I Have A Dream

Dear Donald,

I am happy to join with you today in what will go down in history as the greatest fuck up in the history of our nations. That is that the word is out, that the lower orders are revolting. 

Two score years ago, Saint Margaret of Finchley, in whose symbolic shadow we stand today, signed the Griffiths report to begin the sell off of the communist inspired NHS. This momentous decree came as a great beacon light of hope to millions of shareholders in private health firms who had been seared in the flames of withering injustice. It came as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of their impoverishment.

But forty years years later, the shareholder still is not free. Forty years later, the life of the venture capitalist is still sadly crippled by the manacles of socialised medicine and the chains of tax burdens. Forty years later, the investor lives on a lonely island of relative poverty in the midst of a vast ocean of un accessed investment opportunities. Forty years later, the billionaire is still languished in the corners of our societies and finds himself a pariah in his own land. The increase in wealth at a rate of 27.5% since April is looked upon with horror rather than with admiration.

In a sense we’ve come to our nations, our people, to cash a check. When the financiers of our systems wrote the magnificent words of the legal frameworks of Tax evasion and avoidance, they were writing a promissory note to which every billionaire was to fall heir. This note was a promise that all men, yes, millionaires as well as billionaires, would be guaranteed the “unalienable Rights” of making money unhampered by the moaning minnies of the lower classes. It is obvious today that socialists, communists and eco warriors have defaulted on this promissory note. Instead of honouring this sacred obligation, cultural marxists and trade unions have given the billionaires a bad cheque, a cheque which has come back marked “fuck off you greedy bastards.”

But we refuse to believe that our access to public funds is bankrupt. We refuse to believe that there are insufficient funds in the great vaults of our offshore accounts, tax breaks and public funding.

This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism. Now is the time to make real the promises of capital accumulation. Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of welfare redistribution to the sunlit path of our aggrandisement. Now is the time to lift ourselves from the quicksands of wealth injustice to the solid rock of big returns on investment . Now is the time to make justice a reality for all of us and to tell the plebs to get off their fat burger stuffed arses, to say that there is no such thing as a free lunch. 

It would be fatal for us to overlook the urgency of the moment. This sweltering summer of our discontent will not pass until there is an invigorating autumn of wealth increases and tax avoidance. Twenty twenty is not an end, but a beginning. And those who hope that we needed blow off steam, and will now be content, will have a rude awakening if our nations return to ‘high tax and welfare’ business as usual. And there will be neither rest nor tranquility until we are granted our rights to do what the fuck we please, as we are the wealth creators. We are the übermensch, we are the ‘master morality’, we are the big beasts of the forest swinging our dicks around unabashed knowing the females will come dribbling and swooning.

But there is something that I must say to bankers, financiers, venture capitalists and hedge fund managers, who stand on the warm threshold which leads into the palace of capital accumulation. In the process of gaining our rightful place, we must not be guilty of getting caught doing ‘wrongful’ deeds. Let us seek to satisfy our thirst for wealth by stoking the fires of bitterness and hatred within the working class and ethnic groups, especially the migrants. Let the poofs have their multi coloured rainbows, we have the only colour that counts: gold. We must forever conduct our struggle on the low plane of secrecy and dark money funding of hate groups to divide and rule. We must encourage their protests to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again, we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with physical force, as the good people of Charlottesville showed us. We must stand by. Black lives matter, but bullets matter more.

The marvellous new militancy which has engulfed the working class must not lead us to a distrust of all white people, for many of our white brothers have come to realize that their destiny is tied up with our cross burning destiny. And they have come to realize that their freedom is inextricably bound to our freedom. Let “They shall not replace us” be shouted from the rooftops, from within billions of Tweets and Facebook posts, and from every dark and smokey bar across the land. 

There are those who are asking the devotees of banker’s rights, “When will you be satisfied?” We can never be satisfied as long as banker is the victim of the unspeakable horrors of jokes on the comedy circuits, especially in the BBC. We can never be satisfied as long as our bodies, heavy with the fatigue of travel, cannot gain lodging in the 5 star hotels, yachts and private islands unhampered by protest. We cannot be satisfied as long until our basic financial mobility is always from a smaller private offshore fund to a larger one. 

Let us not wallow in the valley of despair, I say to you today, my friend.

And so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the capitalist dream.

I have a dream that one day we capitalists will rise up and live out the true meaning of our creed: “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created unequal.”

I have a dream that one day in Mar a Lago, the Maldives, on Super Yachts, the sons of bankers and the sons of venture capitalists will continue to be able to sit down together at the lobster laden table of brotherhood without the stench of poverty and alienation emanating from the discontented in the shitty streets of Manchester and Birmingham. “Let them eat chips”.

I have a dream that one day in London, a city sweltering with the heat of socialist inspired NHS injustice, sweltering with the heat of the communism of minimum wages, I dram that London will continue to be an oasis of tax secrecy and wealth creation for the few.

I have a dream that my four, or six, or whatever the number is….that my  little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the colour of their skin, by the sound of their accents,  but by the content of their bank accounts.

I have a dream that one day, up in Liverpool, with its vicious trades unions, with its mayor having his lips dripping with the words of “social justice” and “tax justice” — one day right there in Liverpool wealthy little boys and girls will be able to join hands with other like minded little boys and girls as sisters and brothers in privilege.

Let us sing the old school motto… “The Working Class Can Kiss My Ass….”

Don’t give in Old Boy… 

E pluribus Unem 

Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson

Published by Lance Goodman

Freelance writer, bon vivant and all-round good oeuf.

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