You have to feel sorry for climate catastrophists. Not only have they waited decades in vain for the climate to change, but in the meantime everything else has.
It’s got to the point where, despite the catastrophists’ hysterical warnings to the contrary, the unchanging weather is one of the few reassuringly familiar things left in this world, especially at this time of year, when in Australia the imminence of barmy nights and beach holidays is starting to lighten the nation’s collective mood, albeit against an increasingly depressing long-term outlook.
Not only is everything else changing, but it’s doing so at a rate that climate protagonists could only dream about. While they measure increases in carbon-dioxide, air temperature and sea levels in microscopic increments across entire lifetimes, we conservatives are made positively dizzy by the speed with which our economy, law, culture, prosperity, security and demographics are transforming beyond recognition before our eyes.
Our governments used to at least pretend to represent ordinary constituents. Now they take orders from unelected globalists, lock us up on a whim and, on the premise of “protecting kids” from harmful online content, are about to stop us talking to each other on social media unless ve show zem our paperz first. (And they’re worried about us becoming Nazis.)
That’s not the only compromise the government is making on the freedom that was once our birthright. This week, Foreign Minister Penny Wong applied the principles she learned growing up in the libertarian utopia of Malaysia by, in Orwellian style, redefining censorship as an essential part of free speech.
Until recently, Australians were proudly robust, independent people. Now we are among the most retarded people in the world, and the government is spending billions of dollars, mostly through the National Disability Insurance Scheme, to encourage more of us to become so.
In the 1980s, the rate of autism among children was less than 0.05 per cent. Now sixteen per cent of six-year-old boys in Australia are registered as autistic with the NDIS. This is either the consequence of over-zealous vaccination of children or evidence of new levels of scamming that just happen to coincide with an influx of immigrants to whom grifting comes as naturally as slipping shrimps on the barbie does to us.
Speaking of which, immigrants used to feel obliged to fit in, and speak English, if they wanted a share of our prosperity. It was hardly an onerous request. All it required was that “you march our march [Anzac Day] and you drink our beer”, as 1980s rock star Dave Warner put it so eloquently in what was briefly, in more halcyon days, an amusingly frank underground alternative to the national anthem, Convict Streak.
The latest arrivals can’t even do that, though. We English-speaking residents now fund translation services to help recently arrived migrants milk the welfare system, which is just a fraction of the hundreds of millions we pay the various state and federal departments of multicultural affairs to help migrants not assimilate.
A friend who has connections to these services once told me that some welfare recipients — typically elderly women who seldom leave the house — don’t even know the name of the suburb they live in, let alone which country. So you can assume they didn’t migrate here because they admire the Anzac spirit or want to be around when St Kilda finally break their 59-year premiership drought. But oh, the vibrancy that such cultures bring to our boring backwater!
The number of Australian residents (we used to just call them Australians) who can’t speak English or struggle to do so is 3.4 percent, which is more than twice the proportion in Britain, where cultural tension has led some commentators to say civil war is inevitable.
That we have a higher proportion of foreign speakers is alarming enough, but even the official estimation is probably lowballing it. If an immigrant can’t be bothered to learn the language of the host nation, he or she will hardly have the civic-mindedness to participate in a survey about it.
Nor are they likely to answer questions about domestic violence, even though such assaults are far more common in the countries from whence most of our migrants came than they are here.
But this too has been tipped on its head. While some politicians ritualistically humiliate themselves by donning ethnic costumes and attending ethnic festivals in search of easy votes, others were this week forming the Parliamentary Friends of Healthy Masculinities, a Soviet-style committee spreading propaganda about the innately violent attitudes Aussie men have towards women, and promoting behaviours that they deem will from now on be acceptable, an example of which Prime Minister Anthony Albanese helpfully demonstrated when he danced like a 14-year-old girl at a Taylor Swift concert last year.
It all comes down to the level of trust that exists in our society. Our institutions — our common law, insurance companies, welfare agencies, educational bodies and so on — all rely to a certain extent on the vast majority of us not trying to game the system.
It is depressing to notice that everything governments do these days is directed towards breaking down that trust, and with it, the civil institutions that enable us to live in relative freedom. Once trust is gone, so too has our hope of ever recovering the freedom and prosperity we once thought would last forever.
In the final two couplets of his epic poem Australiasia (1823), Australian patriot William Wentworth optimistically wrote that this nascent island colony would one day become a smiling beacon of freedom in the region:
“And may Australia’s sons, a patriot band,
Spread peace and freedom o’er this smiling land;
Till Australasia, firm in rights her own,
Shall stand, the Britain of the Southern zone.”
He’d be rolling in his grave now. The way it’s going, it will take a miracle to prevent Australia from instead sliding into Third World shitholery. Australia will resemble the polluted, crowded, dysfunctional worst parts of central Asia long before climate catastrophists finally concede that there was nothing to worry about the weather after all.
