Our empty streets have been taken over by pigeons and politicians. The cooing mass scratches around inside the halls of parliament, shitting on the grandeur and taking flight only to squabble over chips tossed in by the press. 

This monotonous political class is the product of ideological inbreeding. Staffers of limited talent, promoted and copied to the point of error, coming to power owing dangerous favours to the swamp. They repay this debt with vague policies, swung about so often that ordinary people stoop in fear of the state. Concerned for their necks, neighbours snitch on each other. Children hate their parents at the behest of criminally negligent teachers. And science, barely free of her previous historic captors, has been weaponised and placed on a pedestal where she remains impervious to critique. 

We are living in the age of ‘thought crime’. What was once the deadly accusation of one reigning religion against another has been resurrected into a pantheon of deities created by politicians, to which we must offer tribute in the form of tax. There is no corner of life safe from their intrusion. Given enough wealth, politicians claim that they can stop the tides, cure death, and fashion a global utopia. Mao tried the same thing and created fields of twitching corpses, half-buried by the ego of Communism. 

Under this weight, the nation creaks around the oblivious pigeons. Contrarians tunnel under the wings of Westminster, causing cracks and groans in the establishment. Daring truants whisper outside the beautiful sandstone façade, which is besieged by rot and broken windows where all kinds of predatory creatures have made their nests. The BBC, glued to the pavement by kids, have trained their cameras on the decay. They are not prepared to wager a guess as to whether the frightening noise is coming from structural damage to the British soul, or is a harmless rumbling, wandering off toward the English Channel like so many revolutions that never were. 

Political unrest is at its most dangerous when ideas go unchallenged. Trump aside, Western nations have found themselves at the mercy of indistinguishable political parties, paralysed by the press and a pathological fear of presenting an unpopular opinion to the merciless elite. The duopoly that kept politics in the centre has been knocked off its orbit, landing somewhere between Marx and Greta Thunberg where the rubble of left and right fight over power – not policy – downloaded straight from globalist servers. 

In this mess, conservatives have forgotten that they are the original revolutionaries; the victors turned caretakers of liberty and sovereignty, whose sharp beaks are meant to peck at the inevitable expansion of the greedy state. Instead, centuries of moral giants have been erased by a class of jealous, inferior academics who survive as ticks, latched onto the throat of taxpayers. From Boris Johnson to Scott Morrison, leaders have used the cover of coronavirus to consolidate their own interests rather than protect the unwritten trust between government and the people. 

It has been said that Marxism wrecks the industrial machine and bureaucratises idealism. Our institutions are infected with its sickness. The industries which built the West lie offshore under the control of hostile Eastern powers. Its moral platitudes are codified into hashtags and branded onto corporations like the prayers of those begging to be spared. Monetising emotive politics via social media has ended as badly as you would expect, with an arms race of dogma radicalising users. The faceless men of Silicon Valley have raised our children and given us back a self-loathing, historically illiterate, violent, racist, youth determined to enslave the whole world to a globalist nightmare. 

Where are our political heroes? Whose name will history cling to when we are forced to plant our flags in the ash beneath the red shadow? 

Predicting the future of British politics is as hopeless as making a statue from a piece of music. There is no way to represent the notes, crescendos or reverberations of the national soul in the cold facade of marble. As a creation, the United Kingdom has been remarkably resilient to collapse when its neighbours have crumbled. America may be the brazen child of liberty, but the fortitude of Western enlightenment is grounded by Westminster and its inclination toward convention, tradition, and nostalgic pride. It is these ghosts that the Marxists fear, because their gradual changes have brought the nation closer to a utopian vista than any of Socialism’s bloody scuffles. 

What do we do if this fortified system has been broken by thousands of European Laws and United Nations treaties? How do you fight legislation predominately written by competing nations with the express purpose of weakening the United Kingdom and feathering their own nests? These are not imagined fears. Dictatorships outnumber and outvote democracies. We laid this trap and caught ourselves. 

In response to treasonous MPs, the people have learned to keep foxes to tend the pigeons. They stalk into parliament as minor parties; prodding, pushing, and sometimes dragging the major parties to where the people demand. Nigel Farage had to clamp his jaw around many wings and legs – first with UKIP and then as leader of the Brexit Party. He proved that you do not need to win a seat to change the course of history. 

These political foxes are sacrificial beasts who know that the fight will likely ruin them. There is no throne waiting for those who change the face of politics for the common people. No champagne. Certainly, no thanks from the press gallery, because foxes aren’t interested in chips. 

Now, there is another fox in the room. He is an escapee from the dens of the acting elite, pacing restlessly around the outside with a shiny coat and clean paws. Laurence Fox a survivor of woke – a creature that has seen the depravity of identity culture up close and chosen valour over ratings. He, and others like him, are the last hope. If liberty dies in Britain, the whole world will become a filthy cage.