Monday, 21 May 2018


This is what a heroine looks like

In the same week that Austrian activists Génération Identitaire were shaken down by their government, Katie Hopkins is now finding out what the European deep state can do when irritated. Hopkins was in Molenbeek in Belgium, which she describes with some accuracy as the ‘jihadi capital of Europe’. The Bataclan massacre in Paris was planned there and, when one of the assassins returned from the slaughter in the city of love, the good people of Molenbeek hid him for some time before the police finally tracked him down.
Hopkins has posted several videos from the town, but this one lit the fuse for the right-thinkers in Eurabia. She bumped into the mayor of Molenbeek. Hopkins asked her questions about a list that the mayor supposedly had access to, a list of potential jihadis. The name of one of the Paris killers, was on it. She admitted that she did nothing because ‘it wasn’t my job’.
Hopkins. Of course, broadcast the video, and now the mayor - a stumbling, mumbling booby of a woman - and indeed the city, is suing Hopkins. They will, of course, have all the weight of the EU behind them, while Hopkins will have Rebel Media, probably somewhat less rich than Croesus.
This is the new way in which the deep state attacks those who are showing and telling what the elites are doing to Europe. They are already engaging in this type of ‘lawfare’ against Tommy Robinson, Geert Wilders, Génération Identitaire, Lutz Bachmann and others. Lawyers cost money. The EU has money. Katie Hopkins does not.
Hopkins is extraordinarily brave. What Leftist journalist goes to South Africa to see white farmers, or goes to LA’s plague spot in Skid Row, or goes to migrant camps, or goes to an 85% Muslim city uncovered? She does. Possibly the worst aspect of what the Liberal Left are bringing to the West is the cowardly way in which they vilify people with far more courage than they have.
When the historians of the future – if there is a future – look back at what the Left did to Europe and north America, I hope they identify journalists – real journalists – such as Katie Hopkins as what they are, people who can look themselves in the mirror. I wish her well in her court case.

Thursday, 17 May 2018


Sarge, what’s cognitive dissonance?

If you are not aware of what has just happened to Génération Identitaire in Austria, and you are in the mood to be frightened – like settling down to a good horror movie – then apprise yourself of the facts.
Martin Sellner, recently banned from the UK for intending to give a speech at Speaker’s Corner, and some 16 of his co-members are facing legal action, with possible custodial sentences if found guilty of hate speech, the modern version of witch-ducking. Sellner, who lives in Vienna, was called by the Austrian police and told that if he did not present himself within one hour at a police station seven hours away from him, the police would forcibly enter his apartment. This they did.
They took computers. They took phones. They took paperwork. They took bills and receipts. Without charge, Sellner was utterly shaken down by a police force from the country that gifted us Adolf Hitler. Scared yet? The strange thing was what Sellner – a very mild-mannered, amiable young man – said about the actual officers who took part in this paramilitary operation.
They were very nice.
I was immediately reminded of a recent video by Tommy Robinson. Now, Tommy has been shaken down by the British police more times than probably he can remember. Some of them are proper little fascist cunts. Watch the video of him being thrown out of a pub with his children, who the police made cry, by a little posse of coppers. The lead pig was a real little short-eyes, one of those cops who likes what he does as long as it doesn’t involve confronting black boys with knives. A real little shit.
But in this video to which I refer, an interview with the amiable Stefan Molyneux, Robinson makes a point which I have long suspected.
Now, I know what you are thinking. Why believe Robinson and not the MSM? Well, as the late George Michael sang, you gotta have faith.
Robinson says that, off camera and off record, he has had so much support from police forces who think he is doing the right thing. He claims that Katie Hopkins invited comments from police officers who have a problem with what they are being told to do, and she was inundated.
I will quote now from a book written several years ago. It was written by ‘PC David Copperfield’ and, at the time, the Justice Minister, a little cunt whose name I can’t remember and wouldn’t even want to look up in case it made a vein throb somewhere under the skin covering my skull, said that it was a work even more fictional than Dickens. He then retracted that comment when even he was forced to admit that the book was an authentic account of life as a modern British policeman. This is from the introduction, and I have no reason to doubt its veracity;

The signs were there on my first day at training school. I joined the job in my late 20s, a married man with a mortgage to pay and several years working in industry behind me. I finished on the Friday afternoon and turned up at police headquarters on the following Monday morning wearing my old work boots and with the oil and dirt from the factory still ingrained in my hands.
Three days later, we were still talking about prejudice and discrimination; burglars had to wait while we set about changing the racist, homophobic and male-dominated world in which we lived.’

The sentence I have italicised is sadder to me than any line in Flaubert or Proust. A man comes from a useful job to an utterly useless one.
But to return to Robinson. He has said, more than once, that off the record, coppers approve of what he is doing. Their behaviour is being directed from above. Hence the grooming gangs. Hence the hands-off approach to Muslims generally. Hence the no-go zones and the shariah patrols and the command to English football fans not to take England flags to Russia for the World Cup. Hence all of it.
But when a lot more kicks off than the World Cup, will the police side with the elites, or with the people they are supposed to serve? I honestly believe that a lot of British coppers are wrestling with their consciences just at the minute. I think a lot of them know that what they are being forced to do is just wrong. But their job and pension, and therefore their family’s welfare, is at hazard.
I don’t believe I have ever hated anything or anyone as much as I hate the British state. They have made honest, communitarian, brave men and women who took a job involving danger to themselves in order to protect the innocent lie to themselves. They should hang their heads in shame. Or just hang.

Tuesday, 15 May 2018


Toxic. Cancerous. Racist. Evil. Just die.

A good few years ago, on one of those fresh summer days England does well if rarely, I got on to a crowded train at East Croydon, on the southern margins of London. There were very few available seats, and I took one nearest the door for a quick exit at Victoria Station.
I sat next to a girl who was probably in her twenties. She was wearing a sleeveless shirt which exposed her arms right up to the shoulder. I glanced at her as I sat down and was aware as the train pulled away that something was not quite right.
Feigning looking out of the window, I glanced down at her arm. The surface of the skin was composed mainly of scars, the ghosts of knife strokes ranging from about an inch long to about three inches. They ran from shoulder to wrist, and the effect was as though a Japanese artist had rendered a stretch of stylised railway tracks, or a tossed bundle of wheat-stalks. What was just as shocking as the sight of this chaos of nihilistic self-expression was the fact that she was so eager for the world to see it. Some, they say, wear their hearts on the sleeve. This girl wore no sleeves on which to wear her heart, preferring instead to wear her self-hatred on her bare arms.
Wherever she is now, and if she lives still, and whether or not she is still slicing her arms open as a graphic indication of her inability to deal with life, the memory often comes back to me when I see, every day, the latest example of white self-hatred in the media, or in academia, or less egregiously at the political level. White DNA is toxic, whiteness needs eradicating, white people need to stop talking, whites need replacing, whiteness is evil. Formerly relatively stable areas of society in the West are now beginning to sound like Louis Farrakhan and Al Sharpton.
As always, we must apply the Wizard of Oz principle. These voices of hatred and dismissal of the white races appear high and mighty but, once little Toto pulls back the curtain, we see a frail old man pulling levers and talking through a megaphone. Also, and this cannot be pointed out often enough, these voices do not represent ordinary people. But we have seen in recent years what the elites think of ordinary people.
But what are they really after, these denigrators of the white races? Do they really want a world in which blacks and Muslims are the new masters? I can tell you how that will end. Are they simply trying to annoy Daddy, even if it spoils the holiday? Quite possibly. A large part of the Alt. Left is concerned with what used to be called épater les bourgeoises, or sticking a finger up at the middle class and the establishment. The new breed wouldn’t know the phrase, but it is very much what they are up to.
Or are whites success victims? I remember a guy I knew back in the day. He went on to become a semi-famous celebrity psychologist, and then bought a zoo and, indeed, was the person portrayed by Matt Damon in the movie We Bought a Zoo. As a kid, he got a summer job painting a vast school fence, and applied himself with brio. He finished the job in record time, and was then informed he was to have been paid by the hour. It was not a rate for the entire job, or a ‘piece rate’ as it was called then. He didn’t earn much due to his speed and efficiency, and the fact that he had failed to negotiate terms first. He was a success victim.
Now, as I have said before, I am no white nationalist. At the risk of boring you with this, I have been to too many football matches to be a white supremacist. I don’t think Poland or Hungary or Slovakia are admirable countries because their populations are overwhelmingly white. But it is the white races that built Western civilisation. And this is what the Left hate and despise and mock. White people are success victims. They failed to negotiate terms. It was never a piece rate.
This is what I believe is the truth. Journalists, academics, politicians, SJWs, activists, actors, public sector employees, NGO workers and all the rest of the leeches don’t actually hate white people en masse. No. They hate white people who aren’t them. They hate white people who have been suckered into doing real productive jobs instead of non-jobs. Add this to the hard-on most of them have for non-whites, and you have the current tsunami of anti-white hatred – although it would never be termed ‘hate speech’ - that we see before us.
A world where whites were eradicated would be, in macro terms, just what a white South African farmstead looks like now once the whites have been killed and raped and the blacks have taken over. I don’t care. I am approaching the twilight of my life. And, to repeat another phrase I have used before, I would rather be eighty years old today than eight.

Monday, 14 May 2018


Right, said Fred

God’s Away on Business.

Title of a song by Tom Waits

I have been reading the German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche for almost 40 years, and I still can’t say I understand him. Sometimes you get close, as you do with some objective you are chasing in a dream, and the he once again evades and eludes and elides.
Famously, he often wrote aphorisms, gnomic sentences and small paragraphs designed to offer up a thought without expanding on it. I have read one theory that claims Nietzsche’s extreme myopia contributed to this tendency. He would write with his eyes very close to the page, and the strain on his eyesight would induce terrible migraine. Therefore, it was expedient to write these pithy fragments. One thing is clear about Nietzsche; he was not a well man.
Taking up my rat-eared copy of Beyond Good and Evil for the umpteenth time, I was reading over familiar territory. What is crystal clear about Nietzsche is his criticism of Christianity, and I have often reflected on the way that, in this godless age of the West, god may be dead – as Nietzsche’s Zarathustra famously proclaimed in the market square – but the social and metaphysical structures of Christian belief have outlived their creator.
It is banal to use the example of climate change, I know, but still instructive. Anthropogenic global warming (AGP) has its high priests, its dogma – remember that buffoon Obama saying that ‘the science is settled’, thus misunderstanding what science is – its heretics, its churches, its acolytes and its holy scriptures. All the structures of Christianity without what Johnny in Naked calls ‘the monkey with the big white beard’. Hamlet without the prince.
The Left in general act in a very inquisitional way. You must not stray from the path. You will proselytise. You fear enjoyment of life because it is an uncontrollable impulse. You have your gods, you demonise heretics, you can torture – although with job loss rather than the rack – and you will never allow the unbelievers to reveal truths to the contrary of your scripture. Think of the Inquisition and Galileo, the refusal of the cardinals to look at the moon through a telescope. Think of Giordano Bruno as the flames grew higher.
Then think of the Oxford SJW moppet in the coffee shop yelling at Tommy Robinson; HAVE YOU RECANTED!
But back to Nietzsche.
As mentioned, Nietzsche is an easy writer to take out of context, to drag out one of the greatest defences of the post-modern politicians and celebrities who get themselves into trouble on social media. The problem with Nietzsche is that there is not much context to begin with. He is not a system-builder but works rather to show systems for the fallacies they are. This is why he was such an influence on Jacques Derrida. Hitler, for example, had his troops issued with a small volume of Nietzsche’s sayings but, presumably, left out the many times Nietzsche criticised the Germans.
But sometimes you read a fragment in Nietzsche which seems to speed down the generations and arrive with us bristling with relevance. And so we read, from the section in Beyond Good and Evil called The Religious Nature, the following;

The Christian faith is from the beginning sacrifice: sacrifice of all freedom, all pride, all self-confidence of the spirit, at the same time enslavement and self-mockery, self-mutilation’.

Sound familiar? Sound anything like the neo-Socialist plan gradually being worked in Great Britain? It does to me. Wouldn’t it be grimly amusing if the current dismantling of the UK was being carried out by people who would have been Christians, nay, Puritans, in past times? It would certainly explain the war on Christianity being waged by the Left in the UK.
As I say, this is an easy exercise. You can make Nietzsche say anything you want him to say because he is not logically rigorous nor consistent over his writing career. But as the churches come down in England and the mosques go up, one can’t help but think that the hatred of the modern Left is trying to expunge its past – and its true spiritual home - in the same way the Germans have tried – and failed – to do.
Perhaps god is not as dead as Zarathustra claimed. Perhaps there is life in the old boy yet.

Thursday, 10 May 2018


My Russian readers, earlier today, returning to Traumaville

Добро пожаловать, друзья мои!

Welcome back, my Russian friends! Noticing an upward surge in my meagre viewing figures, I checked the global audience map and discovered that Russia is once again under my control. I imagine that Mr. Putin had high-level talks at the Kremlin and decided that I was more of a useful idiot than originally thought. So, it is good to have you back, comrades. Put on that samovar and pull up a bottle of vodka, for there is much to discuss. I would genuinely love to visit Russia. Do they like English-speaking singer/guitarists there? As the great British comedian Ken Dodd said, what a lovely day for knocking on the door of the Kremlin and saying, is Lenin?
I see I am still banned in Germany. Good. This weblog often endeavours to be funny, and we all know where the Krauts stand on humour.

Thor Point
I have written before about my juvenile love of Marvel comics. I have seen hardly any of the franchise movies, nor would I want to. I deeply distrust men over 30 who still obsess over comic books. But YouTube allows one to view snippets of movies, and I wanted to get a flavour of the zeitgeist. The Marvel movies are a mixture of an orgy of CGI, increasingly race-oriented moralising, and silly jokes. Thor, the norse god of thunder for whom the English Thursday is named, is some sort of stand-up comedian in these movies, for all I can see. Part of the point of his character in the original comics was his regal nobility. But, in the Marvel universe, everything has to be either a sermon or played for laughs. We can’t have nice things anymore.

Costa Rican fragments

Yesterday, I was walking the dogs through town. This is not an easy job, as they insist on stopping to sniff every single one of the thousand doggie aromas on the street, and I spend most of my time hauling them along on the leather horse leash which is attached to both their harnesses. Well, in the alleyway by the soccer pitch, Sasha the big dog decided it was time for her morning dump. I whipped out a carrier-bag and scooped it up, knotted the bag, and prepared to pop it in the nearest bin. A Tico stopped and thanked me. This doesn’t, he said, happen very much in Costa Rica.
In the evening, I stopped in at my favourite bar for a refreshing bottle of Imperial, La Cerveza de Costa Rica. The tall smiley girl was on shift, so I didn’t even have to order, the beer just appeared. The, two minutes later, another beer appeared. Some mistake, I said to the barmaid. No, she said, that guy bought it for you. It was because I was speaking Spanish, and a lot of gringos don’t even try. This is the second time this has happened. I bought him one back, naturally. His name, amusingly, was Milo. I like it here.

I learnt something darkly amusing today, from the wonderful Lauren Southern who, like dauntless Katie Hopkins, has travelled to South Africa to see genuine racism in action, rather than the ginned-up, all-but-non-existent version on offer in the West. Now, South Africa is ethnically cleansing whites, not that you would know that from the MSM, because they like that sort of thing. But they have what Lauren Southern calls reverse affirmative action. 50% of the staff on the national water board were white, but they sacked their asses until the figures reflected the 8% of whites who make up the population. Now South Africa is facing a serious water shortage. Nice work, Sambo. When will the world learn that whites are good at engineering, technology, science, art and all the other things that dragged us out of the mediaeval period, and blacks are good at sports and, occasionally, the trumpet?

Waiter? Could I have a side order of humble pie, please?

I always hated U2. I saw them twice in the early 1980s, both times supporting Echo and the Bunnymen, funnily enough, and I thought they were shit. Bono, that insufferable twerp, seemed to think that he had invented standing on the crowd, when everyone knows it was Iggy. And I hated that histrionic, overblown non-rock. No bridges, no nuance, all mock rebellion with offshore tax havens. Wankers. And, as a guitarist friend of mine once said, The Edge thinks he invented harmonics.
However, there comes a time in every entertainer’s life when he has to learn One, and I have to say I have really taken to the song. I have had to transpose it from its original A minor to E minor, as Bono’s range is easily two tones up from mine. McCartney’s is about a tone, but I can wing it. Most of the problems for a late-arrival singer like myself revolve around whether you can sing the song high enough, with the notable exception of Johnny Cash songs, when you struggle to sing them low enough.
But One is really not a bad song, a reasonable dissection of bad love, something I am all too familiar with.
Anyway, until the next time, take it easy, another song I have learned this week.
Google translate, incidentally, renders ‘take it easy’ thus in Russian

Не принимайте это близко к сердцу

I hope that is right and I am not about to lose my Russian readership again because I have inadvertently written, go away you smelly Russian badger people, or something.

Wednesday, 9 May 2018


This gay Jew, and his black husband, want you to have freedom of speech.
Your government does not.

This is a coalition the Left created.

Milo, speech at the day for Freedom rally

The most obvious success of Saturday’s Day for Freedom in London was that it was fun. One of the many things you can say about the modern Left is that they are, to a spectacular degree, no fun at all. You can laugh at them, mostly at their appearance, but not for reasons of standard humour. This is one of the reasons the Left can fall into such an easy alliance with Islam. As the Ayatollah Khomeini famously remarked, there are no jokes in Islam.
And so Gavin McInnes was able to ham it up, having been a stand-up comedian previously, Milo was able to camp it up, and a drag queen was able to whoop it up, and the crowd lapped it up. In passing, there were a hell of a lot of genuinely nasty comments on the live stream thread I was watching aimed at the drag queen. Now I suspect my views on homosexuality are the same as a lot of those on the Right. I have no problem at all with it. What I object to is the homosexualisation of culture. By displaying their genuine homophobia, these commenters – all anonymous, naturally – were missing a more obvious point as well as showing the shallowness of their worldviews. The point has to do with what eggheads and brain-boxes would call the sub-text of the freedom of speech rally; Islam.
A drag queen singing satirical lyrics about free speech is something guaranteed to rile the average mullah, which is all to the good and is presumably one of the core values of the march and rally. Before Islam came along, of course, the Left used to adore gays and drag queens as a stick they could use to poke at what they perceived as the homophobic Right. Things are getting trickier for them now, perforce, considering Islamic attitudes towards homosexuality, but cognitive dissonance is something the Left do very well.
The clampdown on freedom of speech in the UK is closely allied to the increasing Islamisation of that country. The not-so-subtle change in what can be said about a person is an indicator of a more shariah-compliant attitude to publication. Previously, British libel law held that a person is defamed if statements in a publication expose him to hatred or ridicule, cause him to be shunned, lower him in the estimation in the minds of "right-thinking" members of society or disparage him in his work. Let us compare this gold standard with the 2014 publication Hate Crime: Operational Guidance, a working manual for British police forces. Some quotes;
There is no criminological consensus on the definiton or even the validity of hate crime [my emphasis]…
A hate crime is any criminal offence which is perceived, by the victim or any other person [my emphasis], to be motivated by a hostility or prejudice based on a person’s race or perceived race… religion or perceived religion… sexual orientation or perceived sexual orientation… disability or perceived disability… a person being transgender or perceived to be transgender.’
This is a staggering document. I may be comparing apples with oranges, but I feel that gone is the objectivity of libel law, built up over hundreds of years of precedent and expert judgement, and crudely inserted is subjective foible, a casual granting to anyone – except, of course, we straight white males – to be offended or to see someone else being offended.
Hate speech, and its ridiculously vague lack of rigid definition, has never brought British law closer to sharoah than it is at the present time.
The problem remains depressingly familiar. Is the British state, in line with EU states, seriously implementing a caliphate, in much the same way as fictionally depicted in Michel Houellebecq’s Submission, or are they using Islam to implement their own neo-Communist programme? It has often occurred to me that Islam is being imported en masse into Europe not to relieve the suffering of war-ravaged refugees but to police the indigenous populations, both in thought and deed.
What is fascinating about the gradual erosion of free speech is not merely what cannot be said, but what can be said. Muslims, it is often thought, have freedom of speech while non-Muslims do not. Not so. A jihadi politely informs the UK that he wishes to kill all non-Muslims and establish an Islamic caliphate. Not so, says the British state. You do not mean that. You have co-opted a peaceful religion, you have mental health issues – that is the subject of a potential book – and you are simply being divisive. You cannot say what you have said or, if you do, we will translate it for you.
I will leave you with one of myriad instances of language-policing, from a north American university. One of the bully-pulpit brigade there has decided that Conservatives, although literally in a minority by virtue of crushing weight of figures against them, cannot refer to themselves as a ‘minority’.
By referring to themselves as minorities and taking the language reserved for marginalized communities, conservatives are drawing attention away from communities who actually experience discrimination, or prejudiced treatment, and oppression, or ‘unjust or cruel exercise of authority or power.’” 
Fuck off, boy.

Tuesday, 8 May 2018


Chicks. Gotta love 'em.
Detail from Judith 1, by Gustav Klimt (1901)

Supposing truth to be a woman.

Nietzsche, opening line to Beyond Good and Evil

Now that the world is turning into some dreadful mummer’s play directed and produced by psychotics and starring weak and awful actors, let us look elsewhere for our distractions. As freedom of speech withers on the vine, as the hard Left completes its long march through the institutions and enters the house without wiping its feet, as a sort of Nietzschean transvaluation of values slides unhappily into place, as police states form behind Ronald McDonald masks, as Islam accepts its generous invitation, and takes care not to be late, let us distract ourselves by looking at the ten most beautiful women who ever lived. In the age of photography, at least. Looking at them together, it is obvious that I go for cheekbones. Certainly, few of them have got any knockers to speak of. In reverse order, then…

10. Audrey Hepburn. Obviously, and the most boyish of the crew. The film Breakfast at Tiffany’s was a travesty of Capote’s novella, but still makes me cry. Mind you, I fucking cry at anything. Her puckish face is almost too perfect.

9. Ayaan Hirsi Ali. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. Token darkie. But think again. Quite apart from her importance in the counter-Islamic movement, such as it is, it is no art to find the mind’s construction in the face.

8. Catherine Deneuve. I fell in love with this one after seeing Polanski’s Repulsion, a film to approach with caution if you are of a nervous disposition.

7. Debbie Harry. I wrote about Ms. Harry recently, so I won’t harp on about her. But has there been a more perfect Cupid’s bow in history?

6. Ari Up. Singer in 1970s British punk band The Slits, Ari died all to soon. Her face was more beautiful when animated, but her craziness just made her more beautiful.

5. Edie Sedgwick. One of Andy Warhol’s many victims. Low self-esteem meets high drug usage, and she still looks like this. A tragedienne.

4. Lauren Bacall. Where do you start with this one? The most mannish of my selection, she once encountered a crowd of drunken celebrities ringside at a boxing match – Sinatra, Martin, Bogart, Lawford et al – and described them as looking like a pack of drowned rats, thus christening the most famous drinking group of all time.

3. Jacqueline Pearce. And we’re into the top three, pop-pickers! Pearce played Servalan in cult 70s/80s sci-fi series Blake’s 7, and made me go to bed feeling very sweaty and uneasy after each episode.

2. Delphine Seyrig. Obscure frog movie Last Year at Marienbad won’t be everyone’s cup of thé, but Seyrig only has to twitch an eye muscle to make me go all unnecessary.

1. Patti Smith. There was only ever going to be one winner. I have a copy of Horses on my wall, and the Mapplethorpe photo is still my first and only love.