Over the next few years, this parasite said we may have to go to war; some of you may die, but this is about doing your “DUTY.”
That sentence, delivered from an armchair in front of oil paintings, is the most offensive thing I have seen in a long time. It feels like someone vomited all over you.
We will need people who will join the armed services and who will go out and do their duty. What is the duty? To die? To kill? For what, for whom, and where? In London? In Liverpool? In Kyiv, in Zaporizhzhia, in Dnipro? He does not say. He never says.
They may even face circumstances in which people have to die to save their country. Save which country? The country that has been sold off street by street? The country where lads from Liverpool, from Birkenhead, and from Bootle are told to show a stiff upper lip while the man telling them has never worn a uniform in his life?
If people are not willing to do their duty, then the country will be taken over by another country. What country? What tanks will roll into London? What general will walk into 10 Downing Street? No one can answer, because there is no answer. There is no Russian army about to land in the Mersey.
The threat they actually talk about in NATO briefing rooms is missiles, drones, and cyberattacks, not occupation. But “tanks in London” is a better story if you want obedience.
He even drags out Ancient Rome, preaching that this is how empires fall—when ordinary citizens refuse to fight. But let’s actually talk about Rome, Jacob.
Rome didn’t collapse because regular people were cowards; it rotted from within because an insulated oligarchy hoarded the land and wealth, hollowed out the citizen-soldier, and left regular Romans with absolutely no stake in the empire. His pet analogy doesn’t expose our reluctance—it indicts him and his own class.
He never includes himself. He never includes his wife, his children, or his family. He is not in uniform. He does not say “I lead by example.” He says, “You go.” He is the rotten elite that has produced nothing for the people or the nation. A parody that belongs in Fawlty Towers—except Manuel had more courage. Manuel at least tried.
This is the oldest trick in the British ruling class. Tell working-class lads that they need to die so the elite can keep their wealth and their power over them. Call it duty. Call it sacrifice. Call it saving the country, when what you are really saving is your own position at the top of it.
Liverpool knows what that stiff upper lip costs. It paid it in the Blitz, we paid it in the docks, and we paid it in every war where we were told it was for us. We are done being told by men who have never risked anything that our job is to risk everything.
The truth is, Britain and Europe are broken. Decades of neoliberal decay have hollowed out our industries, starved our public services, and sold out the nation at private auctions to global monopolies, leaving our young people with no future. And historically, when a ruling class completely runs out of ideas to fix the rot at home, they turn outward. War becomes the great distraction—the ultimate reset button for an elite that has run its own continent into the ground.
London, Paris, and Berlin are beating the drums for conflicts they cannot win, treating a generation of working-class lads not as human beings with futures, but as surplus cannon fodder to burn through. They haven’t got the money to heat our pensioners’ homes or fix our hospitals, but they can always find billions for shells—and they will gladly spend your blood to cover the bankruptcy of their own leadership.
If there is a real threat, name it. Name the place. Name the treaty. Name the exit plan. And put your own family first in line. Until then, you are not a statesman. You are a clown calling for a cull.
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