Tuesday, 25 September 2018


You will be missed, my old China plate

After a day and a half on the road making a border run to Nicaragua, it actually felt like I was home when the bus pulled in to the station around the corner from my apartment. My cat was pleased to see me. Although I had spent between 15 and 20 hours on buses, I like them. They are efficient and pleasant here, and I can gaze out of the window at the scenery, which never fails to enchant. Being here has made me realise how ugly, lumpen and boring London is. A very over-rated city. It was a trouble-free trip, and I had contact with a policeman only once, a decent score for me, given that trouble follows me like a puppy dog. I was very tired in Liberia, with a long wait for a bus. I came across one of those funny little road trains for tourists and kiddies, the tyres all flat and obviously out of commission. I curled up in one of the carriages and fell asleep, only to be reminded by a clearly amused policeman that this was not really the done thing.
The day before I left brought the sad news that Chas Hodges, one half of the band Chas and Dave – well, a third actually, as they also had a drummer – had passed away. I was lucky enough to see them, just the once, and in Margate, which features in one of their most famous songs. They inspired great loyalty in those who loved them. I have a friend who says he lost count of how many times he had seen them. Everyone seems to be dying.
The low season is here, although it hasn’t really started raining yet. But I will be broke soon if I don’t find alternative sources of income. I am getting hired to play bass with a local rock band, but there are just not enough gigs to pay the bills and the rent. And feed the cat, although I would willingly go hungry to buy her food. I am considering trying to get a course of philosophy seminars going, and I am honing my tarot reading. Everyone has that strange thing you didn’t know about them. Mine is that I can read tarot cards. Tarot is real, I’m afraid, and, although it cannot tell the future, it can tell the present.
The world of politics is as depressing as ever. I was accused the other day of writing ‘political rants’. Sure. I’ll keep doing it, though, mainly because I meet a lot of bored people who believe they understand politics but, as some north Americans are given to saying, don’t know shit. Today, I have seen a short piece about how Muslims have essentially taken over parts of Paris for their prayers, and I have started watching what is surely going to be a gruelling documentary about South African farm murders, made by Katie Hopkins. Hopkins is a real liberal hate figure but I admire her as I admire any dissident. These are the times when fighting is done not with weapons but with truth. The scandal of white South African farmers should make every Western politician hang their heads in shame. But they know no shame, just as we are not allowed to have any pride.
Arsenal beat Everton 2-0 for their fourth win on the trot and their first clean sheet of the season. Bloody awful defending, though, and the second goal was clearly offside. Unbeaten Watford next week.
I will leave you with a line from the book All About Us, which Chas Hodges wrote about Chas and Dave;
I wasn’t one of those kids who saved the best bit of his dinner ‘til last. I ate the best bit first.’
RIP Chas.

Friday, 21 September 2018


Clearly mad as a hatter

The persecution of Europe’s Right-wing, anti-Islamic dissident politicians continues with a sinister new twist in France. The Dutch deep state – every country has one – has made numerous attempts to silence and even imprison Geert Wilders. Now, for me, Wilders goes too far when he talks about banning the Koran. On the contrary, I think people should be encouraged to read it, not in the spirit of veneration which Western schools approach Islam, but in a critical spirit which would enable them to see what a violent, racist, incoherent pile of crap it is. I’m not a Christian, but to compare The Bible, with its majesty and funding of the grandeur of Western culture, with the Koran, is like comparing J R Tolkien with J K Rowling. One is breath-taking in its vision, the other retarded rubbish.
But Wilders is, in essence, correct. Islam is the greatest danger faced by the West. And, for criticising this retrograde pseudo-religion – which is in actuality a socio-political, repressive power-play – he needs 24-hour security, and he and his family sleep in a different property almost nightly. For criticism of Islam is the crime du jour.
Hungary’s Viktor Orbán does not face the same kind of harassment from his own state. Far from it, he was returned with a majority the rest of the West could only envy. But he is being threatened by Brussels with economic sanctions. His crime is to state firmly and clearly – not traits familiar to Brussels – that his country will not accept immigrants. He does not specifically reject Muslim immigrants but, since that is what the overwhelming majority of migrants are, by implication that is what he means.
The idea of economic sanctions for not accepting Islamisation makes me laugh. If you costed out the price of Islam for Germany, France, Sweden and other affected countries, it would undoubtedly be worth paying the fines. Muslims don’t, on the whole, work, so benefit payments must be astronomical in the blighted countries. The cost of extra policing, the damage from almost constant rioting, the hospital costs for people attacked, raped and killed, and the peripheral costs of translators, healthcare, education and so on must be eye-watering. Hungary will incur none of these. And that’s just the money. Social capital also has to be taken into consideration. Any politician who claims Islamic immigration is either necessary or beneficial is both a liar and probably, in one way or another, in the pay of Islam.
The Sweden Democrats, Germany’s AfD and other dissident parties have all been similarly vilified. But what is currently happening to France’s Marine Le Pen is new, and shows just how far the French deep state is prepared to go to silence someone attacking and denouncing brand Islam.
Le Pen has been ‘ordered’ by the French judicial system to undergo psychiatric testing for re-Tweeting images of ISIS atrocities. As she herself wrote in, I believe, a Tweet;
...thought I had been through it all: well, no! For denouncing the horrors of Daesh (Isis) by tweets the “justice system” has referred me for a psychiatric assessment. How far will they go?!’
How far indeed. This is a straight cut-and-paste from Wikipedia, which I know is lazy but I am pressed for time today. It lines up with everything I have ever read about the USSR;
There was systematic political abuse of psychiatry in the Soviet Union,[1] based on the interpretation of political opposition or dissent as a psychiatric problem.[2] It was called "psychopathological mechanisms" of dissent.[3]
During the leadership of General Secretary Leonid Brezhnev, psychiatry was used to disable and remove from society political opponents ("dissidents") who openly expressed beliefs that contradicted the official dogma.[4][5] The term "philosophical intoxication", for instance, was widely applied to the mental disorders diagnosed when people disagreed with the country's Communist leaders and, by referring to the writings of the Founding Fathers of Marxism–Leninism—Karl Marx, Friedrich Engels, and Vladimir Lenin—made them the target of criticism.[6]
From Breitbart;
National secretary of the magistrates union Jacky Coulon told Franceinfo that the process was automatic and said, “There is a mandatory psychiatric expertise in the context of an indictment when it comes to the dissemination of a violent message.”’
This is accelerating. The drive for Europe to become USSR 2.0 is gathering speed. It is a cold, calculated alteration of one of the greatest collective cultures of all time into an Islamised nightmare. Dissenting voices must be silenced in the same way that those who merely questioned Communism were sent to the gulag. The British police, by the way, are now arresting nine people a day for online ‘hate speech’. I will give the last word to Le Pen;
It’s a hallucination. This regime is really starting to scare me.”

Wednesday, 19 September 2018


As Joe Strummer used to sing,
back in the garage with my bullshit detector

We’re one but we’re not the same.
U2, One

War is peace, freedom is slavery, ignorance is strength. The three famous slogans of INGSOC in Orwell’s 1984. In the non-fictional world, the Germans - and we were at war with the Germans, not the Nazis - had a more cruel twist above the entrance to Auschwitz concentration camp; Arbeit macht frei. Work is freedom, or work makes you free.
These blatant lies exist throughout society. Sometimes they are not three simple words, but the format provides the architecture of societal dysfunction for modern societies. Management companies, for example, who send their staff on meaningless training courses – and I have been on many when I wanted to be at work - might use as their motto, time-wasting is productivity. The modern police would perhaps incorporate, ignoring crime is law enforcement. The school system might have on every office wall, indoctrination is education, or, dogma is free thought. For the political class, it is a simpler affair. Lies are the truth. But the clear front-runner, as the West inches onwards towards chaos, is never in doubt.
Diversity is strength.
It isn’t, of course. It is weakness and a lack of social cohesion. It breeds resentment. It is open to infinite addition as the Left come up with ever more genders, ethnic identities, sexual orientations and historical revisions.
Diversity is weakness. The Roman Empire’s idea of diversity was to subjugate the people it conquered. It wasn’t concerned to make the Praetorian guard look like a Benetton ad from the 1980s, or a Labour Party meeting today. There were plenty of ethnically diverse types around, but they were slaves. The people who did the conquering were Roman. There are many studies, some even by disgruntled but honest Leftists, suggesting that diversity is not a benefit to a society or culture, but a hindrance or even the precursor to dissolution.
And there we are starting to get at the truth.
Diversity is not strength, it is a weapon to be used against the hegemony of the white man. I hate to sound like Richard Spencer, but anti-white propaganda is so prevalent that it can hardly be ignored. It doesn’t matter that ordinary white people don’t believe in it. The elites do, and that is all that matters. A coach may have 100 people on it, but if the driver is insane he can still kill them all. A very small section of society can destroy the whole project.
And a project is what diversity is. It may not be as graphic and explicit as the South African ANC’s Kill the Boer song, and the fact that the ANC are now allowing blacks in the country to do just that with impunity, but the program to erase whites more gradually from culture and, ultimately, from the West, is, as the young people say, a thing.
Incidentally, I am re-reading Ilana Mercer’s Into the Cannibal’s Pot, a graphic breakdown and recounting of exactly what was happening in South Africa in 2011. It has got far worse now, and this is already disturbing book. I will review it soon, but I would strongly recommend it if the only information you have about this genocide is from the MSM, which means none at all.
As I have noted before – these points are starting to return, like painted horses on a carousel – if you Google ‘white couple’, what you get is a page with a few white couples, but dominated by mixed-race couples, usually a black man and a white woman. Why? What is the meaning of this humbuggery? Do they think we notice? The meaning is compulsory diversity. It is a mild expression of it, of course. But that is the ultimate meaning.
And, of course, when the gauleiters of Europe say ‘Diversity is strength, they mean no such thing. They don’t want more Chinese and Hindus, Tibetans and Icelanders, Polynesians and Ecuadorians. They want more Muslims, and the blacker the better. This is the deal.
What they may find problematic is, of course, that Islam itself is very diverse, and that diversity is not its strength. The Sunni/Shia divide is commonly known, but there are many other sects, and any future caliphate would not be a settled house.
Again, without trying to channel Richard Spencer or Andrew Anglin, white ethno-states will form naturally, and the diverse countries will proceed through the form with epic dispatch. It will not end well, but I suspect Whitey will slip out the back door before the party turns nasty.

Tuesday, 18 September 2018


Two Bones that are definitely not connected

Until recently, the name of Ian Bone was not known to me. He is, apparently, a veteran – literally, as he is 71 – of Class War, an anarchistic organisation whose aims and agenda are reasonably clear from their dramatic name.
A few days ago, Bone accosted Jacob-Rees Mogg and his family on the doorstep of his Westminster home. Rather bizarrely, Bone reserved most of his ire was reserved for the family’s long-serving nanny. For some time, and holding up some sort of banner, Bone harangued the Rees-Mogg family, whose small children were present to hear and witness the tirade.
Now, if you watch the video, which is featured and analysed by Rebel Media’s Jack Buckby here you will note some interesting points.
Firstly, Bone is clearly mentally ill. As you know, I believe that modern Leftism is an aggravated form of psychological disorder, but this is a man who even looks as though he smells of urine. And, like so many on the Left, he simply will not stop talking. It is a rambling, resentful monologue delivered in front of a smiling and polite Rees-Moog, who welcomes this jackanape and his cronies to his street, as well as Rees-Moog’s children, to whom Bone says in his droning, nasal whine;
Your daddy’s not a very nice person. A lot of people don’t like him. Did you know that? He probably hasn’t told you that.’
The second thing you notice is the presence of the police, with an Asian-looking officer standing looking bored and distracted, but doing nothing at all to stop the situation, even when Bone approaches Rees-Mogg, who at this stage has no idea whether this bastard is armed.
Bone can also be seen, in an earlier video, arriving at Eton College and haranguing the young scholars there. He calls them ‘inbred wankers’, ‘fags’ - and he wouldn’t be aware of what that means in a public-school context, he is way too stupid - ‘posh’ and ‘privileged’. Once again, the police are present, but do nothing. They will have been told to do nothing. I hate to suffer from my own ‘Imaginitis’ construction, but imagine a man standing outside a mosque and calling the Muslims there ‘inbred’, even though a lot of them are, with disastrous genetic consequences. He would go to jail.
Let us switch to another gentleman named Bone. This time it is Peter Bone, MP for Wellingborough. I met this gentleman on many occasions, as I once managed the block of apartments where he lived, although he no longer resides there. As well as being a funny, clubbable chap, he is a vocal Conservative, and also a true Conservative, as well as being a leading campaigner for Britain leaving the EU. I won’t call it ‘Brexit’ or him a ‘Brexiteer’ because that is how little children speak, with their own special words for things.
Peter was called by the police recently and asked where his son was. At school, answered the MP, almost certainly beginning to feel the grip of fear. Could you check? asked the police officer. Why would I do that? came the reply. Because, said the representative of the most pathetic police force in the Western world, we have had intelligence that he has been murdered.
Young Bone, who I have also met, was very much alive, but some pleasant, anti-hate Leftist somewhere had just decided to scare a parent.
It won’t be long now. The hard Left are getting bolder by the week, and someone is going to die. The police have allowed this to happen although, had the MPs in question been Muslim, all police leave would be cancelled until someone was in jail.
This is where England is at the time of writing.

Sunday, 16 September 2018


Costa Rica didn't vote for independence from a European power.
It just took it. Britain voted for it. It won't get it.

On September 15, 1821, after the final Spanish defeat in the Mexican War of Independence, Guatemala declared the whole of Central America independent. The Spanish didn't have the stomach for more fighting, and so it was that Costa Rica – officially The Republic of Costa Rica – threw off the imperial Spanish shackles it had worn since the 16th century without a shot being fired or a sword drawn.
The Costa Rican flag itself was adopted in 1906, after a few predecessors which looked a lot like Argentina’s famous sky-blue-and-white flag. Costa Rica’s inaugural First Lady, Pacífica Fernández Oreamuno, designed the current flag in 1848, and based its design on the French tricolor.
Costa Rica’s revolution was rather more bloodless than that of France, but the revolutionary impulse lives in the colours and banding. The current Costa Rican flag, officially, has been adapted to include the country’s coat of arms. This is genuinely ironic - in that it says one thing and means another, which is the actual meaning of irony - as Costa Rica, since 1948, has had no standing army.
The coat of arms features, instead of martial symbolism, the three local volcanoes and seven stars to represent the seven provinces of Costa Rica, as well as a ship. Costa Rica’s east coast was said to have been one of Columbus’ first ports of call on his first voyage to the Americas. Costa Rica would be the kind of country that would celebrate that idea while, in the USA, angry students are looking to tear down Columbus’s statue.
Given the lack of a standing army here on the rich coast – which is what ‘Costa Rica’ means – it always strikes me as strange that the Independence Day parade should feature so much martial drumming. It is thrilling and very loud, and the majority of the drummers are children, some very small indeed. I walked around the streets of this small town yesterday and felt exactly what I had felt on the same day last year, and the year before that. It was an emotional response and behind my dark glasses I was crying.
Thousands of people waving their red, white and blue national flag while marching slowly through the streets. Martial drumming. National costume. An outpouring of joy and happiness surrounding the celebration of the creation of a sovereign nation.

In Britain, these people would be called fascists.

Independence. Britain voted for it recently, but is not being allowed to have it by forces far stronger and more ruthless than the 19th-century Spanish armed forces.
Perhaps Costa Rica, and its companion Central American countries, have a lesson for the United Kingdom. It may not be enough to vote for your independence. You may have to take it.
Then you may celebrate.

Friday, 14 September 2018


Approach this film with caution.
It will play with your mind.

Ben Wheatley is a British film director I am sure will be familiar to many of you. I have never seen what I believe is his first film, Down Terrace, but I was introduced to his work when I saw the extraordinary Kill List. My review of that film is here. He went on to make the haunting A Field in England, which I thought was genius while my rather boring, multi-millionaire girlfriend of the time thought was pretentious. That's why I'm not a gold-digger.
His most recent film is High Rise, based on a J G Ballard novel I read years ago and was underwhelmed by. Not so the film.
A dystopian tale centred on a high-rise block of apartments in what appears to be 1970s London - the cars are wonderful, although you never see anyone driving one - the film deals with the discontent the residents on the lower floors have for those on the higher floors, and the disgust those on the higher floors have for those downstairs. It is obviously some kind of social metaphor, although that is residual rather than thematic.
The film, in its early stages, progresses in a formal and rather boring way. And then things start to go wrong. This is a movie which shows dissolution, and scene by scene the breakdown of social relations moves from friction through hatred to violence. Wheatley shows the breakdown of social cohesion. After 20 or so minutes, there is something very horrible about just about every scene. I have never seen a movie that builds in such a way that you are put into a situation, mentally, of serious discomfort.
The original music is probably played by hip bands I am too old to know, but it is frantic nonsense, punk rock made by people who have had a bad bang on the head. The only song that forms a theme is ABBA's SOS, performed by a classical quintet at a baroque party, and later played in a haunting and stripped version as things fall apart, which they do. This is a film in which the centre definitely cannot hold.
I have seen many, many movies, but not too many are as disturbing as this. The first plot point, which as you probably know should come after 23 minutes of a movie, is a dysfunctional love scene between Tom Hiddlestone's character and Sienna Miller's. She actually seems to have learned how to act, by the way.
Jeremy Irons is also in the movie. My mother has been in love with him for years.
Don't watch this film if you have any form of mental disorder. I'm serious.
The scene in the architect's garden is a wonderful hommage to Last Year at Marienbad, another favourite of mine.
When you see the putrid shite Hollywood puts out, you appreciate the genius of this film all the more.
I have seen some films 50 times. This is going to become one of those select few.
Enjoy. Or something similar.

Wednesday, 12 September 2018


Patti, a street dog I took in
and who stayed for a couple of months
before finding a fur-ever home.

Have you noticed that there is no actual news at the moment? The press seems like some crappy ukulele act that plays before the main band comes on. Don't get me wrong, I am not putting down the ukulele. I own a bass ukulele, which is the greatest little instrument. I bought it in the Charing Cross Road in London and, as I was trying to make my mind up whether or not buy it, the shop assistant told me that the bass player from Squeeze had bought one a week before. Sold. I love Squeeze.
So, no politicizing today. Instead, I want to talk about animals.
Rather a hundred guilders worth of debts than ten minutes of foolish regrets. So I read in the great beat novel I, Jan Cremer. Snap it up if you see it in a charity shop, or thrift store. But my two regrets, as I get the wrong side of 55, is that I never worked as a musician, and I never worked with animals. The bar manager who gave me my first residency here said something that has proved to be true. If you have a desire, he said, Costa Rica will bring it out of you. So it has proved to be. I am now doing both.
The music brings in the very basic living I require to make rent, bills and beer and food - in that order. It is a hell of a kick, and I am loving every minute of it.
The animal side of things is voluntary. Everyone who works for the local charity gives their time, and petrol, or gasoline, for free. The state of some of the animals who get thrown at the door of this organization would make you weep. Some have to be put down. It costs a lot of money to keep an animal alive and healthy, and the charity is constantly running out of money. I have become - virtue-signaling alert - increasingly involved in trying to raise money. I just organized a pop-up charity shop or thrift store, and I am now planning an acoustic evening with all the local musicians in this place I have found with the greatest acoustics.
My point is this. Don't buy a puppy. Don't buy a breed because you want to look flash or rich. Adopt a dog, or a kitty cat, from an animal charity. You will be repaid with so much warmth and love because, chances are, they have experienced neither.
And a pet will change your life. Missy agrees. Missy is pictured below. Patti, at the head of the page, was called Patti because she followed me home, and the first thing I saw when I got in the apartment was an album by Patti Smith. Please care for animals.