We now stand at 300 subscribers.
Some of you are among the veteran elect; with the scars and singed raiment to prove it; some of you can boast of having seen bright and blinding lights like the Apostle Paul, which led you into the company of saints. In either camp can be heard the resounding boasts that you now belong to the *ONLY* revolutionary organ in the United Kingdom; the mainframe of an International Movement, set to emancipate mankind from Lemberg to Los Angeles.
Those who dare to harbour thoughts against us shall not only be destroyed, in the physical world, their memory shall be a stigma unto their families dooming even the most pitiable legacy to eradication. Should they die childless, they will go unmourned, should they procreate; then their children will curse God for having a reprobate parentage.
Ever since we have started, in 2021, we have experienced superabundant growth every month without fail. If J’accuse were a publicly traded company, it would be a super unicorn; capable of sustained, record-breaking Growth almost immune to market forces. Sod yer rise of Tech. Sod yer Death of Local Journalism. You are special witnesses to a unique event in media history.
Who blew the first horn on Starmergeddon? J’accuse. Who first raised the issue of Social Housing in print? J’accuse. Who struck the first blow against the Vicar? J’accuse. Rishi should fall. Depoliticisation. Lockdown as a political issue - vaccines. None but J’accuse have underwritten the concerns of the voting public with sober political analysis. The milquetoast mewlings of soft-Tory shills have always followed, rather than led, our immortal party line.
Does this mean that you can sit back, crack open a brewski and enjoy your status as the only aristocracy possible today?
I laugh at the thought and I gravely curse all those who humour it. Never, I repeat, never, have we been more let down by our audience. We have literal billionaires following this Substack who cannot even spare the £250 a year to take on the ‘Founding Subscription’. Eight pounds. Eight, derisory pounds. That is all they can summon from their vast fortune to support the only organ of the Right which holds Christmas to account. I exist in a haze of indefinite hatred. Gift to others my bile.
J’accuse is at war. We are facing an existential crisis. This moment was inevitable, yet History has found no group of men strong enough to withstand such a moment, until, that is, you — the great minority — subscribed to J’accuse. You are the men who shall prove the trend to decadence a miserable fallacy by your immortal strength.
We have attracted attention to ourselves. The vultures are circling. The entire right-wing ecosystem in Britain is now engaged in a desperate mission to steal our ideas and repackage them in the same, wet, watery packaging for a Daily Mirror woman who listens to Lana del Rey to enjoy on her commute. Some men would give up, they would say ‘this is how the world turns’. I refuse to give up. I stand like an eclipse to the scheming adversary’s eyes.
I belong to no political party. I shall author no advertisement for any power but myself. You will not see me endorse a platform of cutting inheritance tax and subsidising private schools for foreigners because it gets rid of the bloody Bomalians. Thousands in Westminster have tried to court me but I have turned their own underlings to my camp and rejected their advances.
THEY can talk to THEIR monkeys behind the battlements of sedition, THEY know that my voice resoundeth like a trumpet in her ranks and can do naught to avail it. They can pull out their hair; the dragon is beyond his reach. The entire editorial desk of The Daily Telegraph can form in league against me and are nothing; my hide is stronger than a thousand atom bombs, I strike them back and escape unharmed.