Saturday, 5 December 2015


And you oh so gay,

With your Parisian demands

You can run around.

Cockney Rebel, Sebastian


Cities have sexes; London is a man, Paris a woman, and New York a well-adjusted transsexual.

Angela Carter 


The Eurostar dropped me off, at the time it said it would, at the Gare du Nord, where I was promptly robbed by a taxi driver for a short ride to Île de France, fares no doubt being boosted by the climate change jamboree taking place in this city this week. I would not have come at this time if I had known I was sharing the City of Lights with charlatans, thieves and lawyers. However, I checked into my comfortable Airbnb apartment, took a couple of beers and a pastis, strolled around Sacré Coeur as the light fled, and dined on escargots followed by magret de canard.

I certainly saw a lot of armed troopers who weren’t here on my last visit, in May, en route to Munich. One of them gave me a long, unnerving look as I walked past. He appeared to be guarding a souvenir shop. Perhaps he just couldn’t make me out. With my new haircut, bristling moustache and linen suit replete with checked waistcoat, I resemble an off-duty Wehrmacht officer who has elected to go to a Brideshead Revisited-themed party as Nietzsche. I passed on and returned to the apartment and an early night, the street outside almost unnaturally silent.

I live in a very dark apartment in London, and so it was a pleasure to rise early in darkness (it’s one hour ahead of GMT here, and so concomitantly darker in the morning) and let the light begin to wash the main room at about 8am. It’s an attractive room, plenty of wood, deep reds on the walls, a hint of Orientalism breaking up the Art Deco, academic literature in French (Nietzsche, Foucault, Dewey, Merleau-Ponty; very me) piled around on the floor, a rocking-chair. And so the morning arrives in Paris.

After some writing and a brief catch-up on various websites from which I get my news, and then it will be time to get provisions. After that, a walk into the city, armed with my trusty map. I have no aims this week, no targets or ambitions. I will let Paris come to me. Tonight I am having dinner with a journalist I last met well over thirty years ago, and tomorrow night I am dining with an American lady I fell into conversation with on the Eurostar. It should be amusing. She thinks that America’s interest in Donald Trump is symptomatic of the trouble the USA is in. So do I, but for entirely different reasons.

The West in general is in trouble, not just America. We are deep inside an experiment to rival anything the elites have ever tried before. Power is finally being taken from the people, although the word ‘democracy’ is still bandied about like some ceremonial costume still worn but which now means nothing. Money is being transferred in two ways: from the productive class to the non-productive, and from the successful northern hemisphere to the failed southern. An unassimilable and wholly alien culture is being imported, with dire consequences already and worse to follow. Economically, the West has maxed out all its credit cards, and is silently awaiting the coming fiscal collapse. I am reading Robert Spencer’s Complete Infidel’s Guide to Isis, a wonderful book called It Cannot Be Stormed, written in the 1920s by Ernst von Salomon and set in the farming communities of Germany whose demise fed straight into Weimar. Breakfast, I rather think.

I walked south, eventually. I have a total inability to use maps or remember directions. I think it may be to do with never having driven a car; drivers have a good sense of direction, I note. I went down to Place Stalingrad for an omelette, then meandered back to Montmartre up Rue Magenta. I have found my local supermarket for milk, coffee, yoghurt, juice, pastis, absinthe and other essentials. This is a heavily ethnicised area, and not of my ethnicity. I think I’ve seen it now, and will go further afield as the week progresses.

The city doesn’t feel occupied, but then it isn’t my city. I see that London Bridge has been evacuated in my absence. That is my city, and not far from my current little hidey-hole. I can’t see me staying in a city, though. Cities are beginning to wear me out; they are for the young. I need the sea, and peace and quiet, and a small, amusing dog, and no helicopters constantly blatting away overhead.

My first evening proper was spent in a charming, bijou restaurant, dining with a journalist I haven’t seen in thirty years. It was a wonderful evening, with a few surprises. Firstly, he is a devout Christian. Secondly, he is – like your humble scribe – Right-wing. We ate hare, as promised. James paid, a lovely gesture which I will reciprocate when he is next in London. My cab driver on the way back was Muslim, and seemed impressed that I knew the French word for Muslim. Mussulman, since you asked.

Next evening I dined with a wonderful New Jersey lady, and we have agreed to become travelling partners for the week of our stay.

The next morning, an extraordinary homosexual from the downstairs apartment minced up to tell me he has a leak into his flat. I saw the problem immediately, but refused to help. I am a visitor, and it is not my place. He huffed off like a chaffinch on a hot tin roof.

I have just purchased two vinyl albums from the second-hand shop in the street next to mine. Next by The Sensational Alex Harvey Band, and Even in the Quietest Moments by Supertramp. I really am beginning to like Paris. Will it turn to love? To dinner again tonight, with my American friend from the Eurostar, after seeing the lit Eiffel Tower.

Sunday, 29 November 2015


To travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive.
Robert Louis Stevenson, El Dorado


Young Parisians are so French,
They love Patti Smith.
Adam & The Antz, Young Parisians


Paris. I booked before the events of Friday the 13th, and am not about to change them now, for better or worse. I leave today. An acquaintance of mine has just returned from the City of Lights, and tells me it has the air of an occupied city. Occupied by whom? I wondered silently. At present, with armed police and the military on the streets, we can only reply that it is occupied by the government. Perhaps this was always the aim.

Conspiracy theories now, with the blooming, swarming arrival of the internet, are ten a penny. The Jews, the space lizards, George Soros, the Illuminati, Bilderberg, the Freemasons, Common Core, the Jews again; many parties have a claim to be running history, hopefully all together, a big, happy evil family, from some Ian Flemingesque sunken island hideaway. But the people who are actually running history, or at least this chapter, are hidden in plain sight, like Poe’s purloined letter.

Let us grant that we are on the cusp of a global recession. With the apparatus of leveraging so extended, this type of slump would presumably dwarf the Great Depression of 1929. If we are, do we really believe that the elites aren’t aware of its imminence? And if they are so aware, can we honestly believe that they won’t wish to prepare for the consequences of this type of economic implosion? I think not.

We are often informed by government that if we don’t go about our business as usual just because the shadow of ISIS, as military Islam is called this month, hangs over us like the sword of Damocles, the terrorists will have won. But is it they who have won? The terrorists are here, in Paris and Brussels and London, perhaps Madrid, Rome and Stockholm, because those same informative governments have recently effected the first wave of what may turn out to be an Islamic reconquista, the age-old revanchist dream of Mussulman empire made real, and among whose vanguard our enemies – one of our enemies – are travelling. Cui bono?

I am staying a week in Montmartre, in the dix-huitieme, close to Sacré Coeur. It is a largely Muslim area. The governor of my local pub lived and worked in Paris for a decade. While he was jotting down a list of bars and restaurants for my perusal, and I told him where I was staying, he replied;

“You’ll be alright. They don’t bomb their own.”

So we see how politics really is beginning to creep into the quotidian. The whole place has a very Weimar feel about it just now.

Good cous-cous, was the opinion of a journalist friend of mine who has lived in Paris for many years, although not as long as the 35 years that have passed since last I saw him. We have arranged to meet, and he has promised we shall eat hare. I am unreasonably excited about this. Part of the point of my trip is to eat well, my own diet being unadventurous. The only time I have eaten hare it was disguised in a pie whose sauce was so rich I didn’t know if I was eating hare or horse.

The culture. Isn’t this supposed to be what the jihadi hates? The freedom, the democracy, the semi-clad women, the drugs, the gay scene, music? Note that the press went into overdrive for Brand Islam in the wake of the Parisian slaughter. Every effort was made to emphasise alleged hard drug use by the attackers, that one of them had frequented gay bars as a rent boy. You see? They really do share our values. They aren’t real Muslims at all.

I always feel a shudder when I hear David Cameron, or John Kerry, or Angela Merkel, or Francois Hollande, or Theresa May, assure us that various incidents have nothing to do with Islam. The founder of ISIS had a Ph.D. in Islamic Studies. He claims every action of the waking day performed by a jihadi – which all Muslims should, must become – is guided by Islam and the Koran. Who can lay claim to expertise here?

I first went to Paris when I was eighteen. Myself and a friend ended up in a youth hostel after trying to get some nuns to take us in for the night. Their Christian charity did not extend to two British punk-wannabees with leather jackets. We met punks, in 1979, outside the Pompidou Centre, who took us to the banlieue to listen to Sham 69. We blagged our way into a Clash gig and spent the later evening getting pissed with them in their dressing-room. We visited a dance school that had been a Baader-Meinhoff safehouse. We blagged our way into a Dali exhibition in the Pompidou Centre, and I saw Dali. I looked up past an upside-down café, to a figure looking out over the balcony. The radio-antennae moustaches were a dead give-away. He must have seen me, too. We slept in a park when the money ran out.

Paris, then. I’ve passed through it many times since, en route au Sud, au Provençe. I was there a few months ago as a stop-off to Munich with my cronies The Flying Martini Brothers, aka (when we got to Munich) The Rolling Steins. But I haven’t spent time there for over a third of a century.

I am told that the international climate change knees-up is on Sunday and Monday, which is doubtless why I’ve had to pay a piratical sum for my ticket. The ultimate irony…

My journalist friend has put me on to a book about the Algerian War, and I must investigate further. There is a lot of scrabbling around for root causes with Islam. There are root causes, but they are not economic. They are historical.

Allez! A Paris!

Saturday, 28 November 2015


The hockey stick has nothing to do with reality but was the result of incorrect handling of proxy temperature records and incorrect statistical analysis.

Professor William Happer Ph.D.


Nullius in verba [Take no-one’s word for it].
Motto of The Royal Society 


President Obama, the most powerful man in the world, will waste no time in racing to Paris in the wake of the Islamic attacks of November 13th. He will go to warn of the danger the world faces. For Obama, however, a product of affirmative action now severely out of his depth, that danger is not Islam; it is climate change.

‘Climate change’ is the re-branding of ‘global warming’ made unavoidable when even the most zealous alarmists had to face facts; the world hasn’t got warmer for 19 years. The whole medicine show of climate change – Al Gore, the IPCC, wind farms, the Greens, the UN, the elites – needed an icon for the greatest heist in history and, courtesy of Michael Mann, they got one; the hockey stick.

The (ice- not field-) hockey stick is a schematic representation of proxy temperature indicators which shows an approximate 900-year flatline for global temperatures suddenly taking off in the 20th century. It appears in An Inconvenient Truth, the fraudulent film sent to schools packaged as the indisputable truth evident once, as the warmists like to say, ‘the science is settled’. The problem is reductio ad absurdum; if something is settled, it isn’t science, and if it is science, it isn’t settled.

Mark Steyn is a Canadian columnist, author, radio presenter and – really – crooner. He is about to meet Mann in court, Mann having sued Steyn for libel. A Disgrace to the Profession is not merely Steyn’s criticism of the hockey stick as science, it is a compendium of what the scientific community think of Mann’s method, and the effect on the integrity of science that method has had. As Steyn writes;

‘When something bears the imprimatur of science, the public assumes it’s, well, scientific. But the hockey stick is essentially a statistical creation – and yet no statisticians were involved at any point of the process.’

The initial problem with the stick is the paucity of proxies used as the core data;

‘I wonder how many of those who regard it as an authoritative graph of global climate across the centuries are aware that its hockey-stick shape for the entire hemisphere depends on two clumps of trees: some California bristlecones, and some cedars from the Gaspé Peninsula – or rather, for the years up to 1421, just one cedar from the Gaspé Peninsula.’

Charles Babbage, the 19th-century polymath credited with inventing the computer (he certainly coined the word) described three forms of scientific dishonesty: trimming data to smooth results, bias by discarding ‘unhelpful’ data, and forging or invention of data. Mann breaks all three rules.

The problem is that of political conformity, an enemy which will have to be defeated before long on many cultural battlegrounds. This conformity – in accordance with Leftist thinking – dictates the way the world ought to be and seeks confirmation that it is that way. Joint winner of the 1973 Nobel Prize in Physics, Professor Ivar Giaever Ph.D., explains;

‘Pseudoscience is a very strange thing, because in pseudoscience you begin with a hypothesis which is very appealing to you, and then you only look for things which confirm the hypothesis.’

In the strange world of climate change – as with economics – the real world tends to take second place to predictive models, and in this respect computational capability has introduced as many problems as it has solved. The scientific maxim ‘rubbish in, rubbish out’ finds a prime example with the hockey stick.

The problem is not just data selectivity. Mann and his sidekicks also refuse to recognise protocols which make science communitarian and thus genuine. As Mann’s colleague, Phil Jones, famously said;

‘Why should I make the data available to you, when your aim is to try and find something wrong with it?’

This is not how science works, nor is it sufficient to call the agreement of a cabal of friends ‘peer review’, when it is no more valid than mutual book cover blurbs given and reciprocated by friendly novelists. And it was a result of precisely this boys’ club attitude that got Mann and his cronies into trouble; the University of East Anglia ‘Climategate’ email leak.

Whether it was a leak or a hack is immaterial. A chain of emails got into the public domain (see Watermelons by James Delingpole), and the truth about Mann’s methods were exposed to the scientific world (which was interested) and the general public (which was not). Subterfuge, factual manipulation, tricks and deceit; the whole armoury of the contemporary Left is here. A clue comes when Mann talks about ‘the cause’. Thus every zealot, with or without an attendant god.

That global warming mirrors religion is scarcely an original proposition. There are Holy scriptures, heretics, priests, an elitist language, and all the obfuscation and trickery you would expect from the religious. Dr. Jarl Ahlbeck Ph.D., also notes another aspect of coalition;

‘Greenhouse religion is a funny thing. There are so much [sic] feelings and aggressions in it. Just as in classical religions.’

When you see the Left shout down ‘climate change deniers’ (note the implicit link to Holocaust denial), you see a rabid fervour every bit as maniacal as the most crazed jihadi. In terms of cortical theory, the higher brain has abdicated responsibility for the Left; the limbic brain rules.

In a sane world, A Disgrace to the Profession would be sent to every politician, every head teacher, every policy maker and every scientist on the planet, a planet which is no more doomed by climate change than by anything else. If you are new to the sin of climate change denial, read the introduction to Björn Lomborg’s The Skeptical Environmentalist, then read this. And look out for Mann vs. Steyn, already being touted as the Scopes Monkey Trial of the 21st century.

Thursday, 26 November 2015


What do SJW’s [Social Justice Workers] want to achieve? Their goal is power and domination over the Western cultural narrative to manufacture a consensus that is aligned with their extreme far-left ideology.

Vox Day, SJWs Always Lie




Bahar Mustafa was, until recently, the ‘welfare and diversity officer’ at Goldsmith’s College in London. Assuming that ‘welfare’, both one’s own and that of others, is something everyone automatically strives for, let us put that aspect of Ms. Mustafa’s toil to one side. Diversity is, of course, one of the pillars of the coming age, and Social Justice Workers [SJWs] such as Ms. Mustafa must ensure that we get diversity and plenty of it.

We must not, of course, be too diverse; one can have too much of a good thing. Diversity does not extend, in Ms. Mustafa’s Weltanschaaung, to white men, for example. She made this clear by using the modish device of the hashtag for her Tweets, her version reading; #KillAllWhiteMen. This faux pas on anti-social media saw Ms. Mustafa summonsed to court in London last month potentially to face ‘hate speech’ (soon to be shortened to ‘Hatespeech’, as in Orwell’s ‘Thoughtcrime’?) charges. These were, mercifully, dropped, allowing Ms. Mustafa to continue her important work.

When she is not organising university conferences which are either segregated by gender or not open to white people, Ms. Mustafa apparently spends at least some of her time in email correspondence with luminaries of the counterjihad, as profiled here two postcards ago. In this case, Ms. Mustafa is alleged to have emailed Pamela Geller, the notable anti-Islamist who hosts the Atlas Shrugs website, as follows;

You deserve to be raped in every hole by hordes of muslims [sic], slapping and choking you, spitting in your mouth and pissing in ya [sic] face.

Ms. Mustafa seems to have used the Goldsmith’s College server to send her rather vivid gang-rape fantasy.

Goldsmith’s have, of course, spluttered the usual rubbish about account hacking and spoofing and various other versions of the secular taqqiya that dominates the SJW’s interior landscape, bleak and joyless and egg-bound as it is. Somebody certainly sent it, however, and purportedly from Ms. Mustafa’s account. As noted, she does have form. Perhaps if it is noted by the authorities that she – or a colleague – has already fallen foul of the Malicious Communications Act of 1988, she may yet acquire form of a different kind. This would be a racing certainty if she carried the taint of the Right wing about her – if she was a UKIP councillor, say – but with the tireless, politically orthodox, halo-hunting SJW, the law can often show restraint.

Whoever sent the email, the phrasing is uncomfortable. Of course, across Europe, hordes of Muslims actually are gang-raping and spitting at women, as well as, of course, gunning down concert-goers and torturing them as they lie dying. In Ms. Mustafa’s view – or that of her little helper – Ms. Geller’s crime is the greater; she has dared to criticise Islam. This makes her, in the hyper-moral calibration of the SJW-cum-student (how often the categories overlap!), a racist, the crime of crimes among the modern young people. Of course, as Ms. Geller and many others ceaselessly point out, Islam is not a race. But ‘racism’ does not mean what it used to mean. Like fascism as outlined by Orwell, it has simply become shorthand for ‘bad’, ‘evil’, and ‘not what I believe’.

For the self-respecting SJW – and there is no other kind – racism is a purely white pursuit. Ms. Mustafa is on record as stating that it is literally not possible for her to be racist as she belongs to an ethnic minority, that coveted talisman of the (post-)modern. This is the clear advantage the Left hold in any debate – debate, however, being something they are set against – concerning what can and can’t be said; they get to define, regulate and apply the rules of discourse. That is, given that you understand what they are talking about. From Bahar Mustafa’s home page on the Goldsmith’s website;

ZERO TOLERANCE on homophobia, queer-phobia, trans*phobia, racism, Islamophobia, misogyny, ableism, cis-sexism, and classist behaviour.

And people say Heidegger is difficult to understand.

Whether or not Ms. Mustafa sent the email, it might be instructive to use one of the Left’s tactics against its practitioners. After a string of well-publicised rape ‘n’ racism hoaxes on American campuses, student spokespeople took the view that it didn’t matter whether the events had actually happened (Google ‘mattress rape girl’, for example), only that the various wrongs committed by white men the world over were highlighted. Applying this criterion, the email to Ms. Geller captures perfectly the tone of the Left. Do not criticise; smear. Do not refute; shout down. Do not engage in argument; abuse and threaten and curse. Why would you spend time on the difficult task – and any genuine intellectual task is a Sisyphean hill for the modern student – of argumentation and genuine debate when you can just colour the air in wishing that someone is gang-raped, spat and urinated upon? Thus the Left at the modern university.

If any of you reading this have young children, I imagine that you would be pleased and proud if they eventually attended a university. Think again. By the time they are admitted, people of the calibre of Ms. Mustafa will not be a part of the student body; they will be faculty. Your child will probably be okay, provided they are prepared to adhere to a Draconian system of orthodoxy. You might suggest to them that they don’t attempt anything difficult such as a science degree. Better to stick with Gender Studies, Queer Studies, Women’s Studies, Black History, or any one of a host of other non-subjects leading to a meaningless degree which will never directly earn them five minutes’ worth of paid employment.

Ms. Mustafa resigned her post ‘for the preservation of my mental and physical health’. It is already far, far too late for her mental health, I fear.

Tuesday, 24 November 2015


I see you are using the circuitous route of medicine to attain your first ideal, the physiological understanding of man, while I secretly nurse the hope of arriving by the same route at my own original objective, philosophy.

Freud, letter to Fliess, 1896

Even when I have moved away from observation, I have carefully avoided any contact with philosophy proper.

Freud, An Autobiographical Study, 1925

The mistake was always to say Herr Doctor Freud. Psychoanalysis was never the answer, except for a few bored, neurotic fin de siècle housewives. It would take a book to show that Freud was one of the greatest philosophers who ever lived, and we only have 1,000 words, as well as other, more immediately distracting problems to attend to just now. He might be in bad odour with feminists and other idiots, but the Viennese neurobiologist who invented psychoanalysis, discovered the unconscious, had his books burned by the Nazis and wrote his doctoral thesis on the neurology of the dogfish might be the best qualified clinician to put the 21st century on the couch and explain why we are where we are.

Freud it was who made famous the theory of recapitulation (it was actually Ernst Haeckel’s theory), otherwise known as the formula ontogeny = phylogeny. Simply, the theory states that the developmental stages of a child reflect the evolutionary history of that child’s species. It has fallen out of favour now, but then we live in increasingly stupid times. It is always worth going through the trash discarded by an idiot generation.

We will waste no time on whether or not recapitulation theory is right or wrong. Its analysis does not admit to scientific rigour, and we can obtain no answer, even a falsifiable one, worth the name of scientific. What we will do is to assume that our political, social, ideological and cultural leaders – and we have them, unfortunately – believe that it is the case that we represent, here in the West, peak maturity for our species, with all the intellectual, physical, moral and other qualities honed to a point which is not yet perfect (incipit Socialism) but is on its way pending a few adjustments of which social engineering is capable. Simplistically, the bosses believe in recapitulation theory. If they didn’t, they would have read Plato, and possibly got things right, instead of reading Fukuyama and getting the world so tragically wrong.

We are not mature adults in the West. We’re not even well-balanced children. We are children, but the type who wear rubber hats, bite their own fingers till the blood comes, crash their heads against the institution walls for attention, all snot, dribble and tantrums. We will do anything for candy now, hate other children who we think have more than us, and leave ourselves wide open to the malevolent machinations of nurse, who has psychological problems of her own and means us no good. To teach us a lesson, she is now letting other children into the ward, and these kids have really got problems.

Although there is no Rousseauesque, golden, pre-lapsarian age to which we might look back and try to emulate – the traditional role of childhood in poetry, for example – we spend a lot of our time trying to emulate children. Walk any Western street that isn’t on Mohammedan lockdown, and tell me what you see. Adults dressed as children, men in sports shoes and big colourful T-shirts with funny pictures on the front. Everyone is playing with a toy of some sort, toys which we think represent a technological advance because we don’t know and don’t care what the Ancient Greek word technē means. Everyone is making an unrestrained noise. Vocabulary is limited. God help us, the children are awake on what has been a half-century long Christmas morning. Was Christmas morning.

Because right now we had better think pretty hard about recapitulation. It is time to grow up, and fast, because nurse is preparing the syringe, and we don’t know and don’t understand what is inside. Flick, flick, tap, tap, squirt…

When I was a child, says Corinthians 13:11, I spoke and thought and reasoned as a child. But when I grew up, I put away childish things. This is the time. It’s time to ring the playground bell – discarded in actual schools after the 1967 Plowden Report that helped destroy British education – and tell the children to line up because you have to tell them something.

As an adult, you have to tell Liberal Progressivists that their ideas are going to destroy the West, the greatest civilisation that has ever existed. You have to tell egalitarians that all men were not born equal – no, nor woman neither – and there is a natural hierarchy which will not be gainsaid. You have to tell Socialists that you cannot engineer humanity to perfection because we are not machines – contra Descartes and La Mettrie – and the appropriate model for mankind is the Goethean organic not the Leninist automaton. You have to tell the hip social ‘scientists’ that genotype and phenotype are what produce social problems, not poverty, patriarchy or racism. You have to tell the political elites that miscegenation is not the way to safeguard your children’s future. You must inform those young people holding banners decorated with flowers and bearing the legend WELCOME REFUGEES! that the answer to their white guilt is not an Islamic Reich. You must make it clear to Western media that acting as pimps for the hookers of the political class will not improve the lot of mankind but make it substantially worse. You must act like adults, not children.

Read Freud. In fact, read all the writers who have been cast out as pharmakos, as verboten, as haram. Read Nietzsche, Heidegger, Spengler, Evola, Faye, Plato… With Freud, however, you may be struck by the fact that the key text to understanding the dying West – and the West is dying - is not Civilisation and its Discontents but the essays on infantile neurosis.

Monday, 23 November 2015


We must all hang together, or assuredly we shall all hang separately.
Benjamin Franklin

Without contraries there is no progression.
William Blake

Counterjihad is dissension against the perceived Islamisation of the West. The following is a short list of ten leading counterjihadis. Different personalities, same sensibilities.

Fjordman is the pen name of a Norweigan blogger who largely uses GOV as his preferred outlet. Named as an inspiration by Breivik in his manifesto, Fjordman was actually ill-used by a maniac. He has self-published a book; Defeating Eurabia (currently unavailable on Amazon). His bulletins on Islamisation are scholarly yet full of commitment. GOV is the first daily port of call for the counterjihadist. Run by a middle-aged American couple, it is a focal point for online counterjihad. Two Labour MPs have called for the site to be closed down.

Geller is the brashest American counterjihadi. Her website Atlas Shrugs monitors Islamist activity, Western responses, and the threat to Israel. Together with Robert Spencer, she was denied entry to the UK. Geller has since sponsored a series of counterjihad posters on various American public transport systems. President of the American Freedom Defense Initiative, she remains fiercely opposed to the construction of an Islamic community centre near the site of the Twin Towers. Denies being anti-Islamic, preferring to be described as opposed to Islamism.

The most erudite counterjihadi, whom I had the pleasure of being introduced to. Murray writes, among others, for Standpoint and The Spectator. His book Islamophilia is an excellent primer for the state of Western appeasement of Islamism. Murray is the most likely dissident here to be invited onto a BBC panel. As with all the counterjihadis listed, Murray’s focus is increasingly the response of the West to Islam rather than Islam itself; Robert Spencer (see below) is probably the expert witness there.

A firebrand from the non-ideological, non-intellectual segment of the counterjihadi spectrum. Robinson was the leader of the English Defence League, a rough-and-ready collection of football hooligans Robinson eventually quit. After a brief spell ‘working with’ the Quilliam Foundation – a think-tank which purports to challenge extremism but works for Islamic interests – Robinson was invited to speak at the Oxford Union, among other engagements. He recently had a similar address at Durham University cancelled, and has been disgracefully victimised by UK police (he has, however, served time for genuine offences). He travels Europe speaking on Islam, and now actively supports PEGIDA.

Sabaditsch-Wolff is a Viennese housewife who failed her shariah-compliancy test by presenting a series of 2009 seminars to a political academy linked to the Austrian Freedom Party. Covertly recorded by a Socialist journalist, her show trial collapsed but she was still nominally fined for remarks implying that Mohammed was a paedophile. The daughter of a diplomat, Sabaditsch-Wolff had first-hand experience of the Islamic revolution in Iran in 1979. A tireless speaker on Islam, she has described herself as ‘a victimless convict’.

A genuine outsider. Seiyo is an online journalist dropped by some titles for the bluntness of his analysis, which is some of the most erudite available. Read (via Gates of Vienna) Seiyo’s long essays The Bee and the Lamb and From Meccania to Atlantis. Seiyo was born under Communism, has lived all over Europe and America, and is now (I believe) resident in Japan. The Bee and the Lamb begins with the story of Estonia, a model of ethnic nationalism he pits against the lassitude of the West. Seiyo is also disgusted by modern culture, and sees it as a factor in the decline leading to Islamisation.

Spencer could be called Mr. Counterjihad. His blog is Jihad Watch. His many books are informed and crafted, the news about Islam you won’t get from the MSM. He co-founded Stop Islamisation of America (SIOA) with Pamela Geller, and the pair were notoriously banned from the UK by the Home Office for ‘making statements that may foster hatred that might lead to inter-community violence’. Spencer memorably debated an imam on live radio, quoting from the Koran at will, while his opponent seemed all at sea with the book. Spencer’s Master’s thesis was on Catholic history.

Although he sometimes over-reaches for a pun, Steyn is able to hit hard with both facts and humour. In court in Canada over free speech issues, and currently involved in a lawsuit against fraudulent climate alarmist Michael Mann, Islam is only one item on Steyn’s ‘to-do’ list. Steyn was the first, in America Alone, to point out that Europe’s demographics are the weakest weapon against population replacement and the dissolution of nation states that goes with it. Steyn is always worth a listen in TV and radio interviews. A staunch defender of free speech, Steyn’s battle with Islamic media techniques and lawfare are best expressed in Lights Out. Mark Steyn is also a crooner with an immense knowledge of music.

Weston was a member of UKIP before defecting to the British Freedom Party with ex-EDL and BNP members. He later split again to form Liberty GB, whose site has gained in articulacy in recent months. He produces straightforward videos stating his position, and is adamant that the Western elites are complicit in European Islamisation. Weston was famously arrested for quoting from Churchill’s The River War concerning Islam.

A Dutch parliamentarian who has lived under police protection for a decade over his views on Islam. A ceaseless speaker, his book is not available on Kindle in translation in the UK, although Mein Kampf and the Koran are. Wilders has made a comparison between these two books. His film, Fitna, was shown to the House of Lords, despite vigorous claims by a Muslim lord to have the showing cancelled. Wilders’ party, The Party for Freedom, now holds a decisive number of seats in the Dutch Parliament. Wilders has been the subject of show trials for hate speech, and is currently being prosecuted again.



Saturday, 21 November 2015


You cannot put the genie back in the bottle. They are the people, not you. They will turn the tide, madam president, and turn it must.

Geert Wilders, speech to the Dutch lower parliament


The easiest way to elect a new people is to import them.

Mark Steyn, After America



Now that the Parisian gunfire has died away, at least for the time being, the inevitable post mortem takes place. Sadly, the various key players in Europe’s future will not have as their priority castigating themselves for their inevitable intelligence shortcomings, or actually increasing the safety and security of ordinary, blameless people who have been unfortunate enough to wonder into someone else’s civil war. They have a more pressing issue. It is not ISIS – or whatever the brand name for Islam is this week – from which they must protect their people and democracies; the enemy is within.

Instead of addressing what the American security services call the ‘clear and present danger’ resulting from importing Islam, the tone across Europe and its agenda-driven leaders seems to be; stop the far Right. The importation of a psychotic death cult seems not to worry them too much, except to ensure that the rate of migration is increased; dissent does. The Guardian wasted no time in voicing its shrill and gormless fears about the Parisian attacks ‘fuelling the far Right’. Be in no doubt as to who is being portrayed as the enemy within here. A big clue, to adapt the hook-line of the threnodic song being sung by the unelected gauleiters of the declining West, is that they’ll have nothing to do with Islam.

The first real show of force from the cabal running the EU was the Parisian ‘march of unity’ after the bloodbath at Charlie Hebdo, the attack for which John Kerry claimed that he could see a ‘rationale’. It was a march of unity, but not unity against Islamic terrorism. Instead, the extended photo-op – which Obama did not attend, sending James Taylor instead – was a combined gauleiter-Juncker class action suit against any real people tempted to march against their de facto programme of imported Islamisation.

We have since seen how the Germans have responded to PEGIDA. Merkel called them ‘Nazis in suits’, and sent her police forces to protect migrant centres rather than the hospitals and tower blocks where immigrants have, by several accounts, been conducting their mini-insurgencies. These are people, these ordinary Germans concerned about the cataclysm they see unfolding in front of them, who must be stopped by any means necessary. Across Europe, increasingly as one looks east, dissent is both growing and subject to EU crackdowns. Our own de facto political prisoner has been doing some travelling too. Tommy Robinson was in Prague two weeks ago to address the Czech offshoot of PEGIDA, and had been appearing wherever these pockets of dissent spring up. Expect to see him harassed, imprisoned and put in harm’s way once again before very long.

In Robinson’s country, the governmental cry goes up once again for more surveillance powers, despite demonstrable evidence that surveillance in no way prevented the 13/11 attacks in Paris. But the surveillance is not intended to stop terrorist attacks; the surveillance is intended to put an end to dissent. Those people who dare to question the wisdom of bringing into Europe tens of thousands of unassimilable Mohammedans are the real targets of the ever-expanding governmental remit to snoop and spy and suspect.

And for Orwell’s Pansy Left, of course, the attacks have been another opportunity for moral signalling and preening. Various Leftist sock-puppets and taqiyya artists have been popping up on the BBC to warn against Islamophobia – a word invented by the Muslim Brotherhood to help quell dissent – and shriek about the demons and kobolds of the European ‘far Right’, the bogeymen fascists of their fevered imagination, such as it can be said to be.

Orwell it was, of course, who astutely demonstrated that the use of the word ‘fascist’ and its cognates was not nominal but emotive. ‘The word Fascism,’ writes Orwell, ‘now has no meaning except in so far as it signifies something not desirable.’ It has been ‘degraded to the level of a swearword.’ This precisely defines the usage by the modern Progressive Left, a Left that has become increasingly and systematically silent concerning Orwell, who should be their talisman but is too astute and tied to reality for the quasi-psychotics of the post-modern Left.

The Left despise ‘fascists’. I’ve been called one many times. It’s not too onerous; the Nazis had fantastic dress sense. But the Left define themselves dialectically; we are not those bad people over there. They must be fascists. It’s the same ontological exercise Freud describes in the infant with relation to his excrement. It is not me. It is bad. It is death while I am life.

There is no far Right, unless you are talking about the football thugs who will increasingly be involved in the coming troubles. There is, however, a demonstrable far Left. They run the governments of the West; they dominate the media, government’s provisional wing; they have seized the schools, curricula and syllabus; they instantiate the public sector (someone with known Right-wing sympathies would simply not be employed in the public sector if those affiliations were known); they have neutered the armed forces and turned the police into paramilitary social workers. They will never stop, even as the world collapses around them. They are creating a world in which their children must live; their children will not thank them for it.

But then their children will have been taught, with all the rigour of Socialist indoctrination, that it was not the Left that was to blame, but the far Right.

So, then; believe. If you are of the opinion that a political ideology masquerading as a religion is not the current danger facing the West, that instead it is the massed hordes of the ‘far Right’, good luck, and may your god go with you.

Sunday, 15 November 2015


There is a war

Between the ones who say

There is a war

And the ones who say

That there isn’t. 

Leonard Cohen, There is a War


One night in Paris

Could be your last. 

10cc, Une Nuit à Paris

I awoke late on Saturday morning, at 07:01 – just 15 sleeps from my Paris trip – to a text from a Sun journalist;

All kicked off in Paris. Many dead.

There is no need to rehearse the actual events themselves; even the BBC will give you those. They will lie and lie again about the causes, but they will tell you what actually happened. What is needed now is to separate friend from enemy. And our immediate enemy is not ISIS. Our enemy is within. They look and speak like us. Absent their various psychoses, they are us. There is a war between the ones who say there is a war and the ones who say that there isn’t…

For many years, since before 9/11, I have warned anyone prepared to listen to me about Islam. I’ve lost friends over it and I’m happy to see them go. I’m not talking about radical Islam, or ISIS, or extremism; I’m talking about Islam. If you study this religion – and I have – you will find occasionalist metaphysics which denies freedom of the will. You will find a patriarchal, misogynistic, institutionalised set of rape fantasies which ought to enrage every feminist from Hampstead to UCLA. You will find an active revanchism for which the ‘migrant crisis’ is taking the form of an enabling act in a legislative chamber. But, even when this cabinet of Dr. Caligari is opened and inspected, you still won’t find your enemy. As in one of those science fiction films – They Live, Invasion of the Body Snatchers, The Thing –the danger lurks inside those who exactly resemble you. And so our enemies are not brown skinned men in shalwar kameez. Our enemy is the Progressive Western Left.

David Cameron, a man for whom there is absolutely no excuse, has made another fatuous speech, although it does make an important point, albeit not, of course, in the way that he – or rather his speech-writing ‘droids – would think. The terrorists, says this son of The Bullingdon Club, want to divide us. Good. Then I am on the side of ISIS on this one. I want us divided, divided between those who recognise this for what it is, a Muslim spasm war, and those who think the problem will go away if we play Imagine outside a Parisian nightclub. I want us divided between those who would be prepared to fight for European history, and those who want no borders. I want us divided between those prepared to risk imprisonment by speaking the truth about Islam, and those who think criticism of any Muslim is tantamount to ‘hate speech’. There is a war between the ones who say there is a war and the ones who say that there isn’t…

The image I will retain from yet another weekend of death in the name of Allah – and please do not forget that thousands of Christians are killed every week, by Muslims, in faraway countries of which we know little – is of the obligatory street celebrations held by gibbering, shrieking, cawing young Muslim men. One in particular held my attention; it was outside the tube station at Tooting Broadway. My nan used to walk me past that very spot when I was a very small boy (15 sleeps till Paris…). Yesterday, it was temporarily a zoo. There is a war…

So I want division, in many ways. I want there to be a very clear division between me and French journalist Agnes Poirier, for example, who reported that the 10/11th arrondisements under Muslim attack in Paris are “very diverse – that makes it more poignant for the French.” Does it, Agnes? Do ordinary French people - sick to death of Islam, in all likelihood – feel even sadder because some foreign arrivistes might have died along with their countrymen and women.

I want clear blue water between myself and the Twitter community who are currently asking us to look at ourselves if we want to know where the problem lies, who say that all religion has extremists, who remind us ad nauseam that there is a peaceful majority of Muslims who want no part of this. They truly are a silent majority; I see no marches, no Muslim anti-ISIS demonstrations, no Muslim editorials criticising this religion of death. There is a war…

I want a great divide between my people and those of Bernie Sanders, the American Democratic candidate for the presidency who believes that global warming is to blame for the rise of ISIS. I want defined borders between myself and Jeremy Corbyn, who thinks the death of the clumsily named ‘Jihadi John’ is regrettable. I want people who understand precisely what is happening in the West to say firmly to their Leftist friends, busy as they will no doubt be warning against Islamophobia, that their friendship is no longer needed. There is a war…

Islam has become a problem, but Islam would be ground under the Western heel if the real people of the West had any say in the matter, a say which has been systematically erased. Islam would not stand a chance against Europe were it not for one factor; our leaders. The whole world-government, open-border, ex-Communist cabal leading us into the shadow of the valley of death are the genuine enemy. If we do not kick back against these dreadful social engineers, there will be blood.

John Lennon songs aren’t going to help us now. Tolerance isn’t going to help us now. ‘Co-exist’ bumber stickers are not going to help us now. Multiculturalism isn’t going to help us now. We have to help ourselves by admitting a genuinely inconvenient truth.

There is a war between the ones who say there is a war and the ones who say that there isn’t…


Thursday, 12 November 2015


Without doubt, Twitter would have stopped the invasion of Iraq and it is going to do similar things in the future. It’s instant public approval or critique, and politicians and consumer brands are paying close attention…

Old Holborn, from an interview with The Daily Telegraph


If the Web has a soul, then a loathing for censorship stirs it.

Nick Cohen, You Can’t Read This Book 

To St. James’s Park, and an evening in the excellent company of Libertarian Home [LH]. LH is a loose collective whose interests revolve around, as you would expect, Libertarianism. Libertarianism is regularly heckled and lampooned in the mainstream media and among the political class and their catamites, so the discerning boulevardier simply knows instinctively that there has to be something in it, and gravitates to these events with pleasure.

LH meets monthly in an agreeable hostelry, and a talk is the focal point of the evening. I gave one myself, on free will and determinism with reference to Socialism; it can be found here. This month, we were entertained by Old Holborn, scourge of Twitter, defender of free speech and – according to cretinous comic The Daily Mail – ‘Britain’s vilest troll’.

Twitter was made for this age of perpetual offence. The race industry has been notorious for years for their ramping up of outrage, accusation and concomitant anti-white rhetoric, but now others can join in too. The transgendered, the Welsh, children with ADHD; as long as you are a member of a designated victim group, you can be offended. And, with the cunning new innovations of micro-aggression, trigger words, psychological abuse and other supposedly unconscious ways of giving offence, the store of potential grievance is effectively limitless. Enter Old Holborn.

At 53, Old Holborn is a year younger than me, and so we share a cultural memory bank. Like him, I have seen the gradual erosion of freedoms in our lifetime, with freedom of speech at the fore. In my experience, this has even extended to the workplace. I recall a particularly half-witted martinet, posing as my ‘line manager’, constantly telling me to ‘watch the tone’ of my emails whenever I had pointed out one of her many, many schoolgirl errors.

Old Holborn is deliberately provocative, as a quick Google search will confirm. His policy is to push the limits of free speech in order to find out what they are. This in itself throws up an interesting observation; the ruling cliques themselves, and their provisional arms in the police and media, don’t know what is and isn’t acceptable free speech in terms of the speech itself. It’s not a question of producing or shaping an acceptable lexicon. All they know is that free speech qua free must be gradually closed down. The ongoing battle against freedom of expression is a battle concerned with control, not the definition of legality or permissible boundaries.

Old Holborn is an engaging, animated speaker, keen to share his life with his audience because his life is what he does. He and his family are relocating to Europe, so sick is he of this country, where our police 'service' have wasted a lot of our tax money harassing him. He ran for Parliament under the name Old Holborn, and did much to popularise the ubiquitous Guy Fawkes mask now so beloved of hacktivist-anarchists Anonymous (although actually first used by people protesting against The Church of Scientology).

By what I assume was coincidence, Anonymous were in the middle of the so-called Million Mask March in the Westminster streets right outside the pub, and I wondered what his take on their antics would be. I had walked from Westminster tube station, curious to see what was happening. In fact, I passed through Parliament Square just a few minutes before what turned, predictably, into a riot of sorts. Unforgiveably, the protesters threw fireworks at police horses, one of whom was blinded. Old Holborn shared my contempt for these retarded, spoilt brats. “That’s not anti-authority”, he spat, gesturing out of the window towards the clatter and shouting.

I asked one question, which came out as more of a statement, which earned a round of applause and one sentence from which I mentally filed for reproduction here. It is an old saw of mine; that there is no such thing as ‘offence’. Offence is a wily way of converting anger – of which no one takes any notice – into something which will command rabid attention. The relation between offence and anger, I ventured, is that between ‘marketable tender and an unbankable coin’.

There is little I can add to the weary subject of free speech, late lamented of this parish. We certainly no longer enjoy it. You wouldn’t get a feature published in a newspaper about, say, IQ, genetics and race, not if it were honest. No freedom of speech. I would not get far in central London wearing a T-shirt reading ‘Infidel’ or ‘Veiled women give me the horn’. No freedom of speech. Supporters of Liverpool Football Club were given a leaflet, several months ago, telling them which words (sissy, man up, poof) would get them banned from Anfield. No freedom of speech.

And the central point of Old Holborn’s speech was a simple one. You and I, if we desire free speech, have to save it ourselves. Politicians will not do it for us. They have no freedom of speech themselves, due to our pathetic media and their obsession with political correctness, ‘gaffes’, and appeasing Leftist, Islamist, black, feminist and gender pressure groups. And one of the best ways of joining the fight, according to OH, is to get on social media and make a noise. Put people’s noses out of joint. Speak, and speak freely. You know social media is a good thing when you see how many journalists despise it. All those people writing for others without so much as a Media Studies degree.

Don’t allow cultural Marxists to stop your mouth. Push back. Kick back. Freedom of speech is ours to lose.