Restored Britain: Part One

Reads: 157  | Likes: 3  | Shelves: 1  | Comments: 1

More Details
Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic

In the 2020s, a strain of far right fascism took over the United Kingdom. It is up to a team of anarchists and a reluctant defector from the oppressive government to overthrow the maniacal,
psychopathic dictator and end the regime once and for all.

Submitted: September 01, 2018

A A A | A A A

Submitted: September 01, 2018



Chapter One


My radio alarm would go off at the precise moment The Great Morning Report started, every day.

“Good morning, glorious people of Britain, the last well-kept nation of Odin! You are tuned in the The Great Morning Report, the show that eases you in to your day of hard work for the Restored State over breakfast and coffee, every single day, all year round! Today is Friday the eighteenth of November, 2033, thirty seven years, three months and four days from the day of Our Dear Lord’s birth. The day is off to a chilly start for those of us here in the capital, but the clear blue sky will be over most of the South East for the remainder of the day; there’s chance of sleet in the Mid-West however, and moderate snow is expected in the North; heavy snowstorms are expected in the early hours of tomorrow morning across the North East, though are expected to be short in duration – this winter, state scientists believe, will be the chilliest since the nineteenth century, due to the efforts of Our Dear Lord in cooling the dying planet. Temperatures are believed to fall as far as minus nine by the end of the month.”

Our Dear Lord cooling the dying planet” – they ran the same story last winter. And then, when the scorching summer killed several people, the state blamed the Americans.

“However, we must cut our weather report short, to bring you breaking and world-changing news; Our Dear Lord has been officially credited this morning with creating the cure for a new biological weapon that has been under development in the US for several decades and has therefore received an honorary doctoral degree in biological medicine from the University of Thor.”

I grunted, opened my eyes, closed them, then opened them once, and tried not to listen to the radio as I rummaged around for my glasses. Breaking news, though common, was never a good sign – it meant the state was compensating. it was almost always false too, no different to the regular news – probably the reason, I supposed, why the weather was always put first and managed to last for twenty-two minutes when the State wasn’t whimsically issuing breaking news or a state of emergency. No matter how horrid the weather, it would always look good next to current affairs.

“The weapon,” the crackling voice on my radio continued, “has never been used and has remained a guarded government secret since 2019 – however, through the telepathic and telekinetic powers bestowed upon Our Dear Lord in his fight against Globalist Lokites, the American’s destructive endeavour was uncovered. In his study last night, Our Dear Lord concocted an antidote to the weapon that infects victims with a disease cleverly disguised as and indistinguishable from HIV. The American government has denied such allegations, saying that HIV was cured in the twenties by an Israeli scientist and no mutation of it has ever been recorded and accusing Our Dear God of lazy, unfounded propaganda in a White House press statement.”

According to the records at the office, most listeners only ever tuned in for an average of seventeen minutes from the beginning of The Great Morning Report on slower days. Whenever news like this occurred, the average listen time reduced to around four minutes – a fact kept from the highest members of the state. Apparently the British public was very selective on what it wanted to hear; my own ratings would shoot up when I had a celebrity on, but then they would plummet the moment the segment would end and I’d have t go in to state propaganda mode. The dip in viewership during the news was no different. People wanted to know the weather, perhaps because it directly affected them, though likely because it was the least offensive thing you’d hear from the media, even in the midst of worldwide natural catastrophes. At least climate change manifested as natural disasters; something the state wasn’t in control of (although the state would routinely accuse the Americans of controlling worldwide weather).

Alongside the weather, whenever tensions were heightened with Europe, which they frequently were, stories addressing such tensions usually scored higher in ratings than others. The State, of course, believed otherwise and considered false news about Restored Britain’s ruler to be of more concern to the public – and when the state is concentrated in to a one single man, keeping secrets about statistics is all rather easy.

“More on that as the story unfolds. In today’s main news however, three men have been found guilty of possessing banned literature, including copies of The King James Bible and The Qur’an – they are to be hung at dawn on the Tuesday; ex-marine Bradley Charles has been arrested and charged on three counts of possessing and distributing prohibited music and films – it is likely he will be sentenced to hard labour for a minimum of fifteen years – and an ex-Pornographic actress has been arrested on twenty counts of sexual deviancy linked to material and indulgences prohibited under the Sexual Morality Act of 2029 and is expected to be sentenced to death by flogging. Meanwhile, the investigation in to the destruction of GBBC property by anonymous radicals last week is still under way and Europa Yard has authorised the military to begin interrogations. The police have assured the British public that those responsible will be apprehended and will certainly face the full extent of the law.”

Finally – I found my glasses. I flicked the radio off. There was always someone being put to death for possessing forbidden material or committing treason against the state, as what constituted those things changed often without warning – I’d long grown sick of hearing it. It was impossible to not be a criminal in Restored Britain and I needn’t be reminded.

I sat up in bed and stayed there a little longer, thinking about those who were to be hung for holding religious texts. I thought briefly about the past, when Norse paganism wasn’t even a popular religion, let alone a state religion – Muslims, Hindus, Jews and Christians had managed to live side by side in the UK for decades. I lived not too far away from a mosque as a kid. My church would team up with it to do local charity work.


I finally crawled out of bed. I wobbled for a moment as I stood up. I was hung-over. Nothing new. I was always hung-over. So, like every other day, I showered, went downstairs, had a cup of coffee and smoked my first cigarette of the day.

The Great Morning Report was right: clear skies. I coughed from the first few pulls of the cigarette, admiring the sunrise looming over the hilltops of Hastings. The weather truly did make that difference.

I slid the kitchen door open and stepped in to my garden. The cold air shot down in to my chest and made me cough again for a few moments. I regained my composure and squinted in to the rising sun behind the largest tree in my garden. On the brightest days, like that day, I enjoyed watching the pigeons that lived in that tree. That day they were out, plucking at the soil beneath the tree, digging out of it worms and other creepy-crawlies. I counted four of them; four pigeons. Two more than there were a year prior, one less than there was a month before.

I watched them because I envied them. They had no idea of the world around them. To them, all they ever knew or cared about was where the food was coming from and whether or not it was a suitable day to fly out and look for bits and bobs to add to their nest. There was nothing a pigeon couldn’t say or do that could have them murdered in a camp somewhere on the Isle of White. They weren’t afraid of other pigeons who might come and kill their families or loved ones; they didn’t think about whether or not their actions would annoy a much bigger, angrier and fanatic pigeon. All they cared about was eating, building and having children – a bit like how humans ought to behave. They weren’t wrapped up in ideology. There was no such thing as Aryan or Jewish pigeons. To them, they were just as they are.

I flicked my finished cigarette over the fence in to my neighbour’s garden, went back inside my house, and put the kettle on for another cup of coffee.


The kettle finished boiling. I poured the hot water in to my cup, though granules were swishing around the bottom; residue from my last cup. I stirred, added milk, threw in another two table spoons of coffee and lit a cigarette while I contemplated whether or not to throw some Whiskey in to the equation.

“Radio, turn on,” I said loudly. I wondered if the news had finished. There was a few muffled beats of white noise before the clear voice of Frederick Harlem, a GBBC Radio host croaked through my kitchen.

“And we give thanks to Odin, the guide of our Great and Dear Lord and Leader, Mick Brennigan, first of his name and last of his line. We thank him for restoring Britain to the former glory of the days lost to the Zionists, the Muslims, the Christian invaders of Old and militant sexual deviants. We thank him for keeping us protected from a Europe invaded by dogs from another world; those who make beds with animals and kill their own children for their God. We also thank him for his glorious nuclear weaponry, which keeps us safe from the invaders who wave the dreaded flag of liberalism and modernity. For ever and ever does the name of Mick Brennigan echo in the hearts of the righteous. May his name shake his foes with fear and may his wrath devastate their lands. He is son and heir to God Almighty, Odin, and brother of Thor. May he live for ever and ever. Praise be unto him eternally.”



Chapter Two

Mick Brennigan was a strange looking man. Skinny and standing at a mere 5”7, he had wild and untamed bleached blonde hair that was kept in a beehive, perhaps from back-combing, though more likely neglect; wilder green eyes  and chiselled features that embellished his fierce jaw line and powerfully large nose. He wore an orange, pin-striped suit, complete with dyed-orange leather shoes, a red shirt beneath his blazer and a sickly yellow tie. He wasn’t married, and never had been, but nevertheless he wore a huge diamond ring on his wedding ring finger – and his face had been carved in to the ring’s diamond. On his chest was a yellow badge with the letters GL: God-Leader.

He always had a smug, self-congratulatory grin on his face too.

Certainly, there was nothing about this man’s presence that could be interpreted as calming or assuring – quite the opposite. He looked like a walking, talking manic episode that had somehow separated itself from its sufferer and manifested in to flesh.

His office at Number Ten Downing Street was as ridiculous as he was. Each one of the four walls was a different colour: baby blue; romantic red; a violent purple and a grassy green. The furniture was from all different places and times: his desk was an early 21st century school table, the cheap kind that was easily broken; his chair was an 80’s style beige armchair; the crystal chandeliers that lit the office were of the early 20th century; the rugs were each an Arabian designs (some may have even been prayer mats) and the art work displayed in his office was of the macabre, most of them portraying some form of illicit sex or violent acts involving death and destruction. His desk was pretty much empty, besides a solid gold globe, an intercom machine and a baseball bat wrapped in barbed wire that he had displayed proudly along his desk with his name carved in to it – a depraved variation of an office name plate. Opposite his office table was a speaker system up against the baby blue wall, which was as tall as him and rigged to a small portable music player that he left carelessly on the floor.

He rarely sat in his chair and by those close to him it was often noted how he would pace up and down his office every day, rarely sleeping, singing songs and muttering on about Adolf Hitler. But he was also known for entertaining guests, very frequently. Usually women.

“George, are the ladies I asked for here yet?” Brennigan asked politely over the intercom, bobbing his whole body to an imagined beat.

“Yes, my God. Shall I send them in?” answered an upper class English accent.

“Please. How many am I entertaining today?”

“Two. Ms. Elizabeth O’Tonnell and Ms. Sally Lancaster. Both of strong Anglo stock. One blonde, the other ginger, my God.”

“Oh, fantastic!” squealed Brennigan, clapping his hands together, “Hurry, send them in!”

“As you wish, my God!”

The two women entered Brennigan’s office. Both were attractive. One had fiery, vibrant red hair, freckles over her nose, big, pale blue eyes and pink, full lips. The other was a six foot blonde. Conventionally attractive, I first thought when I met her. Her hair was long and kept down, her eyes were blue and she had unintimidating features, such as a lack of a distinguishable jaw and a small button nose. Both wore overtly-flattering clothes: mini-skirts and tank top vests. The redhead wore thigh-high boots and the blonde, red heels. Both carried expensive leather handbags.

The blonde was Sally Lancaster, and her redheaded associate was Elizabeth O’Tonnell.

“Girls!” Brennigan exclaimed, opening his arms in an embracing gesture and coming out from behind his desk. “How lovely it is to see you!”

“Likewise,” said Sally plainly, walking past him as he came at her for the embrace. She dropped her bag on his table and began to get undressed as Brennigan watched her with raised eyebrows.

“You just gonna stand there and watch me, my God?” she said, noticing Brennigan’s leer. “Or help me get undressed?”

Brennigan looked taken aback by Sally’s confidence for a few seconds, and for a brief moment he lost his smile. It quickly returned, and he chirped simply, “Oh, that won’t be on the cards today, girls.”

“Then why’d you call us over?” growled Sally, now doing up the bra she had only just unhooked.

“Oh,” remarked Brennigan with a hint of amusement in his voice. “Well, you see girls – a man of my stature, a man of my intelligence, my achievements, my… astonishing abilities... he must be very careful. Yes, very careful. As the Father of Restored Britain, it is my duty to protect my children. Sometimes, I’m sad to say, from themselves. Do you follow?”

“Not really,” grumbled Sally.

“Well, a man like myself - a man of a status shared with Gods – is required to protect my name and reputation from those who do not fully understand what’s best for themselves or white existence,” Brennigan explained, looking down empathetically. “You see, people don’t know what’s good for them, especially the Aryans, after so many decades of being crushed by Jewish and sodomite-caused political interference, so it’s down to me to tell them. And what’s good for me may not necessarily be what’s good for them. For example, if they were to find out what I got up to in this office, they, albeit in ignorance the poor souls, would brand me, your faithful and glorious leader, a hypocrite. Astonishing, I know. But true, nevertheless.”

“What are you saying, my God?” said Sally, annoyed. She shot a look at Elizabeth, who was biting her knuckles – a strange habit she had developed in in the weeks leading up to this particular meeting.

“Yes, I’ll just cut to the point, shall I? Girls, your services to me have been a service to Restored Britain. But unfortunately, you have reached the end of your contract and I wish to let the pair of you go.”

“Great. Why’d you have to call us in for that?” Sally asked, now beginning to feel a creeping rise in anxiety herself. Nobody was ever fired in Restored Britain. Once you had a job, you had it for the rest of your life. A whore for the Great Leader was a job that usually ended because of suicide. If not suicide, they were often handed over to high-ranking GWs to be used as toys. There was no such thing as being fired. But then, Brennigan was an inconsistent man.

“Ah, well my dear, that’s the thing – you don’t leave your service to Restored Britain. Much like the admirable and well-organised mafia of a hundred years ago, you’re either in it or against it. Leaving isn’t an option,” Brennigan said, with a heavy sigh at the end. “As degenerate as those Italians are, they do understand loyalty.”

“But you’re firing us!” protested Elizabeth.

“Yes, yes I am. Girls, you have been a wonder to have around and the wild time – simply amazing. Elizabeth, my dear woman, you alone have taught me the limits of the female body and for that science will be forever grateful. But unfortunately, I think it’s time to bid the pair of you a heartfelt farewell.”

Brennigan rustled around in his blazer pockets for a few moments, searching for something – a remote control. He pointed it at the speaker system and threw it in the direction of Elizabeth’s head almost on the same beat that he hit its play button. As Sally and a cowering Elizabeth exchanged worried looks, Handel’s Messiah: Hallelujah Chorus began playing. They watched with wide eyes of horror as he strutted over to his desk and picked up his barbed wire wrapped baseball bat.

Elizabeth screamed while Sally clenched her fists, ready to exchange blows.

Using his bat as a conductor’s baton, Brennigan pretended to conduct the piece and sung merrily along to the vocals.

He shrieked along with the chorus as he slowly approached the girls, his smile growing bigger with each step. Sally pulled Elizabeth behind her, and the pair backed up, taking strides where Brennigan took a step. Before long, their backs were against the violently vibrating speakers while Brennigan, waving his bat around to the music maniacally, stood a foot in front of them grinning, his eyes squinting in glee.

“And he shall reign forever and ever! King of Kings, and Lord of Lords! Forever, and ever, forever, and ever, Hallelujah, Hallelujah!” he harped on.

“Man, fuck this!” cried Sally, thrusting a closed fist towards Brennigan’s face, who parried it effortlessly, following it up by landing a thump on Sally’s chin with his elbow.

As Sally landed on her hands and knees, Brennigan launched himself forward; he began attacking Elizabeth frantically with his bat. He’d hit her with it every time a bar of Handel’s piece hit its final beat. She screamed as she crumbled to the floor, but her protests were short lived – though alive, before long she was only retching silently with a distant look beneath her tears.

Brennigan carried on beating her to the music however, staring intensely in to Sally’s eyes as he did it, his evil twinkle rapidly becoming more and more prominent each time blood splattered up his orange suit. Elizabeth must have died long before Brennigan halted his assault.

Sally eventually scrambled to her feet as she snapped out of shock. Brennigan stopped, laughing as she scurried over to the handbag she had left on the desk. She pulled out her pistol.

Brennigan chuckled, “This is the kind of fight I like before fucking a broad. Is that what you want, Ms. Lancaster? You want me to fuck you?”

He paced towards Sally, dragging the bat behind him, ripping the Arabian carpets with the barbed wire.

“Now how did you get that gun through security, I wonder? I wonder, does a woman’s rectum serve well as a suppressor?”

“Get back!” screamed Sally over the music. Brennigan didn’t listen. “Get back, you Nazi fuck, or I’ll blow your fucking brains out!”

Brennigan stopped, his eyes widening.

“Nazi? No! Don’t compare me to those thuggish amateurs, you little slut.”


He clutched his stomach, taking only a single stumble backwards and not dropping his baseball bat or losing his grin. He looked down at his bleeding torso and back up at Sally. Though his face was plagued by his ear-to-ear smile, his eyes screamed anger, twitching with intensity.

He resumed onwards, towards Sally.

She shot him again.

He didn’t fall, but his legs began shaking and he dropped his weapon.

Sally lowered her gun and ran over to the door. As the piece reached a crescendo, Brennigan stumbled in to the chair behind his desk and with his head back and his eyes closed in ecstasy, he caressed the two wounds as if taking some pleasure in them. Sally froze in disgust as she looked back at Brennigan. And with a look down at the bloody carcass of Elizabeth, she gagged and ran out of the office in hysterics to Handel’s final, long-lasting “Hellelujah”.

Sally once told me that what she found most terrifying was hearing Brennigan laughing alone in his office as she fled. Apparently he seemed amused that somebody had finally tried to kill him. Brennigan, of course, always denied that it happened, even after The Fall.

“How can a God bleed?” he’d protest.


End of Part One



© Copyright 2019 James D.P Moore. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments: