Fresh from his latest controversy, our history correspondent ‘Daniel Kawczynski MP’ on the events that shaped Britain. Satirical content – as told to Otto English.
The arrival of the Romans in Britain in 55 B.C is the first example of mass uncontrolled immigration. Bringing their hated roads, poetry, knowledge, laws, heated floors, amphorae of wine along with their much detested civilization these Latin layabouts caused delays at A and E and took all the jobs. Finally Boudicca and a democratically elected group of early Brexiters known as the ‘Mycenae’ said ‘enough is enough’ and drove the Romans into the sea before building the White Cliffs of Dover – to stop them coming back. Explain any of this and self-styled ‘intellectuals’ will tell you it is factually wrong. It isn’t. It happened.
There are fanatical left wing historians who try and teach children that the Anglo-Saxons came from what is now Germany. This is an absolute lie with no evidence whatsoever to back it up. It’s also deeply insulting to suggest that British people who liberated the world from the Nazi tyranny are descendants of Hitler. If that’s the case why do we speak English? Think about it for ten seconds. It’s absolute nonsense and anyone who says it is a jerk.
Shakey wrote a lot of famous musicals like Cats, Camelot and Grease but they’re not my sort of thing. I saw Grease once – it was a joke. A lot of singing and dancing and no mention at all of what the E.U. had done to that once great nation. Shakespeare should ask Yanis Varoufakis if it was all singing and dancing when the banks collapsed rather than trying to appeal to lefty West End audiences with songs about the “EU” being the one everyone wants. The people have spoken Stevens. Move on.
The Battle of Waterloo
When Nelson defeated Napoleon at Waterloo you can only imagine what it must have done to the traffic. I quite often drive along the South Bank of the Thames and it beggars belief that one of the greatest battles in history took place there. Guess what though? There’s not even a plaque to commemorate it. Sadiq ‘hates’ our history. On top of his column in Trafalgar Square England’s greatest General must have had a bird’s eye view of the battle, but tragically he was a sitting duck. A Frenchman shot him dead at the moment of his triumph. And yet – there are people who visit France to this day and who never mention this terrible atrocity.
World War Won
World War Won is called that because ‘Great Britain’ won it. Fact. People think life was hard back then but it was a far gentler world. If you died they gave you a free gravestone AND a poppy to be remembered by. I wear mine every year and it’s really gigantic because I am a bigger patriot than you.
World War Too
Is called that because we won that one ‘too’. But guess what. Nobody thanked us. Instead we were forced to join the EEC and fund it all while our lads were put in jail.
End of Empire
Having liberated the Africans from their lands and Indians from the responsibility of running their own country – for I don’t know – A VERY LONG TIME – we were made to give up some of our Empire. Thankfully the main part of it had been hidden in the South Atlantic for safe keeping and remains there to this day despite the best efforts of the Argies.
All of this stuff is fact – but dare to say ANY of it and the left wing luvvies and so called historians come at you with THEIR version of it. They’re entitled to their views – but they’ve got it all wrong and should delete their twitter.
A survey has found that only 45% of 18-24 year olds are proud to be English. Here 17 year old Vlogger and Facebook sensation Steve Bellington tells Otto English why they are wrong.
Ancient English history today is completely controlled by the PC Brigade. Trendy lefty Remoaners have infiltrated our secondary moderns and are teaching kids that the Romans didn’t speak British, that Adrian’s wall was not built by a man called Adrian and that Craig David neither invented popular music, nor was the best rock and pop star who ever existed.
I recently asked my friends what they thought about patriotism and he didn’t even know what it was.
Nowadays, the lefty mob that controls our state wants pupils to learn that Africa was invaded and plundered by the British Empire rather than ‘discovered’ by Captain Cook. Fact. Africa did not exist before English people turned up there in the 1980s and named everything. That’s why South Africa is called ‘South’ Africa and not whatever the African word for ‘South’ is. A lot of countries were named after the English people who got there first. That’s why Zimbabwe is named after Gary Rhodes. Same with Kenya. I don’t know who invented Kenya exactly but have you ever met an African called Ken? Thought not. But tell that to Mr Rogers or indeed anyone else in my history department and you will be met with confused stares.
It’s not racist to hate foreigners and think that anyone born in England is in every way better than anyone else. That is not racism. Political correctness is. Yet if you listened to any of my peers you’d think that voting for Brexit, or wanting everyone deported and suggesting that England reconquer the Globe and install the Queen as head of a world government was somehow ‘wrong.’
The reason for that, as with so many things that are at fault with our world today is our education system. Decades of teaching children that slavery, oppression and the stealing of natural resources from other countries is ‘theft’ – have inculcated in them a deep suspicion of our past and of our glorious future outside the globalist, failing EU project which somehow still manages to have us by the throat despite them needing us more than we need them.
I’m doing a history ‘A’ level at the moment and it is a constant battle against the forces of darkness. Rather than just writing down what I think, leftist so called teachers like Mr Rogers insist I ‘question sources’ apply ‘critical thinking’ and ‘seek a range of different reference points’ in order to ‘back up my argument.’ ‘Apparently’ my twitter feed does not count because it ‘might be biased’ i.e. it does not conform to the lefty insanity that Mr Rogers teaches us about ‘the death of millions through the use of the slave trade.’ I follow a lot of accounts that question the MSH (mainstream history) version of events. Anyone who follows ‘Ironwand3’ or ‘HimmlerWasGr8’ or ‘Stalag467’ knows that most slaves ‘wanted’ to be slaves. That is a historical fact because there are Jpegs to back it up. Slavery was seen by many as a good job opportunity, with the chance to travel to America and meet white people. But dare to put these ‘facts’ in an essay and Mr Rogers and the PC mob will descend on you like a ton of bricks.
Ask yourselves this! If England was so evil in the past then why have so many countries from India to Pakistan to Wales to Gibraltar adopted our language? Because it was forced upon them? I think not! They chose English because that is the language that most Netflix series are in – and most Youtube channels also.
But of all the insults to our history – it is the teaching of World War One that is most upsetting. The fact is that most people who fought in it enjoyed the Great War – a lot. It was basically a four year camping holiday in which the British Tommy interspersed bayonetting the ‘OK Huns’ (English for Germans in those days) with football games (another English invention) and nice piano singsongs by the campfire. Is this the version of history we are taught? No. Instead Mr Rogers goes on endlessly about the casualties and the ‘waste’ of human life. Question this narrative by suggesting that without the loss of some life we would not be able to get angry about celebrities not wearing poppies in November and Mr Rogers just stares at you aghast – before grading you with a D.
I have a Youtube channel – and I have met Iain Dale (twice) and I think I thus know a little bit more about history than Mr Rogers.
Those English inventions in full:
England has invented a lot of things
Fish – not many people know that the English invented fish. That is why they are internationally known as ‘fish’ and not whatever the foreign word for fish is.
Biscuits – Nobody had ever heard of the Bourbons, or Nice, or Garibaldi before the English invented them.
Paper doilies – it was a 17th Century London Drapier “Stan Doiley” who first came up with the idea of making little holes in paper napkins. His invention would go on to change the world.
Circular trays with pictures of cats on them. The rectangular tray may have existed for centuries, but it was the English who realised that by making it circular and putting a picture of a cat on it – it was better.
Other food. Danish pastries, falafel, rice, soy sauce, chickens, Indian curry, Frankfurters, Satay Chicken and Russian standard vodka are just a few of the delicacies invented by the English. After Brexit we will hold these as a bargaining chip and say ‘if you do not trade with us you won’t have these things’ and then everyone will be sorry.
As the march of industrialisation progressed through the early 19th century many minds turned wistfully back to the long ago halcyon days of chivalry and men in tights doing noble things in discreet cod pieces – while women darned tapestries and looked wistfully out of windows.
Walter Scott’s romantic historical novel, Ivanhoe, appeared in 1820 and was an immediate Victorian blockbuster, sparking a lasting and heavily sentimentalized reimagining of the past. By the 1830s there were six theatrical versions in London alone and as the decade wore on, the general trend for looking backwards showed no sign of abating. As train-lines grew like splattered ink spills, the yearning for a simpler, better, happier, rose-tinted past grew with it.
This Romanticism informed art, poetry architecture, nationalism, notions of identity and political thinking but then a 27 year aristocrat, Archibald Montgomerie the 13th Earl of Eglinton, decided to take things to the next level.
Archibald was an Old Etonian who would later go on to make a name for himself as a staunch Tory opponent of Jewish rights, Irish rights and ordinary people in general. The only things he seems to have been in favour of were the Corn Laws – and jousting.
Archibald loved jousting, the idea of jousting, the thought of jousting and had clearly read Ivanhoe not once, not twice but several times over. Archibald was also fabulously rich and lived in a big castle. And so it was – that Archibald decided to host a medieval tournament.
In late 1838, 150 chums, acquaintances and school friends were invited to “Pratt’s” – an antique armoury dealer in London’s St James’s that they might be fitted with suitable attire. Mr Pratt himself was put in charge of bunting, swords, tents, horses and those big chain things that have a spikey bit on the end. Unfortunately, given that there was only one expert and that the whole thing was being based on a book that had no actual grounding in historical accuracy, things at this very early stage started to go slightly awry. It was noted fairly quickly that medieval people appeared to be much smaller and thinner and despite the number of eager volunteers there wasn’t enough armour to go round.
Things brightened up slightly, when a dress rehearsal was held and the ‘very elite of the most elite’ turned out to watch – along with 2,000 casual observers – eager to satiate their curiosity. Despite only 19 Knights taking part the first tournament was a big success and the Victorians celebrated in classic Victorian fashion. Commemorative Jugs were made.
Anticipation grew. People who weren’t too busy starving could talk of little else. Queen Victoria wrote about it in her diary. Twice.
Predictably, the ‘usual suspects’ refused to get on board and started to moan. The Whigs, the reformers, those libtard Methodists and the relatively new Manchester Guardian adjudged it to be a ridiculous folly. The whole thing was a made up, unnecessary, silly, expensive, dangerous endeavour that would cost upwards of £40,000 (around £4 million today) at a time of desperate poverty and terrible economic and social uncertainty.
Archibald and his associates pressed the metaphorical mute button – and moved on with their preparations.
All through the spring and summer of 1839 they practised – putting on their armour, getting on their horses, falling off their horses, jousting and generally injuring each other and themselves. At Erlington Castle groundworks were in full swing – heavy thrones were carved and a regal stand that could accommodate 2,000 invited guests was erected.
The buzz grew. Cartoonists lampooned the Quixotic endeavour while The Tory press talked of little else. It would be fabulous. It would be splendid. It would be talked about forever. This was what Britain needed. We want our Medieval Splendour back.
As Friday 30th of August 1839 edged closer thousands of people began to journey to the castle – many in the trains the raffish young Earl hated so much. The actual attendance far exceeded estimates and as the day of the grand tournament dawned, as many as 100,000 people had descended on the fairly remote Scottish site – and found a spot to wait eagerly for the marvellous cavalcade that would transport them back to a happier more genteel Britain of old and make everyone forget about all that horrid progress.
There were early signs that things might not go off entirely as planned. The Earl knew a great deal about golf and thoroughbred horses, but it would seem he knew next to nothing about topography. The site he had selected for his splendid parade was effectively a flood plain – and it had rained almost solidly for a month. The crowd began to get wet feet.
Behind the scenes there was feverish activity. Putting on all that heavy armour was taking considerably longer than had been anticipated. Lunch came and lunch went and the 100,000 grew hungrier, wetter and colder.
The knights hadn’t practiced getting on to their horses more than they had had to on account of their always falling off when they did and by the time they had, there was a mock medieval traffic jam winding almost a mile down the narrow carriageway to the tiltyard.
Just at the point when groups of day-trippers were beginning to give up and break away, a trumpet blasted and Lady Somerset, The Queen of Beauty, emerged onto the balcony of Mr Pratt’s magnificent grandstand.
Cheers went up from the colossal saturated crowd and at that precise moment, the incredible spectacle of Knights strapped in full tournament armour and their ‘servants’ trotted down into the field.
For a split second it seemed that it had all been worth it after all.
And then, a bolt of biblical lightning – smashed violently across the sky, unleashing a preposterous deluge of rainwater as an enormous thunderstorm engulfed the landscape.
Terrified horses scattered left and right through the heavy mud as unwieldly toffs in ill-fitting armour were tossed like fairy cakes from their backs and dragged off rattling and whimpering through the mire.
The crowd – who had invested considerable expense, time and effort in getting there were now regretting ever having heard of the stupid fucking pageant and tried, in vain and as one, to make their way back past Lugton Water – which had now flooded. Thousands of cold, hungry, angry people were obliged to wade, waist deep through freezing water and then trudge miles through the torrential volley of rain and mud to nearby villages – only to be charged extortionate mark ups by wily locals who could sniff an opportunity when they saw one.
Eglinton had promised his personal guests a sumptuous banquet and ball but both were cancelled. The whole thing had been a colossal waste of time – and money.
Holding such a tournament in Scotland might be considered dicey at any time given the unpredictability of the weather. Choosing to do so, on a flood plain, so late in the summer, without any contingency plan might be measured reckless.
But incredibly – so much faith had been invested in the project by so many people in the press and upper echelons of society that despite all evidence to the contrary – it was hailed a success. Sure – a lot of people had nearly drowned and the whole thing was essentially a comedy of errors – an unnecessary waste of good money – but these were minor drawbacks. Details. No – the main thing was that it had happened and should thus be celebrated.
A local pub, the Tourney, was named after the event. A bridge was built in its honour. Grand fabric panoramas were created and sold. A hundred years later Royal Doultan brought out another commemorative jug set and in 1989 a tribute tournament was held on the same site.
Lord Eglinton himself went on to be the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland before dying at the age of 49, no doubt feeling very pleased with himself indeed.
If this is all bringing back painful memories of Prince Edward’s superlative butt clencher “Royal Knockout Tournament” then I can only apologise. The Eglinton fiasco was on a far grander scale.
Indeed, in its absurdity, its hubris, its purposelessness and its outlandish futility in a catastrophic pitch at turning back the hands of time – it reminds me much more of something else. Something a little more recent……if only I could….. think Otto….. think.