A lousy fortnight if ever there was one. Two great friends, Lord Belhaven and Stenton and Aleko Goulandris, had their 90th-birthday celebrations, and I missed both shindigs because of this damn bug. Lord Belhaven’s was in London, at the Polish Club, but flying there was verboten. Robin Belhaven is an old Etonian, served as an officer in Northern Ireland, farmed in Scotland, has four children, eight grandchildren, and one great-grandchild, and was for 35 years in the House of Lords when that institution was a responsible arm of the government and not a cesspool full of smarmy lawyers. His wife, Malgosia, is Polish-born and never fails to stand up for that country by reminding everyone how courageously the Poles fought against both the Axis and the Commies, and how their Catholic faith has helped the people survive both evils.
The Belhavens I met recently, fifteen years or so ago, but I feel we are very close friends. Their beautiful daughter Olenka Hamilton is a journalist who quit her E.U. job in Brussels in disgust, as rare a happening as Diogenes finding an honest person with his lamp. Poland is doing fine, despite the E.U.’s meddling and the media’s campaign against its conservative government. Poland and Hungary are doing well because of a lack of ethnomasochism—hatred of one’s own skin color—and are not part of the self-loathing so prevalent in Western societies of today. Keeping Africans out has raised the temperature of European elites to boiling, but they can go reproduce themselves. Poland for Christian Poles and Hungary for Christian Hungarians, says Taki, and no matter how much filthy lucre George Soros pours into those two countries in order to subvert them, Catholicism and nationalism come first. Yippee! Soros is one evil dude, and libel laws prevent me from repeating rumors of how he escaped Hungary during the war, but I will publish them the moment that son of a bitch croaks, unless I do before him.
My oldest friend Aleko is no stranger to these pages. We met and became friends 72 years ago, and for me to miss his 90th was misery indeed. But the bug I’ve had kept getting worse and the doc finally ordered me to bed: So no Athens, no reunion with very old friends, no nothing. I spoke with Aleko over the telephone and also to his butler, called Plutarch. Anyone whose personal man is called Plutarch has to be a great man, and Aleko is definitely that. Mind you, whenever I’m in Athens nowadays I get a bit sad seeing a once warm, wonderful place turned into one big begging bowl. Those criminals who accepted the criminal terms of the E.U. bailout are driving around in government-issued limos while the country’s middle class disappears. Austerity measures have driven even law-abiding Greeks to go off the books, i.e., get involved in the black market. No Greek will pay 70 percent tax, as the new measures require, and more people have stopped reporting their income to avoid paying such taxes. Unpaid taxes have now soared to 95 billion Euros, and businesses simply do not have the financial resources to meet their tax obligations.
What gets me is that there are still people who regret Brexit, the best move Britain has made since Trafalgar. I was always against tax-avoiding Greeks, but no longer. Not one penny should go down that black hole. After all the misery of the past seven years, the debt has risen exponentially, something a no-nothing like me knew when the crisis began. The E.U. is the most evil institution there is in the world, enslaving people with red tape and regulations. We should have left a long time ago, but Tsipras likes to go to Brussels and serve drinks for the mega-crooks, and to hell with the Greeks. His days are numbered, of course, but the damage has been done.
And now for the really bad news: A loyal Spectator reader, whom I have on tape reading High Life and laughing about my political incorrectness, has just been murdered by African thugs, namely Samburu cattle herders. Tristan Voorspuy was a Guards officer who settled in Kenya’s farm heartland and, like our own Aidan Hartley, farmed the land and protected the animals. He rode his horse over to inspect the houses set on fire by the murderers who actually are protected by the politicians in Nairobi, and the cowardly Samburus shot him and his horse. My friend Lara Livanos told me about Tristan, how much fun he was and what a brave man the thugs killed in cold blood. As far as I’m concerned, the only good Africans are the Afrikaners, no ifs or buts about it, and the faster we accept that, the better off we will be. Let them all kill each other; we should help our kith and kin and not betray them as we have since Ian Smith was betrayed in 1980. Nairobi politicians own much of the cattle the killers are using to run white farmers out, and what are the Brits doing? Sending more aid so black African elites can travel first-class to Europe and enjoy first-class hotels and hookers.
Ring your local MP and tell him or her that the next time they vote for one penny of aid for Africa they can forget your vote. It is the least one can do to avenge this cowardly murder.
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