God Curse the King

The Grimy First World War Guilt Hoax, Held Aloft by British Lies and Piles of Corpses

The British Prime Minister’s currently whining that Russia’s about to choke their air, sea, and roads. You could laugh it off as the drooling gibberish of a globalist nutcase—and plenty will—but the real gut-punch is that we’ve watched this pathetic charade before. Twice. And only a drooling idiot would cheer for a trilogy.

The next few articles are a history lesson no one asked for but damn well needs, because we’ve got to sniff out the rancid pattern: the preening, the backstabbing, the slithering deceit dripping from the United Kingdom like pus from a popped boil.

British readers, this’ll sting like hell—might even make you want to hurl this in the bin and smash that unsubscribe button. I don’t blame you. But just as I had to choke down the fact that the festering turds running my country are a disgrace to oxygen, you’ll have to gag on the same truth about your own. This isn’t about the British people—it’s for them, a lifeline through the muck. I’ll drag you kicking and screaming through the rotting corpse of your empire, its filthy lies, and every stinking detail.

And if enough of you can stomach it, we’ll claw through the rest of this blood-crusted history, straight up to now, where the UK’s foaming at the mouth to shove the planet into another world war. Sure, it’s easy to solely dump this on the U.S.—it’s the hip thing to do, and trust me, the shitstains in Washington deserve every kick—but it’s high time we glare at the pompous pricks and crowned cretins hiding on that damp, misty island. The clock’s run out, and their game’s up.

At the helm now stumbles their absurd tampon-obsessed monarch, King Charles—a gormless, frog-faced twit so far gone from reality he’d swap the crown jewels for a crate of Halal meat and call it a win—flanked by a Queen who’s a queen in name only, a wrinkled ornament dangling off his arm like a bad joke. And then there’s their wretched lapdog, that puffed-up, preening soy boy they’ve shoved into the Prime Minister’s suit—a swaggering, flabby parody of every slimy stereotype the British have spent centuries swearing they’re above.

This wretched threesome and their lapdogs are dead-set on plunging Europe back into the gory cesspit of war, and if the U.S. had some other dimwit occupying the White House right now, we’d already be chained to their rotting dinghy, shipping off our kids to bleed out in Ukraine while the Brits buff their lone, broken-down tank. Ring a bell? It damn well should. These pompous imperial buffoons are at it for the third freaking time—two prior disasters last century weren’t enough—and we’re expected to bob our heads like obedient serfs to a crumbling Empire that’s already kicked the bucket.

Enough is enough. It’s time to torch the rosy, tea-stained myth of “Great Britain” and expose it for the sham it’s always been. The sanctimonious upper crust of this island—the so-called elites with their stiff upper lips and softer spines—need to be dragged into the light and forced to own up to their laundry list of sins. And where better to start than with the granddaddy of their global disasters: the First World War?

That catastrophic bloodbath wasn’t some noble clash of ideals or a tragic inevitability. No, it was thrown by a tiny clique of British aristocrats who couldn’t stomach the fact that Germany had outclassed them in every conceivable way. Industry, science, engineering—name it, the Germans were running circles around them, and the Brits, with their fragile egos and fading empire, couldn’t handle being second best. So what did they do? They lit the match and burned the world down, dragging millions to their deaths just to soothe their bruised pride.

It’s a vile, slithering pattern, a rancid thread that coils through Britain’s sordid history like the stench of an overflowing privy. In the weeks and months ahead, we’ll see this grotesque tale replay itself ad nauseam: a sniveling, envious elite, so obsessed with their crumbling illusions of superiority that they’ll toss anything into the fire to prop up their wobbling throne—including the one truly redeemable gem Britain ever had: its own people. These small-minded overlords, with their clammy hands clutching at faded glory, have proven time and again they’d rather see the world—and their own citizens—reduced to ash than admit their precious pedestal is a rotting sham.

“Great Britain” was never great—not by any metric that matters—and deep down, those powdered-wig-wearing toffs knew it all along. They’ve spent centuries papering over the cracks with pomp and propaganda, but the jig is up. It’s time to face the music, and trust me, it’s not going to be “God Save the King.”

Despite the veritable mountain of literature churned out for the 2014 centennial of the First World War, the paths that led to that cataclysm have yet to be probed beyond the sanitized, official fairy tale peddled to the masses. Not even Christopher Clark’s much-lauded Sleepwalkers dares to touch the meticulous groundwork laid for this war by a shadowy cabal of financial puppet-masters and geostrategic schemers.

The eerie parallels between today’s chaotic mess and the prelude to that first global slaughter are impossible to ignore—fault lines from a century ago are cracking open once more, threatening to spew the same old conflicts. We stand on the precipice of a Third World War, a looming disaster we can only hope to avert if we finally rip the mask off the roads that led to the First (and the Second), exposing the yawning chasm between the polished narrative spoon-fed to the public and the grubby, self-serving interests pulling the strings behind the curtain.

Wars aren’t waged by nations, nor even by their figurehead rulers—don’t kid yourself. They’re orchestrated by cold, calculating clusters of strategists and money-men, driven by profit and power, who meticulously set the stage long before the first shot rings out.

The governments caught up in the mess are just stumbling fools, blindsided by events and forced to react whether they like it or not. As I am going to lay bare, through a toxic brew of deliberate disinformation and carefully staged “catalytic” triggers—like the Sarajevo assassination—a scenario was engineered where war becomes inevitable, branded as “without alternative.” The architects of this chaos hold every advantage over the naive do-gooders scrambling to stop it, their plans too entrenched, their webs too tightly spun.

The First World War didn’t just spring out of nowhere—it was the rotten fruit of an imperial colonial game. That war was ignited not just to settle scores, but to strangle a budding alliance between Germany, Austria, and Russia in its crib—a potential rival power bloc in Central Europe that could’ve toppled Britain’s presumed dominance.

Germany’s economic ascent was a slap in the face to British pride; Walther Rathenau’s vision of a continental European economic zone—think of it as an early blueprint for today’s Eurozone—only twisted the knife deeper. Then there was the Baghdad Railway, a bold gambit to link economies all the way to India, a direct threat to Britain’s naval stranglehold and, by extension, America’s budding ambitions. Sound familiar? It should—just swap out the Baghdad Railway for China’s “One Belt, One Road” project, a modern Silk Road of peaceful trade stretching from Shanghai to Duisburg and Hamburg, and watch the U.S. corporate overlords squirm at the thought of losing their global chokehold.

Back then, the British didn’t just sit idly by. They weaponized Serbian nationalism with surgical precision, turning the Sarajevo assassins into the perfect match to light the fuse of the First World War. That blood-soaked gambit didn’t just secure Britain’s naval supremacy—it handed them a stranglehold on Middle Eastern oil, a prize they clutched like vultures. The parallels to today are chilling: a desperate elite, clinging to fading power, ready to burn the world down rather than share it. History doesn’t repeat itself—it just finds new puppets for the same old play.

Contrary to the sanctimonious drivel of official historiography, the construction of Germany’s naval fleet was never the existential threat to Great Britain that the fearmongers made it out to be—a fact laid bare by the war’s brutal outcomes, like the sinking of the German East Asia Squadron on December 8, 1914.

But how convenient it was for the British propaganda machine! The arms industry seized on Germany’s fleet-building as a golden goose, painting it as a looming menace to wring every last penny from the pacifist Campbell-Bannerman administration for their shiny, dreadnought-heavy war machine.

Better yet, it handed Britain a perfect cudgel to brand Germany as the snarling aggressor in the European sandbox. That the German government was too dense to see through this charade? That’s the real stain on their ledger, the blunder that actually shoulders them with responsibility for stumbling into the First World War.

Blinded by the giddy high of their 1871 unification, buoyed by a thriving prosperity and global scientific prestige—thanks in no small part to the seamless integration of their Jewish population—the Germans simply didn’t clock that they’d become a walking target for the jealous great powers circling like vultures. They were too busy basking in their own glow to notice the trap being set. And set it was, long before 1914, with a (blatantly illegal under international law) naval blockade designed to choke Germany’s economy into submission.

Let’s start with two insiders from the naval section of Britain’s Committee of Imperial Defence (CID): Maurice Hankey and A.C. Bell. These gents spilled the beans in excruciating detail—Hankey in The Supreme Command and Bell in A History of the Blockade of Germany. Their accounts reveal a scheme to turn the North Sea into a locked cage, severing Germany from the oceans and the rest of the world.

Then there’s Sir Julian Corbett—naval historian, strategist, and the Royal Navy’s official chronicler—who gushed that the First World War was orchestrated by Lord Hankey and his cronies within the British government with “an ordered completeness in detail that has no parallel in our history.” The blockade—and the cloak of secrecy draped over its planning—stands as one of imperialism’s crowning geostrategic triumphs.

Yet, despite the damning paper trail left by Hankey, Bell, and Corbett, this imperialist playbook has somehow stayed buried from public view. Flip through the reams of First World War scholarship, and you’ll be hard-pressed to find these names mentioned. Not in Christopher Clark’s Sleepwalkers, not in the tomes of German historical titans like Winkler, Münkler, Friedrich, or Leonhard. It’s as if the whole sordid affair’s been scrubbed clean, leaving the world none the wiser about the cold-blooded scheming that set the 20th century ablaze.

In the coming weeks, I’ll lay bare the twisted paths that led to the First World War—roads that converged into a roaring autobahn straight to hell. Not the idiotic tripe you find in history textbooks, claiming some poor sod got shot and then the Kaiser lost his marbles. I still remember that garbage from my school history book vividly—a half-page of pure nonsense.

Archduke Franz Ferdinand was assassinated in Sarajevo by a Serbian nationalist, Gavrilo Princip, on June 28, 1914. Apparently, that single event spiraled out of control, enraging Kaiser Wilhelm II and triggering a chain reaction of alliances that plunged Europe into war.” Even back then, as a teenager, I remember thinking, “No way.”

By asking hard questions about the motives and machinations of the nations—and the shadowy puppet-masters—tangled up in the First World War, I’ve started documenting the hidden trails that led to the slaughter. Unlike the establishment historians, I’m not shackled to the narrow, stuffy corridors of academic dogma. I’ve pieced together a different picture, leaning on my own experience within the gears of deep government, perspective, and a broader view of the world. What I’ve found is that the secrecy cloaking the war’s planning and the real triggers behind it works better today than ever.

Key documents have vanished into thin air or remain locked away—like the files on the Lusitania incident still moldering in the British Naval Intelligence Department. Meanwhile, the Anglo-American war propaganda from back then has sunk its claws deep into today’s academia and media, passing itself off as gospel.

After the Second World War, we once again were at a crossroads—a moment Karl Jaspers nailed in his 1958 book The Atom Bomb and the Future of Man: “We’re living in a transition between the history we’ve known so far, a history of wars, and a future that will either bring total annihilation or a state of world peace.” The story I’m about to tell aims to chip away at that mountain of denial and delusion, one unvarnished truth at a time.

What we’ve been fed about the carnage of 1914 to 1918 rests on a bedrock of lies and sleight-of-hand, painstakingly mortared into place at Versailles in 1919 by the swaggering victors. Since then, a legion of compliant historians has stood guard, ensuring no one dares poke holes in their sacred rendition.

When that war sputtered to its grim end, Britain, France, and the United States pinned the whole bloody mess on Germany’s chest like a scarlet letter, torching, burying, or doctoring any scrap of evidence that might dare contradict their smug verdict.

Germany, they decreed, was the lone architect of the global disaster—scheming in the shadows, thumbing its nose at every olive branch dangled for peace or mediation. Germany howled in protest, and rightly so, insisting it wasn’t the instigator, that it had only waged a war of self-preservation against a snarling aggression.

But history’s quill belongs to the winners, and their judgment thundered forth in the official edicts. From then on, the gospel of the war’s origins—swallowed whole by the world—revolved around German militarism, German expansionism, the Kaiser’s puffed-up bluster and wild-eyed ambitions, and that oh-so-convenient invasion of “poor, innocent, neutral” Belgium.

This “official” yarn about the First World War is riddled with holes so gaping you could march an army through them, and the war made it blisteringly clear that the real roots of the conflict sprouted not in Berlin but in the fog-drenched parlors of England.