TEARS were shed in the Collits household when we heard that a wonderful man had died before his time. Every death of a loved one these days seems like an added blow, given that this year I have lost both a daughter and a much-loved nephew (in his thirties).
Peter Robin Whittle, of UKIP and the New Culture Forum, died of cancer last week at the age of 64. The first he knew of it, a few months ago, was the ‘stage four’ announcement. The death sentence.
This is a triple tragedy. He went too early. He was the loveliest, most erudite man. A force for cultural and political good, standing as he did for the Britain that was, before the invasion from the Third World, the reverse colonisation. And could be again, he believed. I wonder about that, as do many Britons.
Dan Wootton described Peter as a ‘great Briton’, and an irreplaceable loss.
The story/interview here (with Alex Phillips) is very affecting. A beautiful reflection on a life superbly lived.
The comments on Alex’s story/interview are worth reading. They are pretty repetitive, to be fair. Gentleman. Lovely man. The nicest man. Saddest loss. And more. Most commenters, of course, didn’t know him. That didn’t matter. The dissident family is, well, family.
Peter was a team player and a team builder. The second-generation New Culture Forum operatives attest to this. Young people inspired to goodness and greatness by Peter’s leadership.
He was also a politician, working in the London Assembly on behalf of UKIP and each day confronting the face of Sir Sadiq Khan, the modern politico from central casting. What a job.
Here is his Talking Pints interview with his old comrade-in-arms Nigel Farage, some years ago. Wonderful stuff.
Here is Peter’s last speech, delivered on November 4. Working till the end.
It was W B Yeats who saw that ‘things fall apart, the centre cannot hold’. Peter Whittle also saw this. Very clearly.
The enemy is real. The clock is ticking. It is five minutes to midnight. The satanic state approaches our innocent selves with fresh ammunition every day using old weapons and new. The dreams of ordinary folk are crushed. The peaceful, restful years promised to the old and infirm turn out to be empty promises.
Peter Whittle saw the enemy very early, and engaged him with eloquence, reason, passion and persistence. Always polite. Always in control. Never cheap and nasty. Showing us there are many ways in which to engage the dark forces at work all around. Not everyone needs to be a bomb-thrower. As St Paul said, there are many gifts, many talents.
Let us all hope that his efforts and hopes were not in vain. I am fearful that they were. But that doesn’t diminish their import, nor the deep love of culture and country that drove them.
His last public words to his friends were ‘Don’t ever give up the fight.’
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I guess, when each of us gets to face the final curtain, we might contemplate whether we did our bit. I hope that Peter would think that he did his bit. And then some. His beloved friends would agree.
May Peter Robin Whittle rest in eternal light and peace. And may his dreams for Britain and the West come true. He deserves nothing less.
