Tossed in the dimming twilight of November 2025, as the chill winds of northern winter sweep across a fractured continent, we confront a truth as old as civilisation itself: empires do not fall to invaders alone; they perish from within, hollowed out by the rot of self-doubt and surrender. Tucker Carlson's searing monologue in The Spectator, a dispatch from the front lines of cultural collapse, lays bare the "strange death of England." But let us be unflinching nationalists in our reckoning: this is no isolated elegy for Albion's green and pleasant land. It is the death rattle of the United Kingdom, echoing through the corridors of Europe, and reverberating across the Anglosphere to the very heart of the West. If we do not rouse ourselves from this induced stupor, the flame kindled by Athens, guarded by Rome, and ignited anew by our forefathers in Magna Carta and the Enlightenment will gutter out, not with a bang, but with the whimper of a people too ashamed to breed, too timid to pray, and too defeated to defend their own hearths.
Carlson's thesis strikes like a thunderbolt: England, that indomitable forge of the world's greatest empire, victor in the two cataclysmic wars of the 20th century, has not merely declined; it has behaved like a conquered nation. "This is the behaviour of a defeated people," he declares, cataloguing the squalor with the precision of a battlefield surgeon: streets littered with the detritus of despair, graffiti scrawling obscenities on ancient stone, a populace adrift in drugs and drink, unkempt and unmoored. It is not poverty that explains this — immigrant enclaves, for all their penury, pulse with the vigour of families unapologetically expanding. No, this is the spiritual surrender of a native stock that has internalised its own obsolescence. In London, once the throbbing artery of a domain spanning a quarter of the Earth's surface, white British souls now comprise less than 40% of the population, a seismic shift from near-total homogeneity a century ago. The Union Jack, symbol of Trafalgar and Rorke's Drift, is now an emblem of embarrassment to its own bearers, while abortion clinics hum with the silent genocide of 30% of unborn Britons, a "state-sponsored suicide" that ensures the island's demographic eclipse without a single shot fired.
This is not hyperbole but historical inevitability unchecked. Britain did not lose to external foes; it handed the keys to its destiny across the Atlantic, ceding empire to America in a fraternal transfer of power and patrimony. Yet where the United States once inherited the mantle with vigour, building upon shared customs of liberty and law, the mother country withered into a "sad, soggy welfare state," its people policed not by redcoats but by the thought police, who arrest the devout for the crime of silent prayer near clinics of extermination. This is the syndrome of the subjugated: recall the Native Americans, those "most impressive people, most self-reliant, most dignified" warriors whom European settlers admired even as they warred, now reduced to the dregs of the American dream under a century of federal paternalism and internal despondency. Sympathy, yes, scorn, never. But the parallel is damning: defeat breeds self-loathing, and self-loathing invites replacement. Mass migration, Carlson rightly insists, is not the villain in itself; it is the scalpel wielded by a native elite too enamoured of their own virtue to notice the blood on their hands. The newcomers arrive with faith in their future, reproducing amid adversity; the incumbents, marinated in guilt, enforce their own erasure, cheering the dilution of their bloodlines as "progress."
Extend this gaze northward, and the United Kingdom unravels in full. Scotland's separatist fever, once a romantic Highland cry, now reeks of the same defeatism: a devolved parliament in Holyrood, drunk on subsidies and spite, agitates not for independence but for integration into a borderless Europe that despises its own borders. Northern Ireland, that fragile suture of the Troubles, teeters under the Belfast Agreement's illusions, with Sinn Féin's resurgent Sinn Féin eyeing reunification not as triumph but as escape from a sinking ship. Wales, ever the loyal appendage, murmurs of cultural revival while its valleys echo with the ghosts of coal and chapel, their Protestant fire long extinguished by secular drift. The Isles, once a bastion against Continental tyranny, from Philip II to Napoleon to Hitler, now genuflect to Brussels' ghost, even post-Brexit, importing the EU's migrant tides and regulatory chains. The UK's "strange death" is a federal farce: a sovereign parliament neutered by devolution, a monarchy reduced to a tourist sideshow, and a populace that riots not for sovereignty but against the very nationalism that forged them.
Zoom out to Europe, and the contagion reveals its continental scale. France, cradle of la gloire and la patrie, convulses under la grande remplacement, the great replacement, that Éric Zemmour warned of a decade ago: Paris's banlieues ablaze not with revolutionary fervor but with the clash of unintegrated clans, while native birthrates plummet below 1.8, ensuring that by 2050, the tricolor flies over a majority non-European populace. Germany, that Prussian engine of order, atones eternally for 1945 by flinging open borders to a million-plus arrivals in 2015 alone, now reaping the whirlwind in knife-wielding streets and silenced Christmas markets. Sweden, the Nordic idyll of social democracy, logs Europe's highest rape rates, its welfare state strained by a migrant influx that turns Malmö into a no-go zone. Italy's ancient boot, guardian of Christendom at Lepanto, watches Lampedusa become a sieve for unchecked arrivals, while Giorgia Meloni's populist opinions hold, barely, against the flood. Eastern Europe resists with nationalist grit: Poland and Hungary build walls and invoke God, family, and fatherland, but even they feel the Brussels boot on their necks. The European Union, that supranational leviathan, accelerates this demise, enforcing "diversity" quotas that mock the very diversity of sovereign cultures it claims to cherish. Europe's "strange death" is a suicide pact signed in the salons of Strasbourg, where elites peddle globalism as salvation while their nations fracture along ethnic and confessional lines.
And if Europe falls, what of the West entire? The Anglosphere, America, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, even Ireland in its Celtic kinship, bears the same birthmarks of decline. In the United States, the colossus that inherited Britain's sceptre, we see the same rot: cities like San Francisco, once beacons of innovation, now tented fiefdoms of the homeless, where fentanyl flows freer than the Pacific trade winds. Native fertility languishes at 1.6, while border caravans from the global south surge unchecked, not as guests but as conquerors in slow motion. Canada's maple-leaf multiculturalism dissolves into tribal balkanisation, with Toronto's streets a babel of accents that drown out the hockey rink's roar. Australia, that convict-forged frontier, erects dams against the Pacific tide but erodes under Aboriginal reparations and Asian influxes that dilute the Anzac spirit. Ireland, freed from the Raj's shadow, now imports the troubles anew via Dublin's tent cities. This is no coincidence; it is the West's shared inheritance from the Enlightenment's bastard child: liberalism unbound, which preaches individual rights to the point of communal annihilation. We have won every war thrust upon us yet lost the peace to our own ideologies of guilt and openness.
We must sound the tocsin: this death is not fated, but it demands vigilance if we are to avert it. First, reclaim the hearth, reverse the reproductive retreat. Families are the first sovereigns; subsidise the native-born with tax havens for the wedded and the fecund, not the barren bureaucracies of the childless elite. Second, seal the gates, immigration must serve the nation, not supplant it. Points-based systems, cultural assimilation mandates, and pauses on inflows until integration catches up: these are not cruelty, but charity to both newcomer and native. Third, revive the sacred, the West's Christian marrow, diluted by secular scorn, must be reinfused. No more arrests for Ave Marias; let churches ring with bells unmuted, schools teach the canon of Virgil and Burke, not the grievance porn of critical theory. Fourth, foster self-respect through order: sweep the streets, punish the vandals, and teach the young that litter is not "expression" but effrontery to the commonweal. "People with self-respect do not tolerate public displays of disorder," Carlson reminds us, for in cleanliness lies dignity, and in dignity, defiance.
Yet warnings alone are whispers in the gale; action is the clarion. To Britons: rally to Reform or whatever standard flies true, demand a referendum on the migrant deluge, and remind Westminster that sovereignty resides in the shires, not the salons. To Europeans: bolster the Le Pens and Orbáns, forge a confederation of nations, not a superstate, that honours blood and soil over borderless utopias. To Americans: drain the swamp anew, fortify the Rio Grande, and remember that the Constitution was penned for a people, not a proposition abstract. And to the West at large: gaze upon Carlson's England not as aberration, but as augury. "They've decided to do it themselves," he laments of the self-eliminating natives. But we need not. The strange death can be aborted, if we choose life, legacy, and the unyielding love of our own. For in the end, nations are not eternal; they are earned, generation by generation, with the sweat of sovereignty and the steel of the spine. Let us, then, be careful. Let us be nationalists. Let us live.
https://www.spectator.co.uk/article/the-strange-death-of-england/