The Uprising Chapter One: The Justice of Revolt
by Colin Jordan
4 January 2005
This book is dedicated to the late Bob Mathews, who, till his death in combat, fought against the dishonesty and degeneracy which identifies democracy, doing so as leader of an instrument of uprising, an American force of freedom fighters, The Order.
Also, to his heroic and steadfast comrades in struggle, particularly those still imprisoned, including David Lane and Richard Scutari.
Along with them, this book is dedicated to all others in Britain and other Aryan countries who have fought long and hard and suffered much for Aryan survival, liberation and revival.
At the same time, grateful acknowledgement is paid to the late Wallace Wears, benefactor of the author's work, whose help has made this book possible.
This book is the sequel to a preceding piece of fiction entitled Merrie England - 2000, depicting the state of England under alien control at the turn of the century, a destructive tyranny which provoked the rebellion which this present book depicts.
Merrie England -- 2000, although first published in England in 1993, has been reprinted in the USA in 1999 at a time when the regime of repression in England has been seeking to ban and destroy the book they fear, having included it in an indictment of prosecution against the author for 11 items of his literature, a prosecution which had to be postponed indefinitely because of the author's heart condition.
Since then, the printer in England of the first edition of Merrie England -- 2000 has in September 2002 been acquitted by a jury of a charge of aiding and abetting the author in the distribution of "hate literature" by printing that earlier book.
Merrie England -- 2000 is still available at $4 postpaid from:
Ottawa Lake, MI 49267
This book is purely fictional. The views expressed in it are the imaginary ones of an imaginary British Freedom Force there depicted. As such they are not a personal incitement by the author to 'racial hatred' or to violence.
The blame for the development of any such hatred or violence lies with the present regime in power in Britain which has the capacity and shows the proclivity to turn the fiction of this book into fact by its characteristic and habitual misgovernment in betrayal of the wishes and the interests of the indigenous folk it pretends to represent. By continuing to damage and destroy our national and racial heritage, and to deprive us of our freedom to oppose this and stop this without violent struggle, this regime can and may make the story of this book come true, changing fiction to fact, bringing about an uprising by a force of fighters for British freedom, survival and revival.
Whether this present regime of ruin, responsive to an outcry from its predatory manipulators behind the scenes, now moves to ban this book by prosecution and persecution of its author, may provide some indication of the certainty and speed with which it is set to provoke a resistance movement and a rebellion.
Since the above Preface was written in 1998 with a view to the book's publication later that year, the forces of suppression of the regime of ruin did move to ban the book. In August that year the 'Special Branch', being Britain's Thought Police, raided the author's home yet again and seized the rough draft of The Uprising. Subsequently they scheduled it as an exhibit for an impending prosecution which, over three years later, was only halted conditionally and indefinitely because of the author's disabling heart condition in his old age, making him in the reports of three heart specialists unfit for trial. The rough draft was with difficulty and long delay regained from the Crown Protective Service, allowing this book to appear at long last.
As some precaution and possible protection against Thought Police persecution of the author and seizure and burning of the book as banned, it is being printed, published and distributed in the United States of America outside the jurisdiction of British courts, and where some relevant freedom still remains so far. The Uprising, in respect of its production and marketing, has thus been driven into exile and become an asylum seeker, such is the state of affairs in Britain today.
If, by the instrument of government power, a people is being led towards its destruction, then rebellion is not only the right of every member of such a people -- it is his duty -- Adolf Hitler in Mein Kampf
CHAPTER ONE: THE JUSTICE OF REVOLT
The train came to a stop, mid-afternoon, at a station a short distance beyond the northern edge of London. Among those coming off it were several with stout shoes or boots and haversacks, evidently ramblers. One of them was a rugged, well-built man in his forties with a purposeful air.
He checked the timetable on the board on the wall before leaving the station and striding off on a route evidently known to him, leading shortly into the countryside. Some three miles on he turned off the by then minor country road onto a grass track which departed at a tangent, but soon assumed a roughly parallel course to the road.
After about a mile, the track ascended to a slight rise in the ground above and near to a crossroads, before wending its way eastwards. here our supposed rambler settled down as for a rest, taking sandwiches and a flask from his haversack which was a particularly large one. Among other things it also accommodated a copy of Sapper's book The Black Gang, a tale of the exploits of Hugh Drummond and his ex-service comrades in combating communism after World War I, resembling in some ways the activities of an organisation he now belonged to, and on account of which he was making his present excursion. On the train he had begun reading the book with relish for the second time.
It was a lovely afternoon and a lovely spot, peaceful and redolent of a rural England of old where the blood and the soil of the true English had intermingled time out of mind. The scene thus acutely contrasted with the debasement of people and life in the towns of England in that year 2006. Reclining on the grassy bank, our apparent rambler let his mind ramble on things past. He thought of his father, a volunteer in World War II, convinced by the persistent propaganda of the time that he was obliged to take up arms to defend his freedom and to preserve his country against a vicious and rapacious foreign foe intent on invading and enslaving it.
The heritage to defend which his father so willingly, if so gullibly, staked his life encompassed towns and villages thronged with the fair-haired, fair-skinned Anglo-Saxon and Celtic children of the native populations of this homeland. Thus it had been for centuries past, and for which generation upon generation of this breed had striven and fought and died, so that every bit of its soil was merged and animated with the activities of its folk. 'Freedom is in Peril! Defend it with all your Might!' commanded the wartime posters. The wartime speeches pressed the necessity of fighting to keep Britain for the British.
But the war -- brought about by its Western promoters for hidden reasons and alien interests, cloaked with downright lies, and conducted with unscrupulous exploitation of patriotic feelings -- had hardly ended when the real purposes began to show through. In place of a German invasion which never happened, there came a Colored invasion whereby hordes of Africans and Asians arriving on our shores, creating ever-expanding settlements in all our cities and towns before long.
As this Colored occupation proceeded apace, our renegade politicians responsible for it, the greatest criminals in our history on account of it, gradually, persistently introduced measure after measure of compulsion and suppression to enforce it. Their objective was to intimidate and coerce the British people into compliance with the usurpation of their homeland and the rape of their birthright.
While our monstrous betrayers proceeded to promote the Coloured invasion and occupation of our homeland to the deprivation of our peolple, they similarly and simultaneously allowed the Jewish minority in our land -- a segment of the Jewish worldwide, religious-racial entity in whose interests the war by the West against a liberated Germany of Aryan resurgence had been so largely fought -- steadily to increase its power and its exercise of it. Hence that alien minority had come to constitute a veritable ruling force behind government.
Such were the sombre thoughts of our rambler that sunny afternoon as he rested -- and waited. Involuntarily he clenched his fists in fury at the decline of his country and the debasement of his people in consequence of the treachery of the politicians. To him the contemplation of his nation as as cowed and conquered people, its youth hideously corrupted, its towns a new kind of slum of vice and violence and crudity was unbearably agonising.
It had been this righteous fury which had brought him several years before to join with others, aroused to the same purposeful intensity of outrage, in rejecting the conventional activity of British nationalism,with its engrossment in electioneering, as a waste of time and effort and hope. This they had done in the realisation that circumstances were such that the White electorate, television-trained, could not be aroused in time.
By now the veiled dictatorship had set up a new form of political police, the State Security Police (the SSP), incorporating and going beyond the former Special Branch of the police and of MI5 (Military Intelligence Department 5). All telephone calls and computer e-mail were now liable to be monitored without restriction, as was ordinary mail. Hidden microphones and video cameras were installed in some public places to enable further surveillance by the SSP in the lofty cause of 'political correctness', meaning complete conformity to the way of life prescribed by the dictatorship as congenial to its control.
In the interests of such control the mere possession, along with any distribution, of any literature and videos deemed contrary to 'racial harmony' and 'good order' was secretly put over on television, used as was radio as an instrument of mind control.
With their recognition of the uselessness and wastefulness of the conventional activities of the nationalist parties had come the conviction that only through revolutionary actio to disrupt and damage the foul system, and bring it to breakdown, could there be any real possibility of freeing Britain from the stranglehold of the enemy in power, restoring the land and its assets to its rightful possessors. Dedicating themselves to the supremacy of the deed in their pursuit of struggle -- the power of great deeds exceeding in eloquence all the speeches and writings of conventional politics -- they had formed themselves into the British Freedom Force (the BFF), a force of patriotic rebellion.
Some five miles from the spot where our impassioned rambler from the BFF thus reflected in his repose, there was located, as he well knew, way out in a rural setting removed from the heartlands of multiracialism with their festering sores, the home of one Martin Hammond MP. This was not his real or original name. In his ancestral home in a Polish ghetto he had answered to the name of Julius Silverstein.
It was this kind of English gentleman, bent-beaked, the backward slope of his Ashkenazi skull conspicuously vertical, who presided over the policing of the descendants of Harold and Hereward, Drake and Raleigh. His was the task of ensuring that they toed the line of decreed conformity to the emergent world order of submissive, interbred bipeds of a crass, consumer society.
Home Secretary Hammond made a point of returning home early on Fridays at the end of the parliamentary week: usually about 6 p.m. This was the expectation of his wife Rebecca, daughter of one of the fabulously rich lords of the supermarkets, controlling the food marketing of 21st Century Britain and thus the feeding of the bodies of the bovine herds of the tamed and captivated British, just as other fabulously rich lords of television, radio and press, sharing the immense advantage of the exceptional clannishness of their kind, controlled the feeding of the minds of the subjected British.
Friday, as Martin and Rebecca infallibly kept in mind, was the eve of their weekly attendance at a North London synagogue on the Hebrew sabbath the following day when they gave praise of their tribal Jehovah who had marked them out as his chosen ones, destined to inherit the fruits of the earth and lord it over the lesser mortals of the world, including the hapless natives of Britain.
It happened to be a Friday, and, as the resting rambler checked his watch, a little after 5 p.m. He also checked that in his shirt popcket under his jersey there still safely reposed a small pill. This was of cyanide, supplied by a BFF chemist as a solution of last resort in the event of imminent capture and the degradation and torture this would mean at the hands of Hammond's SSP.
This SSP eagerly and studiously made a practice of using on its BFF prisoners any and every means of interrogation and punishment ranging from electric shock treatment and the agonising lowering of blood-sugar level by insulin injection to lobotomy whereby the tissue of the frontal lobe of the brain, controlling emotion, was destroyed, putting the prisoner into a permanently passive condition. They were not averse to threatening to inject AIDS or even doing so in the cause of 'democracy', which made the rambler's determination to choose death in prefernce to capture very understandable indeed.
He then proceeded to take from his sufficiently spacious haversack, specially selected for the purpose, a semi-automatic, rapid-fire sniper rifle produced by the FN factory in Belgium and acquired by devious means. This had been adapted by one of the Force's gunsmiths to have a folding stock, suitably reducing its length so as to fit into the haversack. Checking the mechanism and magazine, he carefully positioned it on a slight ridge with its sights set on the crossroads at the halting spot for vehicles coming from the direction of London.
While this was happening, Home Secretary Hammond on the back seat of his homeward bound limousine, behind the driver and the bodyguard from the SSP, closed his heavy-lidded eyes in contented contemplation. It had been a good week at the Ministry and in Parliament. His work in controlling the Gentile population, brought to a desired docility by long manipulation and subjection, was going well. Nothing had been seen or heard for a while of that so-called 'Freedom Force' which had given him so many headaches. Perhaps they had lost heart, and that was the end of them. What an enhancement to his prestige that would be!
In his somnolent state he cast his mind back to long ago, as had the rambler, but to a markedly different effect. He luxuriated in reflection of how extremely well he had done for himself and his tribe since leaving Lodz in his youth. His was really a scintillating story of success in adapting to and exploiting the society and system of another people, capable of overcoming any aspirant cuckoo with ravenous envy.
What most certainly did not enter the self-satisfied thoughts of the travelling tyrant from Lodz was any idea that his so successful life had only another five minutes to run. A Commander's Council of the BFF had been convened to consider the case against him and the action to be taken against him. It had been decicded that a deaqth sentence was most definitely deserved, and would send out a powerful signal of deterrence ot other enemy functionaries. His execution would be a message by deed more communicative than millions of words.
Our rambler, now revealed as executioner, code-named 'Cedric', had eagerly volunteered for this assignment, designated 'Prime Removal', regardless of all risk, so inflamed was he at what the ministerial swine in question stood for and had been responsible for. This fury gripped his mind as he waited intently to pull the trigger of the British justice of revolt.
The black limousine came in sight, approaching the crossroads. It came to a halt there at the stopping line. Three quick shots rang out immediately, one for each occupant at least to prevent use of the car's radio-telephone to send out an alarm. With the wounded bodyguard nevertheless groping grotesquely for the instrument, 'Cedric' squeezed off a rapid succession of further shots, ample to ensure no more movement from the three now dead or fast becoming so.
He had no compunction in killing the driver and guard, along with the arch-criminal Hammond. This had been envisaged by the Commander's Council as concomitant; their deaths as accomplices of the monstrous and murderous regime were merited on that account, besides being necessary to allow 'Cedric' to escape after executing Hammond.
Without delay he set off back along the track at a fast pace. Exactly where it joined the road, he stopped, took from his haversack another pair of shoes around each of which there was a draw-stinged bag to cover the tread, and put them on. Then he quickly retraced his way a very short distance to where a little off the track and hidden from it ther ewas, as he knw from a previous reconnoitre, a tiny pool of black slime. into it went the sniping rifle, the thin gloves with which he had handled it, and also his previously-worn shoes. Back to the road he then went, slipping the bags off his shoes as he stepped on to it and stuffingn them into his pocket for suitable disposal on his way back to the station.
Some distance along his return route, his road was joined by another. There he waited a very short while at the bus stop at the road junction before boarding a bus for the station. Thereby he reached the station just within half an hour of Hammond's departure from this world. The next London-bound train came in very shortly after his arrival, as he expected from his planning, and as a matter of fact before the first police car, alerted by a report of the discovery by then of the 'crime' at the crossroads, began scouting the streets and investigating the bus station and railway station.
Though he boarded that train, he left it several stations down the line, there taking a bus from which he alighted a short distance from an Underground station to which he proceeded for the last part of his public transport on his return journey. As he walked along the road to it, he passed a house from which the sound of a special bulletin on television could be heard. It was reporting "a most serious act of terrorism" just perpetrated, presumably by a gang of devilish criminals calling itself 'The British Freedom Force'. The country had thereby been deprived of that outstanding public servant, Home Secretary Hammond, who had been assassinated on his way home from his unremitting labours for the good of the British public.
Pictures of the scene of the assassination were shown. Conjectures as to how it had been accomplished were presented. Appeals to the public to help in tracking down the culprit or culprits were voiced. Assurances of certain and swift and most severe punishment to be meted out to the monsters waging war on the glorious evolution of New Democracy in a magnificently multiracial Britain were thundered forth by the furious authorities. What would have infuriated those agitated authorities even more, if aware of it, was the distinct if somewhat furtive look of delight observable at least for a few seconds on the faces of so very many of the cowed and captive British public on hearing and seeing the news.
A tremendous manhunt was immediately set in motion by both the ordinary police and the State Security Police. This the BFF had of course expected and prepared for. So 'Cedric' on his return to London on the day he rid Britain of Hammond went by Underground to an address where he remained on his own in isolation, detached from all contact with his fellow fighters for a scheduled period of quarantine.
The search was intense and incessant. Premise were raided. Suspects were seized and 'grilled'. Gilded accounts of the diligence of the investigators, laced with exhortations and threats, were daily occurrences. Tempting rewards for information, accompanied by offers of immunity for acts of betrayal by members of the BFF were announced. The last measure drew not the slightest repsonse. The massive concentration of the investigation did, however, produce a tragic result for the BFF a week after the elimination of Home Secretary Hammond.
About 5 o'clock in the morning, the early light of midsummer illuminated both a small house in north-west London and a number of SSP vehicles positioned to front and rear. Then an amplifier boomed forth, awakening the whole neighborhood, calling on the occupant of No. 37 to come out immediatley, weaponless and hands in the air in surrender, otherwise, after five minutes, the SSp would open fire and shoot to kill.
The response was not slow in coming. Out rang an unwavering voice of defiance from 'Cedric', telling his communicators to go to hell where they belonged. To this he added some words of dedication to his sacred cause of the liberation of his people and his country. In conclusion he added an unmistakable emphasis of intention by means of a prolonged burst of fire from his Heckler & Koch MP5 sub-machine gun which gladly found a mortal mark in five of the enemy insufficiently careful in their placement. This weapon, 'lifted' from the very SSP itself was capable of either single-round fire or fully automatic fire at the colossal rate of 800 rounds a minute. His other armaments, assembled in case of precisely the situation which had now arrived, included a highly useful Remington 12-gauge, 5-shot, pump-action, riot gun smuggled into the country from American sympathisers, and an RPG7 rocket launcher.
The resistance from 'Cedric' lasted for several hours, during which time he succeeded in killing another seven of the enemy and wounding 12 others of them out of an opposing force of no less than 70 men. A cannon-equipped helicopter which was called in was brought to the ground with a well-aimed blast from the rocket launcher. The tear gas they tried was nullified by the gas mask the heroic rebel fortunately had in his stock of weapons and equipment and supplies.
When, despite the Kevlar bullet-proof vest he had donned for the occasion -- incidentally another item taken previously from the SSP -- 'Cedric' accumulated wounds both numerous and incapcitating, he still managed to dictate the concluding course of the conflict by igniting an incendiary device which set the place on fire with great rapidity, and then placing in his mouth the cyanide pill and biting into it. The fierce fire kept the enemy back so long that all they eventually got hold of was the charred corpse of an exceedingly brave British patriot who had arranged his own Viking-style funeral pyre as a climax of sacrifice to the cause he held so dear.
'Cedric' in his last moments had absolutely no regret at all for the direction of his life, including the precipitation of his death in the circumstances we have noted. Unlike those who, without dignity, died in their beds of this or that lingering malady, or decomposed to dwindling extinction in some geriatric ward, he had given high purpose and consequent quality to his life by his noble idealism.
What a comparison with the end of Home Secretary Hammond who went to his Hebrew heaven slumped passively in his limousine of opulence! The rifle shots of retribution interrupted only the gloating reminiscence of predatory and persecutory conduct by a presumptuous trespasser in another people's domain.
What a comparison too with all the warriors of all the nationalist parties over so many decades! With their tongues so well lubricated with their continual and copious consumption of beer, they have all the time talked of a life or death struggle being in progress, but without a single one of them being prepared to fight to death in that struggle.
Hammond's uninspiring demise was, however, highly influenced in its particular way. It caused a chill of anxiety to afflict not only his colleagues of ministerial rank, but also lesser functionaries of the foul regime. All of them henceforth lived their days, despite measures to guard them, with the ever-present fear that their turn would come next for some attack. This instillation of fear, enveloping and clinging to their lives, showed itself in the constant shock from some sound or shadow in the night when lying awake in anxious contemplation, or in the daytime when suddenly approached by some stranger.
All this was part of the achievement of 'Cedric'. Another part of his achievement lay in the immensely powerful inspiration that his deed provided for others of the BFF. What he had done became the saga of 'Cedric', recounted over and over again in the ranks of the Freedom Fighters, uplifting and firing others, including new and young recruits, to face danger and sacrifice with something of the same courageous spirit of devotion. Thus he achieved immorality which is the reward only of heroes.
Copies of Mr. Jordan's The Uprising are available in paperback for $10 apiece from: NS Publications, POB 270486, Milwaukee WI 53227.
Bio: Colin Jordan was born in 1923 in Birmingham, England. He attended Warwick School where he won a university scholarship in History.
Volunteering for the Fleet Air Arm, but unsuccessful on a pilot's course, he transferred to the Royal Air Force. While on deferred service awaiting flying training, his political ideas so developed that at the end of 1944, when deferred service personnel were transferred to the Army as then surplus to requirements, he declared his political opposition to the war and his support for a negotiated peace. As a result he was sent to the Royal Army Medical Corps in which he later became a unit educational instructor.
On demobilisation he took up his adjourned studies at Cambridge University. While doing so he also organised a University Nationalist Club, served on the staff of the University newspaper Varsity, and was a front bench speaker in debates at the Union Society. In 1949 he graduated with an Honours Degree.
While at Cambridge he had joined the British Peoples Party and been elected to its National Council, and on leaving Cambridge he founded a Birmingham Nationalist Club which he conducted until moving to Leeds to take up a teaching post, and later moving to the Scottish Highlands as representative for a major company. During this period his first book, Fraudulent Conversion, was published in 1955.
Returning to the Midlands and to teaching, he joined the League of Empire Loyalists, becoming its Midlands Organiser, before founding the White Defense League in 1958. This merged with another orgaisation in 1960 to form a British National Party of which he was the chief officer, and from it emerged the National Socialist Movement under his leadership.
Solely because of the NSM's July 1962 Trafalgar Square rally, Colin Jordan was dismissed from his teaching post and disqualified as a teacher. He was then prosecuted and convicted for his speech at the rally and for his part in the NSM's defence corps, and given a total of ten months imprisonment. In 1967 he was gaoled again, given 18 months for his writings.
In 1968 the NSM was replaced by the British Movement under his leadership. In 1975 personal commitments obliged his retirement.
Moving to the Yorkshire of his paternal ancestors, he has since confined himself to his writings.
More on Jordan's legal battles here. More here on battles with jew Jack Straw.