Thursday, 14 February 2019


An English garden, circa 1950

Well, Traumaville is having to close for the season, and you will have to put up with poetry and lyrics and fragments for now. You'll get over it. So, here's The Garden With Gaps in the Fence.

Wind chimes and small bells and sedge-grass.
A garden with gaps in the fence.
The boards from a never-used coffin
Keep the dogs out that have any sense.
The wind doesn’t blow here.
It’s too scared to show here.
The garden has gaps in the fence.

Coriander and rusted old wrenches.
A brass hare hangs over the door.
Rotted wood from some old garden benches.
Molasses spilled right on the floor.
The garden-swing squeaks.
The rocking-chair creaks.
And the garden has gaps in the fence.

There is silt in the ill-bevelled gutters.
Iguanas leave tracks in the dirt.
The cracking paint floats from the shutters.
A new coat of paint wouldn’t hurt.
There are spider-webs, son,
With the spiders long gone,
For the garden has gaps in the fence.

Wherever you set up your homestead,
Wherever your kids get to play.
Make sure that the stanchions are grounded,
And the earth is more root-soil than clay.
But be still as a mouse,
And don’t buy that house,
If the garden has gaps in the fence.

Sunday, 27 January 2019


Pure evil vs. tribal elder

Left-wing ideologues and activists are deliberately standing in the way of civilisation, that much is clear. The reasons for this deliberate obstructionism are unclear, but becoming clearer with every new incident and outrage. To stand in the way of civilisation, you must first stand in the way of those who create civilisation. Predominantly, this means standing the way of the white man because, pace the community organiser Barack Obama, they did build that.
Standing in the way’ has been thematic in the last week. I don’t imagine the smirking ‘Covington boy’ thought that his face would rocketing around the internet for standing his ground and smiling awkwardly.
I am sure you have seen the fracas involving the Covington Catholic School in Kentucky. The boys were on a pro-life march in, I think, Washington, when they had a run-in with a Red Indian, now re-branded as a Native American. You probably should see a video of the full incident and save me having to re-tread what is becoming the hottest topic in what I have taken to calling ‘xenopolitics’, the politics of race. My phrase, I think, but I’m always stealing things, lighters and what have you. It’s not really stealing, I just neglect to return them to their rightful owners. But I digress.
To deny that there is now an offensive strategy practiced by global media to demote the white man from what has been a position of dominance for centuries is to deny reality. Sadly, this is the Left’s area of expertise. Through the Looking-Glass, and What Alice Found There is fast becoming as relevant as 1984.
What is of interest is not the Left’s default position of radicalised, weaponised lying. That is as plain as a pikestaff. It has been in plain sight, like Edgar Allan Poe’s purloined letter, for some time. What interests me is how desperate the Left are to find grist to their grievance mill.
Since the election of Trump polarised politics into the hard Left and the Alt. Right, the Left have clutched at any straw to try to crowbar open reality and dump their stolen goods inside. Of one thing, if you know anything of the history of Socialism and its wicked uncle, Communism, you must be sure. The truth is a minor consideration, to be resorted to on the rare occasions where no harm to the cause might result.
Philosophy’, Keats wrote in Lamia, ‘will clip an angel’s wings’. I take this to mean that the coldness of reason can nullify the mythical glories of heaven. But, although the Right as it now exists, including all its outriders, have plenty of classical reason on their side, it just bounces off the shields of unreason the Left are brandishing. The Right believes it has a decent set of arguments to address and partially solve the problems that beset the modern West and its predominantly white populations. The Left knows to its own certainty that the West’s white populations are the problems which beset the West and, indeed, the world. You can’t fight unreason with reason.
The famously hang-dog-faced French racing driver Alain Prost once was racing towards a bend at ferocious speed with Brazilian driver Ayrton Senna, neck-and-neck. It was clear only one of them would make the bend and if one or other did not back down, there would be a horrific accident in which one or both might well be killed. Prost backed down, later explaining that it was difficult to race against someone – Senna was a devoted Christian – who has God in his car.
The Left believe they have God in their car.
I saw a little girl in a supermarket the other day. She was wearing a glittery, twirly unicorn horn on her forehead. The difference between her and the modern Left is that the little girl knew she wasn’t actually a unicorn.

Monday, 21 January 2019


After having finished a pleasant if subdued gig at a restaurant over the weekend, I spoke to two law teachers. Both women in their thirties, and pleasant company, we talked pleasantries. They had enjoyed the music, and left a tip in the jar. The tipping system here helps bolster a musician’s income, as well as being a gauge of whether or not you are playing well and whether you have made the right song decisions. The last addition to my set-list that is worth its weight in colonés is George Michael’s Faith. In a way, it is faith that gathers us here today.
One of the great pleasures of playing live music is the conversation afterwards. Most of the people I meet in the bar once the music is done are north American, but there are also plenty of Europeans and a smattering of Brits to remind me of the old country. Conversation between strangers is just as rewarding as conversation between friends, and I have met some charming and funny people on a one-night-only basis.
The law teachers were from Canada, I forgot exactly where. They were in Costa Rica to teach, as you might expect, and were absolutely forthcoming about who they were teaching, what aspect of the law they were teaching, and why they were teaching it. They had been assigned to a party of about a dozen Costa Rican students to inform them about one thing and one thing only.
Human rights.
The whole concept is philosophically problematic. If a right is granted, is it a right? If human rights require arbiters – I believe the UN is the commission in this field – then was it a right in the first place? I am not up on the philosophical history of rights – I am a metaphysics man – but I do know that human rights are a sub-division of what I am currently thinking of as POWCON. Power and control.
Power is the natural state of unfettered creatures and its army is called control. They are two sides, recto and verso, of the same coin.
Human rights are like those children’s action figures you see in shop windows. The painting on the box, of Iron Man or whoever, looks incredible, vivid and dazzling. In comparison, the actual figure looks a bit crap. Human rights sound so good, so morally nutritious, that you could scarcely be against them. Depending, that is, on who you are.
Human rights are, in effect, a compensatory system for minority groups and are not intended for straight white men unless unavoidable. They will come into play for whites who, say, happen to be criminals. Ordinarily, though, human rights are not really for the likes of me.
The human rights policies in the West are a disastrous and sick joke. The worst aspect of them is that they fuel grievance, as though that particular steam-train needed more fuel as it gallops along the tracks. I could see in a trice what these two ladies would be teaching their charges; the world owes everything to those who have not earned it. Costa Rica is big on legal studies. I am told that almost all the students at the university in San José study law. They will now be having their heads filled with grievance and ideas of justice and oppression that belong in comic books. The students will hear a lot about human rights, but nothing about human responsibilities. This is what will destroy the West, as its people weaken ethically in the belief that they are owed all and owe nothing.
Two charming, intelligent, attractive women, then. And more dangerous than ISIS.

Thursday, 17 January 2019


Yes, thanks, we already tried voting

Even a political rube like myself with a hashed-together weblog was able to predict the two racing certainties of the last couple of years; Trump would not be permitted to govern and Brexit would not be permitted to happen.
Following Obama’s prolegomena to a dismantling of the USA as both a superpower and a fundamentally white Christian nation, Hillary Clinton was expected simply to turn up for work after her election and continue the task. So too David Cameron confidently decreed a referendum which he promptly lost, something else which the political class failed to predict. The deep states of both nations are not best pleased.
The disruptors were all in place, and then suddenly the wrong horses romped home on both sides of the herring-pond. The disruptors are what I call the practices, stratagems and techniques of social engineering designed precisely to disrupt Western civilisation. They include: Islam and the mass immigration of Muslims to Europe; Transgenderism; Hate speech legislation; Technocratic hyper-management; The sexualisation of young children; The politicisation of the police and armed forces; The feminisation of men; The masculinisation of women; Identity politics and the oppression narrative; Shock troops, eg. Black Lives Matter and Antifa; The media acting as the opposition party; Toxic masculinity; Invented and hyped racism and sexism, as well as homophobia and Islamophobia; Social media surveillance by big tech companies. The list has doubtless expanded in the time it took to write it.
Then, as noted, those who were busy successfully putting the disruptors in place were themselves disrupted. And although the two main blows to the political gauleiter class happened in the USA and the UK, after-shocks were felt across Europe, where so-called ‘far-Right parties’ - a joke phrase that isn’t funny – have made significant gains. And so it seems that the political class is under attack.
Perhaps we might ask that strangest of European leaders, France’s President Emmanuel Macron, who at first glance seems inadvertently to have married Iggy Pop. He is almost literally under attack. They beefed up the security at the Presidential HQ because they thought the gilets jaunes were going to storm the place.
Are people fighting back? If there is a genuine economic breakdown across the West – and all the commentators who seem to get things right are saying it is inevitable – then a lot of people who were previously taken up with bread and circuses will suddenly realise they are very, very angry indeed with the political; class.
To run together two aphoristic sentences by French nouvelle droitiste Guillaume Faye; Everyone is happy when the shopping baskets are full, but one day we will wake up and all the magic will be gone. Then the real disruption will begin.

Sunday, 13 January 2019


Sorry, but I am turfing out old fragments of writing. After Robert Walser - you almost certainly haven't heard of this great writer, so don't fucking pretend you have - here is a very short story called Holiday.

I am an alien. It is the closest translation I can find. I am not from another planet. You people seem rather fascinated by planets. They are not, or not exactly, what you think they are. I think that the closest translation which relates to my being – and translation is everything, by the way – is that I am from another dimension.
Take a favourite object, something that means a great deal to you. Something that belonged to a parent. An old book from childhood. A toy, a jewel, a painting or photograph. Three-dimensional objects are better for you, by the way. You only seem to have three dimensions.
Put the object down on a table or similar. Light it well. Look at it intently for 10 minutes. Do not move your head or eyes. After the time has elapsed, close your eyes and move a very small distance to one side of you. Open your eyes and look again at the object. You will never grasp this, but you have just witnessed where I am from.
I have enjoyed your culture very much. Of course, I have watched many science fiction films and read many books of the genre. The depiction of aliens is very entertaining. We always seem to be invading, killing everyone with outlandish weapons, and rapaciously violent.
No one of you seems to have realised that we are not here to dominate or destroy. Many of us merely want a break, a vacation. A holiday.

Saturday, 12 January 2019


At what point, exactly, did British politics become a situation comedy written by talentless stringers who think their jokes are funny because they are drunk? Anna Soubry - is that her name? - is a strident martinet who thinks branding yourself as Thatcher Lite is the way ahead in politics. She makes some gumby comment about forcing Brexit as it had been voted for, and stands in an interview while Leftist dicks-on-a-stick prance about calling her a Nazi.
Now, a couple of points. Look at pictures of Nazis. Best fucking dress sense in the history of genocide. Soubry looks like a bag-lady who happens to have an account at Harvey Nick's. Secondly, everyone who is not to the left of Tony Benn is a Nazi now. It's like 'racism'. It has lost its impact as a word because it is used on an hourly basis. It is very much like the way that tattoos lost their power to shock and impress when everyone's mum suddenly got them.
The point of Brexit is that is has shown who the establishment are, and it has shown the sad fact that England - fuck 'Britain', I'm not British, I'm English - is now something at which you point and laugh. I hope Britain stays in the EU. It will hasten its demise, an event much to be desired.
Politics in the UK is for intellectual spastics now.
Now, if you don't mind, I will return to my copy of Mein Kampf.

Wednesday, 9 January 2019


Do you want to come in?
Is that alright with you, love?

Have you ever thought, right? That you might have already had the best fucking moment in your life?
Johnny, Naked

What if God just put us here for his own entertainment?
Johnny, Naked

There is a scene in the greatly entertaining Legend, in which Tom Hardy plays both Kray twins, where it looks as though Reg is going to take a beating in a London pub. ‘Before we start,’ he says, ‘I’ve got a little joke for you. You’ll like this one...’ Well, before we start, I’ve got a little joke for you. You may or may not like it, but you will probably recognise its premise.
A guy is lounging in his apartment with the TV remote control, lining up a movie on the screen. His girlfriend walks in. She notices that he is about to watch the classic Scorsese film Goodfellas. She says, you must have seen that film 10 times. He says, try over 30. She says, well, I just think it’s funny how someone can watch the same movie over and over again. He says, funny how?
I know. I didn’t miss a calling as a stand-up comedian. Do the older ones, by the way, become sit-down comedians, then lie-down comedians? My point is this. When music came packaged as vinyl records, or cassette tapes, or CDs, you didn’t buy an album by your favourite band, play it once, and stash it in a box for ever more. You played it every day. What is different about movies? Nothing.
There are many films I have seen over 20 times. Get Carter. Apocalypse Now. Orphée. Goodfellas, and Casino. Performance. Taxi Driver. Withnail & I. A Clockwork Orange.
And Mike Leigh’s Naked.
Naked was released in 1993, and a friend of mine has pointed out that Leigh made this film under ‘Tory’ rule, and his style and tone changed when Tony Blair got into power and began his dismantling of everything that used to wonderful about England. It is a good point, and the yuppie sub-text to Naked is the worst part of the film, feeling bolted on and cartoonish. That said, Greg Crutwell, the actor who plays the yuppie in Naked, actually steals a late scene in which he plays, well, an angel.
That is the type of film Naked is. The religious sub-text is strong and disturbing. The vision of London as a Danteesque hell is familiar, at least to me. The bleakness – and this is possibly the most joyless film I have ever seen – is the canvas on which the desperation of the main characters is daubed. This is a tough film about weak people. Bit like life, really.
The main character, Johnny, escapes from Manchester in a stolen car and goes to see his ex-girlfriend in London. He causes an explosion of trouble and sexual tension in her apartment, and decides to go out. What follows is a dysfunctional odyssey through London’s twilit sub-world. And that is more or less that. Thewlis is extraordinary. I have not seen many performances like this.
But this is a film about character.
Johnny is a frighteningly intelligent lowlife savant who uses his expertise with language to wound other people, particularly those who come too emotionally close to him. He is a cruel, heartless, Bible-reading psychological bully whose demons are so prevalent in his own head that he has come to the conclusion that everyone else had better share them too. As when you play that infamous album one more time and discover a chord or a harmony you missed previously, so too a re-screening of a favourite movie will always uncover one more forgotten treasure. The scene in which Johnny steals an unconscious drunk woman’s favourite books is dreadful, and all the more powerful for inspiring dread.
His ex-girlfriend, Louise, is a pretty, sad girl who has bought the myth of London and come there to do a soul-destroying job. Louise’s flatmate, the drug-addled Sophie – played brilliantly by the late Katrin Cartlidge, who died very young – is hypnotised by Johnny. Meanwhile, yuppy Jerry is living a rich lifestyle, an obvious alter ego or Jungian persona of Johnny. Throw in Brian, the Stoical security guard in an empty office block, the café girl – one of many of the cast who went on to reasonable fame – one of the Trainspotting cast as the mentally ill Archie – another fantastic performance – and a cast of London weirdoes (and I say that because I am one), and this is La Ronde for the price of a pint of bad cider.
Naked is a bleakly depressing film, and certainly one to avoid if you are on a Netflix date. Johnny pulls everyone he meets relentlessly into the black hole of his own erudite despair. The characters revolve around one another but never coalesce. There are, I think, no single acts of kindness in the film aside from the making of tea. There is no tender sex, it is all violent and the only consensual element in all the fucking that goes on in the film is that this is what happens when mentally ill people get into the bedroom.
London is made to look like a Roman ruin drenched in soot and dirt and expressionless people. Which it is, incidentally. I was born there, and I hate it. I worked for a while with the assistant location manager for this film, and his lot did a good job.
The musical score deserves note. A mixture of doomed cellos and sprightly pizzicato harp, it propels the film in a way no pop music score could ever have done.
This is a solipsistic film, taking place in Johnny’s head despite his best efforts. I empathise with the main character for reasons any poor gal who ever had the misfortune to knock around with me will understand. I have often used my impressive but misguided intelligence to hurt and wound and destabilise women.
I will leave you with the greatest quote from a modern-day Shakespearean fool-cum-tragic figure. Louise asks Johnny if he was bored in Manchester, and he proceeds to sum up the modern West;

Was I bored? No, I wasn't fuckin' bored. I'm never bored. That's the trouble with everybody – you're all so bored. You've 'ad nature explained to you, and you're bored with it. You've 'ad the living body explained to you, and you're bored with it. You've 'ad the universe explained to you, and you're bored with it. So now you just want cheap thrills and like plenty of 'em, and it dun matter 'ow tawdry or vacuous they are as long as it's new, as long as it's new, as long as it’s new, as long as it flashes and fucking bleeps in forty different colours. Whatever else you can say about me, I’m never fucking bored.’

Watch Naked, if you haven’t. But approach with caution.