They told us it was a humanitarian crisis. They told us these were desperate souls on rickety rafts. They told us to be kind, to be tolerant, to check our privilege at the border control kiosk.
Well, I went down to Dover this morning to see for myself, and I have just one question for the tofu-eating, Guardian-reading, open-border zealots in Westminster:
Since when does a “small boat” have three masts, a crow’s nest, and a crew of six hundred men singing sea shanties about stealing our Chardonnay?
The Mainstream Media (MSM) won’t show you the pictures. Oh no. The BBC is probably zooming in on a single sad-looking spaniel on the poop deck to tug at your heartstrings. But I saw the truth. This wasn’t a rubber dinghy. This was a wooden behemoth. This was the Queen Anne’s Revenge re-flagged with a Tricolour.
The “Dinghy” Had Cannons
I watched through my binoculars—which, unlike our border policy, actually work—as this floating city of Frenchmen breached our sovereign waters.
They weren’t paddling. They were swinging from ropes. They weren’t asking for asylum; they were demanding the surrender of the port and a table for twelve on the terrace. And what did our brave Border Force do? Did they intercept? Did they defend this sceptered isle?
No. They sent out a pilot boat to offer them oat milk lattes and a pamphlet on how to register for a non-binary library card.
I saw a man on the bow of this “small boat”—who looked suspiciously like a heavily armed mime—lighting a cigarette with a fuse. Actual cannons were protruding from the gunports. Cannons! Yet, if you turn on the news tonight, some pink-haired presenter will tell you these are just “undocumented seafarers” fleeing the perils of a decent bakery.
The Great French Replacement
Let’s call this what it is: An invasion. But it’s not just an invasion of land; it’s an invasion of culture.
While the woke metropolitan elite are busy decolonizing their bookshelves, actual colonisers are sailing up the Thames. I could hear them from the cliffs. They weren’t crying for help. They were shouting about the lack of decent béarnaise sauce in Kent.
This is the end game of the liberal agenda. First, they came for your lightbulbs. Then they came for your gas boilers. Now, they are literally allowing Captain Hook: Le Edition to park a galleon in a 4-star hotel car park.
I asked a police officer on the scene why he wasn’t arresting the man with the eye patch and the cutlass who was actively stealing a pensioner’s fish and chips. He told me he didn’t want to “inflame community tensions” or “misgender the parrot.”
You couldn’t make it up.
Where is Drake? He’s Probably Been Cancelled.
If Sir Francis Drake were alive today, he wouldn’t be allowed to defend the Channel. He’d be pulled before an HR tribunal for “toxic masculinity” and forced to take a diversity course on why Spanish Gold is actually a social construct.
We used to be a serious country. We used to repel boarders. Now, we hand them a map to the nearest benefits office and apologize that the weather isn’t nicer.
This “small boat” is currently unloading crates of unpasteurised cheese and existential philosophy onto our beaches, and the government is doing nothing. They are laughing at us. They are laughing at our laws, our borders, and our inability to cook a steak tartare.
Wake up, Britain. Before you know it, the Union Jack will be hauled down, replaced by a white flag, and we’ll all be forced to shrug indifferently at everything.
The Armada isn’t coming. It’s here. And it brought its own wine.
God Save Are King!
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