By PAUL COMBEN
AT ABOUT 7.00 a.m. Mr. Smith raises himself from bed, staggers to the bathroom, and stares at his wrinkled little face in the mirror. Gulping his coffee and cornflakes, he then throws on one of his 'executive' suits, folds the newspaper into his briefcase, and staggers into the sunlight. It would take him no more than five minutes to walk to the train station, but he always uses the car – foreign by the way!
On arriving at the station, he is confronted with his first real crisis of the day. The public address system crackles to the effect that his train will be fifteen minutes late. At once his mind jolts into action. Will he have enough time to collect his sandwiches at Guiseppe's? Will the boss mind him being five minutes late? And most important of all, will he get his usual seat in the first-class non-smoker?
Eventually the train arrives, and, sure enough, somebody has got his place. Pausing to reflect on how cruel life can be, Smithy unfolds his Times and gives an impressive look of distress to all and sundry as he reads of the death of two soldiers in Ulster. He remarks to the person standing next to him that "it's about time somebody did something" – hear, hears all round. Satisfied that he has done his bit, he then lets out a good yawn and nods off.
Work follows the usual thrilling routine. A Mr. Cohen phones up complaining about the lack of a reply to a letter he wrote weeks ago. The boss starts tearing his hair out when the file is nowhere to be found because Mr. Cohen is such a valued customer. To make matters worse, poor old Smith has lost the change he uses in the drinks machine, and as he rummages through his cabinet he can hear the valued Mr. Cohen remonstrating with his boss concerning "de big overheads, my boy", and "how dis is maikin' ash and blotter of his account". Meanwhile, two teenage soldiers are being scraped off the pavement in Belfast.
When five o' clock comes our Mr. Smith is like a child leaving school. He rushes to the door, waving goodbye to Peter who has yet to find the written thoughts of Mr. Cohen, and heads for Charing Cross. Thanks to his fortitude and cunning, he has successfully maintained his place and station on the five-twenty, and smiles smugly at the thought that Samantha is bringing his favourite home tonight from that new Chinese place. Then feeling quite drained by the pressure of the day, he buries his head in the learned pages of The Standard, and so fails to see or even hear the convoy of police vehicles racing down New Cross Road, on their way to patch up a little spot of bother with the "coloured chappies".
What a pathetic, miserable little creature our Mr. Smith! He is the product of our age and society, the Urban Animal, devoid of all natural instincts and values. A neutered wretch living on the edge of oblivion, his whole life is centered on work, the odd round of golf and a half of bitter in the King's Head on Sundays.
Smith is an ideal servant of the capitalist state. He is a willing worker, asks no questions and causes no trouble at all. He considers himself "free" because the freedom he demands from his rulers is so minute that it might as well not exist at all. For Mr. Smith freedom essentially means obeying the rules, and having the chance to vote for Sir Monty Fiddlestein every few years. He often sees himself as a patriot – perhaps even a Thatcherite – but his willingness to get off his backside and do something to help his nation is non-existant. He will tolerate I.R.A. bombs, Black riots, mugging and unemployment, but just let his video go wrong and there will be hell to pay!
With his perverse set of values, his spineless morality and totally unused brain, Smith is more of a threat to this land than any number of Zionists, Blacks and Asians. These groups are only successful because there are too many Smiths letting them be so. In order to destroy the inner threat to our nation, the Urban Animal must be hunted to extinction.
It is interesting to compare this creature with the kind of people who lived in this land hundreds of years ago. Mr. Smith might consider himself superior because he can play a wicked hand of bridge, but in actual fact he is about as inferior as they come. It is next to impossible to imagine our ancestors of 1400 or 1500 tolerating a coloured invasion of their land. Instead, they would have made a grab for their sharper farm tools and met the invader head on. Medieval peasants may not have had Mr. Smith's record collection, but they knew the value of the land they stood on because they were the ones who worked it and raised their families on it. The natural instinct to defend the community and the land from the alien was alive and well.
In order to restore healthy instincts and wipe out the Smiths, you must destroy the environment that breeds them. As other writers have already said in the pages of this magazine, this will require the people of this nation to get back to the land en masse. The wayward path of two social revolutions, industrial and technological, has robbed our people of the need to face up to many of the strengthening challenge in life. The industrial revolution took away the need and even desire to work with hands, the technological is doing the same with brains. Cities have become super workshops, complete with dormitories provided in suburbia. The new robot-humans do their required act of service to the machine, and then return to their little boxes until needed the next day. Our people do not work to see crops grow or houses built, but simply to grab the green, blue and brown paper money that ensures that the television is paid for and the car runs.
Above all else, our people have been subject to a conditioning that leads them to walk past the victims of mugging, heedless of the desperate cries for help. It is why they remain unmoved by race riots, the rape of their nation and the butchering of their kinsmen in Ulster. It is why, until such time as something inside them comes alive and rekindles their spirit to fight, the National Front will never get the vote of Mr. and Mrs. Smith.