By MICHAEL WALKER
OXBRIDGE, you were once respected throughout the world and administered the largest empire in the world. The nation's battles were won, or so they tell us, on the playing fields of your private schools where the fagging system taught you how to treat the darkies and how to get by without women.
But Oxbridge, no-one respects you today. You assist in the creation of an Establishment that is vain without cause to be so, enthused with an insufferable self righteousness. In the civil service and the banking world you are now only avid for promotion, toadying before the God Money.
Oxbridge, I am ashamed that grown men in the Establishment, judges and policemen grovel before you. Whoever heard of an Oxbridge man “falling downstairs” whilst in police custody?
Oxbridge, what I hate about you is the way that you have turned socialism into a family feud between you and Daddy, made left-wing politics another of your “rags”, and a game for wealthy diletantes who want to “show off to the proles”.
Oxbridge, in your University Union you “deplore” outdated attitudes. When you walked in the halls of privileges in evening dress, there was a sort of appalling dignity about you; now you walk in the same halls dressed in Oxfam raincoats, you are merely loathsome.
In your rooms at Public School you stick up posters of Lenin and Marx, Martin Luther King and Malcom X.
Oxbridge, I hate you because there is nothing true in you. You are a SHAM in everything you do, from the way you dress to the fashionable ideas you espouse. When you reach the position that Daddy always had ready for you (Patient Papa! He knew it was a phase, he loved you even when you had long hair, read Socialist Worker and called him a 'capitalist exploiter'.) as director of the firm, will you still have those posters in your room, still be “outrageous” in your politics?
Oxbridge, what I hate about you are the hundred thousand Flunkeys, who control Britain from their rat holes in the city of London and from their offices in Brussels, who live at company expense ― the people's expense ― who have never had to worry about getting a job but who have erected miles of grey corridors in our towns to intimidate those who do, who believe in private enterprise so long as the private enterprise is big enough but who tie up every small business and family concern in so many tonnes of bureaucratic terror on paper, that no-one dare start up a small business... unless he has a legal adviser, an accountant ― the whole army of parasites of Oxbridge to assist him.
The degenerate face of Oxbridge: millionaire's son James Sainsbury. His snobbish ways and liberal attitudes make him unfit to lead the Britain of tomorrow.
Oxbridge, I hate the way you condemn racism from the sanctuary of the country; work on property development schemes that have turned the centre of our cities into wastelands when you live yourself in the very finest houses, away from the mess you create.
Oxbridge, what I hate about you are the financial and political careerists who make a fortune out of milking the country, who think they are superior because they are on christian name terms with parvenu poets and carpet-bagging politicians, claiming to be 'well educated' but speaking an up-market journalese in accent sterilised sufficiently not to be too 'plum' but sufficiently 'plum' not to be provincial.
Oxbridge, what I hate about you is your complacency in a world for which you are supposed to be responsible, the sneering attitude of superior knowledge you put on towards every idea, every passion, every yearning that is unselfish. Oxbridge, do you care for anything at all other than personal aggrandisement?
Oxbridge, I hate you because you are never ashamed. Your very existence ought to make you blush.
Oxbridge, what I hate about you is your pseudo-intellectualism which hides a vacuity of thought. Oxbridge, there isn't an original idea in your head. The humblest Welsh sheep farmer understands life better than you, is more worthy of life than you are.
Oxbridge, what I hate about you is the way you bluff your way through life by remembering names, the names of the artists who are 'in', the swindlers and tricksters of 'modern art', the experts (your experts!) who act as guardians of taste for the nation, the illiterate and meaningless babble of the modern novel (printed by your publishers), the smug assumption that all is right in the world because all is right for you personally.
Oxbridge, what I hate about you is the way that you think London is the centre of the world and deny your own origins. London, the centre of American rule over Europe, the gangrenous centre of the British nation, the home from home of the national and international parasites, the heart of the modern age, rotten with the pornographic self-indulgence of a corrupt and effete ruling class.
Oxbridge, I hate you because you are the stock exchange and the E.E.C. and the centre of every disruptive and corruptive force in the country; a hundred thousand rats gnawing at the national cheese.
Oxbridge, if you still had style or charm you might have an excuse. You have not and you fill me with nausea.
Oxbridge, you are no longer fit to lead this people, and you have no right to be the elite.
Oxbridge, you are not worthy of your inheritance. You are not worthy of the British people.