The precise reasons for the British National Expeditionary Force being in the land of wine-guzzling Johnny Frog need not concern us too deeply. Suffice it to say that Hitler had the right idea, but his fatal flaw was that he was a bloody foreigner. Thousands of patriotic white Englishmen – and let’s not forget that, despite what the revisionist mainstream parties would have you believe, our inclusive forces also featured many loyal Jocks, Micks and Taffies in minor non-combatant roles – had faithfully answered their country’s call to arms in its hour of need, to crush Hitler’s jackbooted Paki hordes which threatened to wipe out thousands of years of white civilisation. Predictably, after being let down by our so-called European ‘partners’, faithful Billy Atkins and his white comrades-in-arms were trapped with their backs to the sea, facing the most ignominious defeat in white history.
Fortunately, however, salvation was at hand. Back in dear old Blighty, BNP founder-member Winston Churchill – at that time sidelined by the homosexual Establishment and vilified in the communist-dominated press just for standing up and being proud to be British – realised that something had to be done to save the British National Expeditionary Force from a massacre. So he got on the blower and selflessly set about doing something for others - a trait unique, of course, to the morally-superior white race.
One of the many establishment-spread lies that still endures about Dunkirk is that there was no air cover. The long-suppressed truth is that, although the beleaguered heroes on the beach-head swore that the UK Air Party were giving them no support whatsoever, in fact the doughty moustachioed warriors of the skies were just out of sight, fighting a brave battle over Brussels. For example, heroic Brylcreem boy Nigel Farage fearlessly towed his wing commander’s pennant into the air against overwhelming odds, only to prang his iconic and 100% British-made Stuka on the shoreline - to cruelly misplaced jeers from the very lads he was trying to help!
Meanwhile, as our white boys took ineffectual pot-shots at the circling darky bombers threatening their traditional way of life, Winston’s plucky little shits were steaming valiantly to the rescue. Our brave lads scrambled furiously over the mole who leaked the membership list and clambered aboard the flimsy rescuing shits, which often came close to sinking. And it was with heavy heart that the last of the shits finally sailed over the horizon – tragically abandoning plucky young Lt. Nick Griffin, who was left behind after fighting a hopeless rearguard action, only to be completely overrun at the last minute.
And so our dauntless fighting boys returned empty-handed but unbowed to dear old Blighty, where they bravely kept up the unequal fight against the Paki menace with whatever they could improvise - such as hastily-manufactured shit-throwers made, with typical white ingenuity, entirely out of old t-shirts.
And so the British National Expeditionary Force passed into history. Let all patriotic white Englishmen stand together and say with pride that, at the going-down-the-pan of the Daily Mail, we will remember them.
