Yes, yes, I know. Many Paleos shudder at the mention of the word “empire,” rather as nineteenth-century old maids used to shudder at the mention of Lord Byron — but really, I ask you: When a Paleo watches Zulu, whose side is he on? Does he really cheer when, in the movie Khartoum, a dervish hurls a spear into the chest of General Gordon? Is he roused to say, “Damn right!” when the Kali-worshipping guru in the film Gunga Din gives his nationalist-fanatic speech to the sergeants three (Cary Grant, Douglas Fairbanks Jr., and Victor McLaglen)? When a Paleocon hears the strains of God Save the Queen does he truly have an incurable desire to stand up and shout, “Oi, what about the Irish?”
True Paleos, I suspect, if they are honest, have to rather like the largest empire the world has ever known, the British Empire; and they would probably agree with Mark Steyn that “insofar as the world functions at all, it’s due to the Britannic inheritance.” Some I know get a bit carried away with that hatred which is passed along through mystic chords of bog-trotting memory or Teutonic apologetics, which cast Britain, and England in particular, as a sort of super-villain, a prejudice that unites Iranian Islamists, Lyndon LaRouchers, members of the IRA, and the glossy Sergei Eisensteinesque agit-prop of Mel Gibson’s Braveheart and The Patriot.
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