With September a strange fit of madness came and gripped Britain for several weeks, convulsing the public at large with a high fever of hysteria. Scribes penned soaring and saintly eulogies. Flower sellers enjoyed the bonanza of their lives. Souvenir makers made a fortune. A depraved, drink and drug homosexual named Elton John, who appropriately performed as a ‘people’s star’ at the funeral in Westminster Abbey of a ‘people’s’ potentate, sold millions or records of his pop production.
The Queen interrupted her summer sojourn at Balmoral to return to London to broadcast to the nation. A minute’s silence was observed far and wide. Suggestions for commemoration encompassed an eternal flame, a specially named bank holiday, the minting of new coins, the renaming of Heathrow Airport, the permanent closing to traffic of London’s leading thoroughfare The Mall, and the award of a Nobel Peace Prize.
The passing of what great person occasioned this extravaganza of the century? What stirred the press, pulpit and public to such a frenzy of adulation and hullabaloo of grief? It was not the death of some giant of nobility after lifelong labour for the benefit and betterment of Britain. Not a manifestation of concern for the fate of our race and nation in the face of present, destructive trends. Not an awakening of reverence for the millions in past times who have truly served the community or died to keep Britain for the British.
Instead, this fantastic convulsion of a nation was caused by the death in a car accident of a comparatively worthless young woman who, born into luxury and idleness, can hardly have ever done a hard day’s work in her life. Hers was a death caused by a lack of sufficient common sense in concern for herself and her children as not to be wearing a seat belt when allowing herself to be driven at up to 100 miles an hour or more (around 3 times the speed limit in that part of central Paris) by a drunken driver who was more than 3 times over the drink-driving limit and, moreover, taking medications impairing his driving ability.
The Diana Daftness, as we may dub the public response to this appalling irresponsibility, was the truly weird canonisation of a deeply instable, indeed mentally ill character subject to tantrums in the course of which on one occasion she threw herself downstairs when pregnant, thus endangering a future heir to the throne; subject to the derangement known as anorexia, namely a disposition to starve herself; subject to an inclination to suicide as shown by an attempt at Sandringham; and subject to an indulgence in self-mutilation as a symptom of severe mental disturbance as reported in the London Daily Telegraph (13 July 1996).
At school this glossy idol of the gaping masses had failed all five of her O-levels, and, but for her plutocratic background and chance elevation to royalty, could have failed to qualify for a check-out job at a supermarket. She was a notably shallow person devoted to pleasure and display, devoid of cultural attainment, her musical level, for instance, being that of rock concerts she attended and jumped up and down at her favourite pop group having been one popular with the frenetic youngsters known as ‘teenie boppers’
Violating fidelity like her husband, Charles, as a rotten example to the nation, this candidate for sainthood indulged in an adulterous affair with an army officer, and another one with a riding instructor, not to mention any more. Before her demise and the ensuing suspension of criticism the London Sunday Telegraph (16 August 1997) said of her sexual rovings that she ‘always ends with second-class riff-raff like James Hewitt or dullards like Christopher Whalley’.
With her image in danger of resolving accurately into no more than that of a pretty, entirely playful princess, she entrusted herself to and was taken over by professional imagemakers, particularly and principally the Jewess Susie Orbach, a feminist guru and psychotherapist, and given a year-long series of training sessions, thrice weekly, with her. The outcome was fast-forced, synthetic presentation of a new ‘caring’ princess of hearts. She contrived to be pictured fussing with Coloured children in Brixton and elsewhere; shaking hands with AIDS patients at Middlesex Hospital and elsewhere; and opening a drug centre in Glasgow; thus winning fans from the scum of society, and emerging as a queen of queers and drug addicts. She was even shown pushing herself before TV cameras she had brought into a Harefield Hospital, London, operating theatre so she could portray concern for a Negro boy brought from Africa for a heart operation, before which she had taken care to be seen kissing and cuddling him.
While this pop-star princess of artificiality made out, when she had an overdose of it, that she was hounded and driven to desperation by the media – and it was initially declared after her fatal accident that she had been brought to it by pursuing paparazzi – the fact is that she was a publicity addict who pursued and played with that media whenever it suited her for the gratification of her vanity. She tipped off the press whenever she fancied their presence. She approached editors on occasions seeking attention. She supplied material to the media through friends. She paraded in front of them at impromptu press conferences. With her eager connivance, the media profitably transformed a nonentity into a constant, front page feature; so much so that she came to fancy herself as a special ambassador for Blair’s Britain, and he was moving towards making her such.
Her charitable disposition as far as her own pocket was concerned was put in question by her extravagance regarding personal adornment. She was reported as expending £100,000 on clothes for a trip to Italy in the 1980s and £80,000 on clothes for a trip to Saudi Arabia and other neighbouring places in the same decade. Her dress at a ‘charity ball’ in New York the year before she died cost £10,000. Her total expenditure on clothes during her performance as a tinsel princess of ‘compassion’ must have run into millions. If she had been less of a show-off, she could have benefited her showcase charities by personal donation in place of some of this luxury.
Our Diana of decadence not only put herself into Jewish hands with her backstage mentor, Susie Orbach, she was surrounded by Jewish friends and confidants, among them Jewish film producer, David Puttnam, banker Lord Jacob Rothschild, the Jewish editor of the Sunday Telegraph, Dominic Lawson, and his wife Rosa (president of the jewelers Tiffany a Co.); and her lawyer, the Jew Lord Mishcon. Even a Jewess, Elizabeth Emmanuel, designed her wedding dress and clothed her for years, so that in fabric as well as in thought she was a Jewish product.
In view of who she really was behind the gloss, it can be no real surprise that this playgirl of a princess gravitated to an Egyptian playboy, and at the end seemed set, as the mother of a future king of England, to marry him and become a Muslim. Dodi, her final beau – son of Mohamed Fayed, vastly wealthy owner of Harrods, the huge London store and the enormously expensive Ritz Hotel in Paris, along with other properties and investments said to total in value £1.5 billion – was an utterly useless parasite, enormously wealthy with a collection of multimillion pound properties around the world including a castle in the Scottish Highlands, a fleet of cars, an impressive record of philandering, and an ability to gobble down £300 tins of caviar.
It was not the first time our trumpery princess had gone Asian. Earlier in the year she had been dancing in the arms of Asian millionaire, Gulu Lalvani, and the next day, garlanded and with a Hindu mark on her forehead, had been to a Hindu temple in North London. She had other Asian friends.
The reason why Gothic Ripples here expends such an amount of space in summing up and cutting down to size a paltry character who never said or did a single thing for the benefit of our beleaguered race, and who instead was greatly harmful in regularly seeking opportunity to promote Coloureds and race mixing and various other forms of degeneracy, is that the Dianamania following her departure vividly showed the acute stage which our national sickness has now reached. In a milieu where the bulk of the nation seeks to make something of a goddess out of a Diana, there is clearly a sense of void in the public mind, a sense of the absence of anything of an uplifting national mission in the Britain governed by the likes of Blair. The public responds to this by creating false idols such as pop stars and fairy princesses under the tutelage of a captivating media. The BNP’s [British National Party] belief that it can detach the public from this enslavement is a fond and fatal illusion.
From Gothic Ripples. Subscriptions are available from
Colin Jordan, Thorgarth, Greenhovv Hill, Harrogate,
N. Yorkshire, England HG3 5JQ
SOURCE: Liberty Bell, February 1998