Saturday comes around, and the offices and factories lay empty and still.

Saturday comes around, and the offices and factories lay empty and still. The five day week nobodies are, clocking out and checking in, transforming themselves into a self initiated fraternity of warrior knights, a do it yourself battering ram at the decrepid heart of social conformity.
There are people to meet, and trains to catch. The family man is left at the station by his viscious alter ego and from August until the following May he's a sporting man, a gambling man, a loose cannon at the back of the stand, a broken glass in the side of your head, a tooled up aggressor in the streets of your favourite town.

This is the language of the fist and the boot, but hopes die in winter when its too cold to fight.

These are the nightmare legions of the dispossessed, the remaining patriots, the tribalists that time forgot. Their heartfelt frustration is fueled by a localised fanatasism, nihilism fused with sentiment and nostalgia, love of place and pride of birth, twin pillars into which the globalist dare not steer their planes of destruction. The final vestiges of blood, honour and glory explode into life in a city bar, a pocket crusade in an otherwise sterile world.

calling card flutters in the wind like a battle standard, defiant to the last, unrepentant beneath the crumbling victorian arches beside the railway line, brutalised rebels now looking for a cause.

This is the language of the fist and the boot, but hopes die in winter when it's too cold to fight.

Lets think seriously about this, what is the logical outcome of this means to an end, if indeed such an end exists in the first place?
The tribe is the essence, a localised struggle for identity, scarfs and banners are raised from the mud like pagan deitys, whilst europe is the wider principle, an organic imperium of hearts and minds. These are our circles within circles, our blood within blood. But will they fight the diseased soul of Europe? When the boundaries of the circles begin to expand and petty rivalries forgotten so that blood can truly unite, will they join us in the cause of pan-europe?

This is the language of the fist and the boot, but hopes die in winter when it's too cold to fight.

This is the language of the fist and the boot, but hopes die in winter when it's too cold to fight.