JOT This Down # 3 "Adolf Hitler, I owe you an apology"
Posted on September 26, 2019
JOT This Down # 3 “Adolf Hitler, I owe you an apology”
Once again, I pick up a David Irving book from my shelf, (vol 2 on Churchill) and commence a quiet second read. Quickly, this amazing author draws me right in.
So many gems, that need to be held up to the light. Again. Over, and over again.
They jailed this man for three years? Solitary? For a speech he gave sixteen years earlier? It's amazing he got out alive.
There are countless many who wish him dead.
I bought the book, Mr Irving. Forgive me for a small quote:
“We saw how after a 'wilderness period' of ten years Winston S. Churchill, described by Harold Balfour as this 'singularly unlovable' man, came to power on May 10,1940, to the alarm of his monarch and the dismay of at least three of his cabinet ministers (Lords Beaverbrook and Halifax, and Mr Neville Chamberlain); how, by playing on a non-existent threat of Nazi invasion he entrenched himself in office, and rebuffed the peace settlement which Adolf Hitler repeatedly and secretly offered, and which more than one of King George VI's ministers, his consort Queen Elizabeth, and (on certain dates in May and June 1940 even Churchill himself) seemed disposed to accept; how having thus sabotaged the prospects of peace, he contrived to prolong the war and, cynics would observe, his own premiership, by propelling Britain and Germany into a campaign of mutual air bombardment. At a time when Hitler embargoed all raids on London, Churchill ordered a 100-bomber raid on Berlin on August 25, 1940, deliberately unleashing a bombing campaign which would reach a climax of barbarism only after the present volume comes to a close. In his orgy of destructiveness, Churchill even issued orders – never carried out – a few days after the firestorm in Hamburg, for the ruthless saturation bombing of the Eternal City of Rome.
We have seen how as part of the price for his accession to office in May 1940, Churchill gave the 'kiss of life' to Britain's then moribund Labour Party, elevating several of its leaders to unhoped-for cabinet office and paving the way for the socialists' eventual return to power in 1945, a political upheaval which brought in its train the inevitable end of the empire built by three centuries of British endeavour. The revisionist historians Maurice Cowling and John Charmley have endorsed our first volume's assessment of Churchill's responsibility for the war and his part in the resurgence of socialism in 1945 and Britain's international decline. Churchill, the war-lord, showed himself indifferent to post-war problems, and displayed no interest in the dangerous revival of socialism by Labour minister Ernest Bevin and the trades unions”.
I reflect on these awful words:
“Churchill's responsibility for the war”.
“playing on a non-existent threat of Nazi invasion”
Adolf Hitler, I owe you an apology.
You are not by any means the often held up example of Humanity's worst form of evil. Like I learned meekly in school. Satan Incarnate. None lower. It seems Churchill fits the role MUCH better. The more I read, the more I learn how little I know. But I thought I knew it well.
Ah! But Churchill was a mere puppet-without-a-conscience, who sold his soul. All to keep his sprawling manor, his servants, his gardeners and his love of drink and fine food? Yes, he danced well. He bobbed his head with conviction. He spoke fluently, and used his gifts of oratory and wit. But… he still dangled from strings.
Who pulled and tugged, happily, so callously, on those strings? Who was he in bondage to?
If Churchill succumbed to Dark Forces, and we therefore call him evil, what measure can we use to apportion to his shadowy 'Focus' handlers?
(Don't we all sigh, wearily?)
Yes, we are back to ZOG. The JOT. 'Jew Occupied Territories'. Not just Palestine. But also the hearts of men. Occupied? Or enslaved. In chains.
* * * * *
I am in the evening of this bumbling, shadowy ruckus they call 'Life', and I am more and more content to humor the harmless fool I know I am. I am at best a poor player, who delights, nonetheless, sitting on a solitary mountain top, and quietly following the fingers of light across the sky. From whence they come. And where, diffidently, they go.
I love to play, not the guitar, for which my fingers are too old, but the keyboard of my simple thoughts. I let them wander, freely, without a care if they fall on ears at all. And whether any listeners might approve, or shudder. Far from posing as some kind of moral authority, or a fount of learning, I would much rather concentrate on hearing for myself, the fingers strumming, and the tones of thought, in harmony or not, cascading forth. For I sense in this cacophony, above the discordant din, floating free, a long forgotten hymn.
The gentle lute strings of a soft heart. I feel, indeed, sincerely sorry for this hurting, misled, often-fooled world. A world, I submit, created so beautifully, with such Artistry, corrupted so zealously by those Dark Forces who hate Man.
One of my favorite poems is a literary pustule. A zit on the elbow of Shakespeare. But I wrote it, with tongue-in-cheek, and captured for myself at least, the quaint Absurdity of my Existence.
In the machine
Paddled by forces
Plot my way
At their mercy
I submit, like it or not, We are all pin balls.
We have been indoctrinated all our lives.
That cold shower of painful realization, long put off…
What is worse is that war is coming yet again.
Let us cast our thoughts to clearly, unambiguously, resolutely, identify the Beast.
And from where the Demon springs.
Last edited by Francis Meyrick on September 26, 2019, 12:39 pm