Friday, 16 September 2016


Cause the darkness of this house has got the best of us
There's a darkness in this town that's got us too
But they can't touch me now
And you can't touch me now
They ain't gonna do to me
What I watched them do to you

Bruce Springsteen, Independence Day

¡Feliz día de la independencia! (Happy Independence Day!)

How nice to walk into town yesterday and see the red, white and blue of the national flag fluttering outside buildings, draped from the back of taxi cabs, and woven into the hair of little girls. Of course, I am not in my native country of England. That sort of thing is well on the way to being banned there. I am in Costa Rica, a country unashamed to be patriotic.

185 years ago, led by plucky Guatemala, Central America threw off the shackles of the Spanish conquistadores and gained its independence. I don’t imagine that 48% of the country stood around moaning about it, either. Now, Costa Rica has 4.5% annual growth in terms of GDP, while Spain is an economic basket case. Funny how things turn out.
There was a parade early in the morning. It is the rainy season here, and the rain usually starts at around lunchtime, so outdoor events revolve around that. I particularly like the parade music here. Teams of drummers are accompanied by young people playing the lyra - although I think it differs from the instrument Apollo gave to Orpheus and with which that most beautiful of musicians charmed even the beasts – and which is a sort of upright xylophone. The overall effect is both haunting and jaunty, an odd combination but very lovely. A young lady was happy for me to take a photo, and here is a lyra.

The Ticos (Costa Ricans) are unashamedly patriotic, exhibiting the natural and genuine love of country that stern-faced harridans across the EU are desperate to censor. Just witness Angela Merkel’s lemon-sucking face whenever she sees a display of the German flag. A common greeting here is pura vida, the pure or good life, and Ticos love their country. I am an immigrant, and careful to be respectful of the ways of the locals. Disappointingly, I find I am not classed as a gringo – you have to be from the USA to qualify – but merely an Inglés. The bushiness of my moustache and the general swarthiness I have always had, however, does mean that I am often taken for a Mexican, at least before I open my mouth. If I got a sombrero, a poncho and a bullet belt and tagged on to a mariachi band with my bass ukulele, no one would suspect a thing.
What is love of country? George Orwell and Peter Hitchens are both excellent writers when it comes to summing up England, but things are moving fast, away from the comfortable place the English used to inhabit, towards a harsh and onerous future in which Leftist Progressives will expunge any last trace of Englishness along with freedom of speech and fun of any sort. I have failed to trace the quote, but a good friend, both to me and this blog, once told me that J G Ballard said that, eventually, everywhere would look like a suburb of Bonn. While the sentiment is astute, I fear the geography is not. A lot of London looks like a suburb of Beirut now, and not just because of the demographics. My abiding memory of London is rubbish littering the streets. The Costa Rican town I am in, despite being third world, feels cared for and cherished. The pavements may be works in progress – there are no nauseating hipsters walking along texting and expecting you to walk round them, as in London – but they are free of trash.
I can’t honestly say I know Costa Rica. The town I am in is relatively prosperous. It would be like claiming to know England because you spent nine months in Tunbridge Wells, or you have got the measure of the USA because of your stay in New Hampton. But there are certain aspects of life here that I cannot fail to find attractive. The way fathers spend time with their children, who are themselves impeccable little angels and hardly ever prone to the fits and spasms of European and North American brats. The first thing I noticed at Frankfurt airport on my last journey back to Blighty was unruly fucking kids, their parents utterly incapable of caring less. I looked at one woman for a long time, my stare intended to convey the fact that many of us were irritated by the screaming antics of her bitch’s bastards. I got that look. The one that says; there is nothing you can do. These are not human beings but untouchables, gods. A girl at a party once asked me why I never had children. I gave my standard reply. I never needed them. Not never wanted. Never needed. The nippers here are also absolutely unafraid of adults, although I did see a notice in charming English at San José airport warning would-be predators off child sexual tourism. The incidence of rape is high here, too, although Europe is catching up nicely thanks to the good offices of Socialists who think a bit of rape is just acceptable collateral damage for destroying the White ethny. In England, children are taught at an early age that all strange men are rapist perverts. Here, little ones are always saying hello and wanting to cuddle my two hounds. It’s refreshing.
I have much work to do before I can become a resident here, but I will do my utmost to stay. You see, in the end, I have come to despise England. Roger Scruton calls hatred of one’s own country oikophobia, from the Greek. Online essayist Takuan Seiyo calls it mea culpism. Guillaume Faye coined the phrase – I believe – ethno-masochism. I never thought it would happen to me. But enough of this gloom; Happy Independence Day!

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