About one in five young Brits in the 18-24 age group are whining like spoilt babies that they refuse to wear poppies this year.
A survey carried out by a group called (don’t laugh) Consumer Intelligence, has found that over 20% of these vapid little milksops believe that the red poppy, worn on November 11th, Armistice Day, ‘glorifies war.’
Quite a few claim to be out-and-out pacifists.
Well, as George Orwell acidly observed, those sensitive souls who claim to be pacifists can only do so, because there are others prepared to fight and die on their behalf. Orwell himself fought in the Spanish Civil War, of course: an idealistic old-style Socialist who would have loathed the toxic, soul-destroying Left of today.
So these young poppy-hating whingers aren’t really against bloodshed. They’re just against shedding their own.
Proud Boys Wear Poppies because they know their history, they know their ancestry, they know what the poppy represents.
The spineless bed-wetters who refuse to wear poppies, know nothing about such things. Deprived of a decent education that would have taught them about the greatness of the West, about generations of struggle and glory, they have swallowed whole the self-loathing myths of the Left.
Too weak-minded and slavish to rebel against the suffocating wet-blanket liberalism of the Sixties generation, they go along with their one-world hugging, hippy-dippy, dewy-eyed Bambi-level fantasy of world peace and love. Just at a time when our world faces more dangers than ever before…
These Lost Boys, these Shame Girls, think that by denying their own history, by abject self-abasement, ceaselessly apologizing for the ‘Sins of the West,’ they will win themselves social-media brownie points.
Proud Boys know better.
They know that war means heroism, comradeship and noble self-sacrifice for the tribe. They know their own family history, they know who fought where, when and why.
In my own case, I wear a poppy because my father fought in the Second World War. OK, he was eighteen, and just about managed to join the Home Guard before the war ended. But still… I’m proud of him.
I wear a poppy to remember my grandfather, a dignified, upright, white-haired old gent. He was in the merchant navy in 1918, on those atrocious Atlantic crossings which kept a wartime Britain fed and armed. He sailed up the St Lawrence River in Canada in autumn, something he never forgot, and on watch one freezing winter’s night in mid-Atlantic, when they were being stalked by a U-Boat, he saw a German torpedo whisper past the front of the bows not fifty yards off. I wear a poppy in remembrance of him.
And I wear one for two of my great uncles, whom I never knew because they never came back from Flanders. Alfred and Wilfred—those quaint old-fashioned names—were both dead by the age of 21. Their faded photos still gaze out from an old family album, forever young.
I wear my poppy for all the brave soldiers who have fought and died for Britain ever since—including Fusilier Lee Rigby, butchered in the streets of Woolwich in 2013 by two black Muslim fanatics.
Wearing a poppy also binds you in a brotherhood with the rest of the English-speaking world, which has stood together, fought together and died together so many times over the past hundred years, to defeat tyranny and evil.
The red poppy as a symbol derives from a moving old First World War song, In Flanders Fields, written by a Canadian army doctor, Lieutenant-Colonel John Mcrae.
Proud Boys probably ought to be able to recite it by heart (along with Tennyson’s The Charge of the Light Brigade, and Lord Macaulay’s Horatius):
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields…
61,000 Canadians died in the First Word War to save Europe, and another 44,000 in the Second. McCrae himself was wounded at the Second Battle of Ypres in 1915, and finally gave his life in 1918, dying—like so many other soldiers then—of pneumonia. He was buried in France with full military honours, his coffin borne on a gun carriage, his beloved horse Bonfire walking ahead of him. Like some Homeric hero of old.
Wearing a poppy binds you to our American allies, to Australians and New Zealanders. The Australian Army website puts it with great dignity:
“Australians wear a Red Poppy on Remembrance Day for three reasons. Firstly, in memory of the sacred dead who rest in Flanders’ Fields. Secondly, to keep alive the memories of the sacred cause for which they laid down their lives; and thirdly, as a bond of esteem and affection between the soldiers of all Allied nations and in respect for France, our common battleground.”
Proud Boys know this stuff. They know their military history. They know their old war films. Proud Boys know their family stories, they know of their own ancestors who fought and died for their country. If they don’t, they go and find them out.
And if, as reports suggest, wearing a red poppy in Britain today—especially in certain areas of ‘high diversity’—exposes you to abuse, harassment, or worse, well, no doubt Proud Boys will remember the spirit of their martial forefathers.
Because Proud Boys don’t whinge, Proud Boys don’t whine.
Proud Boys don’t expect others to fight for them.
Proud Boys Wear Poppies.
Have you got yours yet?