As reported on the BNP website
The carriage is half-full mid morning with a selection of ethnics and tourists. Everyone wears drab unimaginative clothing: jeans and scruffy t-shirts with a variety of jackets that have all seen better days.
There are two or three like me wearing suits, shirt and tie, which would have been the norm 30 years ago, but today are so unusual in this drab refugee camp that people turn and stare at you.
At Monument and Tower Hill, the last of the tourists legs it across the platform. Once past Aldgate the nature of the passengers change as we enter ‘New Somalia’.
The people there almost never laugh and rarely smile. Mile End and Bow sees hoards more immigrants on board.
Some are hideous but most have an air of idle malice. They are a blight. None of them even look capable of work.
Without benefits and free housing it is clear these people would be living in the gutter. I feel like some beknighted character from a Graham Greene novel set in a Third World hell hole, rather than an Englishman in his own capital city.
One particularly evil looking ethnic reads the Guardian and I am tempted to ask him if he believes any of the Marxist lies it contains, but don’t.
After reading each article he looks up to see if anyone is watching him and it is soon obvious he views the rag as if it were his Bible.
At Barking most of the enrichers disembark and by Elm Park there are only indigenous British left for the last few stops. It is as if the last three quarters of an hour was a bad dream, but of course, it wasn’t.
It is the new politically correct multicultural Marxist Britain. A dysfunctional city of distrust, loathing and despair. How I imagine many Russian communist cities were in the 1960s.
Upminster is a quaint old English town that clings to the petticoats of London. One walks past shops from the station into the old town centre.
The place is “hideously white” and far too unenriched for your average liberal elite. There is not one Filipino, which is a noticeable change from Chelsea where they proliferate.
A couple of Somalians lurch up the pavement and one Muslim woman perambulates in the opposite direction. Everywhere there are white English people.
Hideous white people. English with individual faces, laughs, smiles and chatting too. A little bit of English heaven.
Although New World Order coffee shops litter the streets along with Chinese takeaways and Muslim eateries masquerading as Indian Curry Houses there is still an English feel to the place because of a large park and lots of odd shops that are clearly owned and run by our people.
There is a children’s playground full of indigenous whites. You think for a moment about how it was.
St Lawrence, the village Church, stands amongst a forest of yew trees and on the roadside in front of the graveyard is a smart war memorial.
Across the road is an old fashioned private book shop of the kind that once littered the capital but are now never seen due to excessive rents and exorbitant rates.
And just along from there a fish and chip shop where I have my lunch. Chatting with Peter, another customer, born and brought up in the town, his passion is cricket.
He tells me about an Essex team that once played on the village cricket pitch and how whilst trying to catch a shot on the boundary he fell over a spectator and was knocked unconscious.
Peter had all the mannerisms and character of a free man. Something you never see in immigrants. On the tube back to Hell Hole multicultural London, the same hordes of ugly immigrants swamp the carriage as we pass through Trans Pakistan and New Somalia. I mentally withdraw from this ethnic disaster.
The only person to break the grey bleak Muslim horror is a sweet little Japanese girl with rose bud lips and accentuated epicanthal folds, that make her seem excessively Japanese against the dour Muslim dross in the rest of the compartment.