist ideologues alike is; ‘what is it to be British?’

This is not so much a question as it as lead into a narrative that rejects and dismantles what we historically took for common sense, that the British were simply the British. We had some thousands of years of heritage and it was ours and ours alone, with the exception of trading and business and some historic overlap here and there we were never in doubt about our claim to a homeland. Our castles, stone circles and universities were the unique claim and inheritance of our children. The other was clearly defined, they were not British because they were not British. They were Swiss, French or Somali.

The left have put the question to rest, for now, until they need to invoke it again. They have defined British. We are a sort of albino African subrace descended from a dark skinned Mesolithic group who after founding our nation and all it’s institutions 10,000 years ago issued us forth exactly as we are today. We were interbred with the entire world and created a truly cosmopolitan state that is, owing to our racial admixture, open to the entire world. Anybody who finds fault in this notion must be a fascist, crying over the recent discovery of our first ever Briton. Take that Britain First, here’s the first Briton and he would have hated you.

The problematic, white working class can be finally laid to rest and urged to quietly fade into non-existence. Any claims of the government replacing them via mass immigration are ridiculous, as there is nothing to replace. The hybrid descendants of a world community have no claim to any nation, let alone borders. Imagine telling an African their numbers are too great here now, that we do not want any more immigration. Finally they can point to Cheddar Man, ‘we were here first, you are redundant.’

Not like Israel, the nations of Africa or Asia. They’re different, somehow. Blacks get Wakanda, England, world history, international protest movements when they assault police officers. We get Cheddar Man. Now, in the post Mesolithic clown world, inhabited by the classically English Gary Younge and quintessentially British Nadia Hussein, emerges Barry Stanton.

Descendant of the Tribe of Cheddar.

Imagine being a regular, middle of the road leftist. You’re pro-EU and content to declare yourself anti-racist. You didn’t drop Labour after they killed a million Iraqi’s because hate is beyond the pale and you’re a decent person, so you stick to your guns and carry on regardless. You’re not out throwing bricks at Starbucks or anything, stabbing police horses or displaying the raised fist salute of a terrorist organisation that glorified the rape of white women. You’re pretty ordinary as far as things go in the current year.

However, despite your middle of the road convictions and lack of politically incorrect thinking, you look working class enough, white enough, British enough to elicit the attention of the left. British enough to have your image lifted and used in a satirical propaganda campaign that derides the right leaning British working class. You become a kind of caricature embodying everything the left hates, your image stolen and online identity rewritten.

I prefer the fictional racist and thought criminal ‘Barry Stanton’ though, to be honest. I’m not interested in the real man. I like Stanton, and would sooner have a beer with him over the Labour voter whose likeness was stolen to create him. Despite the ill intentions of the leftist who created Stanton, the fact he has been so well received by so many surely says something of interest. In some cases there are leftists who feel reassured by Stanton, all the smarter and more cosmopolitan for his existence. But this does not account for the genuine right wing followers who retweet his content. The left only make up a portion of his followers.

The SJW is ugly in such a way that satire sees them transcend to the grotesque. Nobody identifies with them or feels endeared towards them, they are the worst manifestation of establishment thought. An embarrassment to even the most odious Marxist parasite. There is nothing rebellious about them. SJW’s are at the mercy of time as well, they move with what is fashionable and shift their loyalties according to politically correct trends, so it is difficult to pinpoint the extent of their lunacy at any given time.

Stanton in contrast is more consistent, anchored firmly in a time before dialectical materialism and post modern deconstruction began to spread their rot through popular consciousness. Deep down, even when it offends them, there is something refreshing about hearing that two and two equals four, and the left can’t resist finding a kind of anti hero in Stanton.

If confronted with an argument like ‘the technocratic post colonial stage of development has seen women of colour othered and denied autonomy in positions that classically demand Eurocentric cisheteronormative standards of input,’ it is like music to the ears to hear Stanton respond; ‘Fuck off you daft twat, this is England.’

The Marxist word salad is rendered impotent by such a response. By further complicating reality with more isms, phobias and Trotskyist nonsense, Stanton’s response only becomes funnier. We know we’ll never convince somebody who positions this kind of argument that their world isn’t dominated by a cabal of white men initiated into the patriarchy by secret handshakes, that their own shortcomings are their own responsibility. Stanton has the right idea.

We have figures on the right who specialise in what I think of as reconstruction. We are fortunate to have them undertaking this duty. The art of undoing the damage done to society by fashionable left wing lies, from the wage gap to diversity being our greatest strength. Nationalists argue tirelessly, and expose hypocrisies, double standards and the downright immorality in so many claims made by the left. There is, however, something frustrating about giving the our enemies worldview credence by engaging it in debate. The Stanton approach of telling them where to go in no uncertain terms is sometimes just as satisfying as the Mike Enoch approach of careful argumentation.

Argumentation is tiring as we are often arguing the case for what has been taken for granted and accepted as reality for centuries. That the English exist as a unique European group off the continent, with a claim to England as a homeland and thousands of years of heritage, good times and bad. We live in clown world now, where we are encouraged to identify with Mesolithic remains more intimately than the world bestowed to us by our Grandparents.

Meanwhile, Billy Bragg, a man who resembles one of those long necked herbivorous dinosaurs, joined the celebrations that followed Cheddar Mans blackening. Upon discovering they had a new narrative to use as a stick to beat the beleaguered and abandoned white working class, they could barely control their excitement. Bragg, who despises the British working class so much he denies they exist in any real sense of the word shared the news, which he hoped would bring tears to the eyes of ‘white supremacists’. He believes Britons (whatever they are now) should only serve as serfs in an international vassal state, if they get too uppity they become white supremacists.

Sadly, despite his ardent xenophilia and love of all things Islamic, Bragg misses out on the real perks of vibrancy. Whilst I’m not entirely sure of the racial demographics of Burton Bradstock, the Devon Village where he resides, I imagine the nearest halal butchers would be at least driving distance from his mansion.

Still, despite being the work of some leftists imagination, Stanton feels more in tune with reality than a champagne socialist like Bragg. I prefer the make believe, left wing caricature, designed to make a mockery of the less academic, working class critics of internationalism. If Stanton were real, he’d still be a better person than Bragg, he’d still be more closely guided by common sense than elaborate political theories that have historically ended in mass starvation.

The joke is supposed to be, if Stanton knew more about Somalia and Islam he’d embrace the government opening up London to tens of thousands of Somalis, or perhaps hundreds of thousands. If he was smart, he wouldn’t be racist. That’s the thing that sets them apart from the Daily Mail reader, the UKIP voter and general thought criminal, that we’re stupid. It’s an easy, and reassuring conclusion to draw, if everybody else was as smart as a Guardian columnist, we’d be alright.

The thing is, I know Somali’s use the Latin alphabet and what language they speak. How they pronounce the letters X and C. I know that Europeans introduced them to the Latin alphabet, and some years later they considered switching to Arabic, due to Latin being ‘heathen’. They speak Somali, and they fight a lot. They fight over Islam, they fight as tribes, they fight over past fights. They used to recite poetry (might still do), unwritten due to the absence of literary tradition. I cannot vouch for what they were doing when descendants of Cheddar Man were writing the Canterbury Tales and building Oxford University. Homosexuality is widely abhorred, female genital mutilation isn’t. Tea is more popular than coffee, and Italian food is still popular. For a short while they had a little stability under the iron fist of an Islamo-communist despot. Then they got back to slaughtering one another as tribes or on behalf of Islam. They complain, in some cases, that Somali’s returning home from the West aren’t Somali enough anymore. They do not believe we are all descendants of Cheddar Men, and to a Somali it does matter how we look and behave. Somalia, despite Cheddar Man, is not for the world.

It was called colonialism when we went to African, not ‘going home.’

Despite knowing these things about Somalis, I don’t want my government to invite them into my capital city in large numbers under any circumstances. If anything, the more I know, the less I want them in my country. All the same, if I didn’t know anything about Somalia I wouldn’t want them forming ghettos in my capital city. Even I knew as little about them as Stanton I’d still feel the same way. The argument that the difference between supporting state imposed mass immigration and opposing it is just a matter of intelligence is a flawed and dishonest argument. Bragg may be smarter than Stanton, this alone does not make Bragg right. He is just better equipped to distort reality and achieve his ends through emotional manipulation and punching downwards against the British working class who are currently being told they don’t exist.

For now, the question ‘what is it to be British’ has been settled, truly anyone can potentially become British, and everything we have built over the past four thousand years is property of the world. Cheddar Man stands as a testament to this new reality, this necessary reality that smooths the process of demographic shifting, replacement levels of third world mass immigration. Children who could have grown up to resist, to question, to disobey are being caught young. Now, as a kind of preventative measure, they are reminded that their ancestors looked nothing like them, they are rootless and severed from their history.

But soon, and it won’t take long, the question will rear its head again. Lets ponder on what it means to be ‘British’ and deconstruct further. It will be renewed, refined and possessing a new angle. It will strike the British harder, increasing their confusion and sense of rootlessness. Maybe they’ll find something that finally proves Shakespeare was an illiterate who stole his plays from a black woman. Perhaps the Cheddar Men developed a written language and technologies that were stolen by white invaders before wiping them all out. The question will be sharpened, with a new take on why any criticism of the upheaval and transformation and redistribution of everything we once knew to be ours is wrong and stupid. It will sink in deeper, and it will be twisted by the establishment with maniacal glee and fervor. Bragg, from his Devon mansion will laugh over again at our tears.

The worse it gets, the more preferable the Stanton’s of the world will seem.

By Iskalla