Wednesday, 26 October 2016

‘TIS PITY HE’S A BOOR: WHY TRUMP? WHY NOW?



The US Presidential Election campaign is a carnival of corruption, media bias, lies, treachery and misinformation entirely consistent with north America’s present decline and coming fall. It is not now possible to believe a single poll, and the outcome will probably be decided by the party most able to manipulate and rig the electoral system. This would make Clinton the hot favourite, well versed as she is in the art of political deceit. Personally, I can’t see the establishment allowing a Trump victory, although I called Brexit spectacularly wrong by applying the same logic. If I recommend a racehorse to you, as a friend of mine would say, approach with caution.

Given a Clinton victory, the priority of the incoming government will be to ensure that no one from outside the political class is ever permitted to ‘do a Trump’ again. The USA is to follow the European path to immigration-driven dysfunction, and no one wanting to make America great again is to be allowed to interfere. Clinton will have a lot of revenge to take as well, and if you are a hard-working white family, I would review your options outside the land of the free.

And the tragedy of Trump’s extraordinary tilt at the White House is that he is the wrong man. Finally, a credible runner emerges from outside the wing-tip elites, and instead of the intelligent, conservative reformer north America is so desperately in need of, it gets a louche billionaire having a great day off from the office. Is there no one in the USA’s political class better suited than this oaf? I hope he wins, certainly, but that is only because I want to see the faces of BBC presenters the day after. I want to see the national guard forced to go into inner cities as blacks go full chimpout. I want to enjoy myself on Facebook again as the Liberal Left cry themselves a river. On the other hand, I don’t care if Clinton wins because as far as north America is concerned, it’s a case of not my circus, not my monkeys.

As to whether the photographs of rallies can be extrapolated into a Trump victory, I wouldn’t be so sure. Trump rallies are packed to shutout level, while Clinton’s seem to draw her media catamites and the odd man and his dog. Tim Kaine drew 30 people in Florida. However, Trump followers are highly motivated and angry doers, while a vast swathe of Clinton’s people are the gibsmedats who are unlikely to get out of bed to attend a rally with no free stuff, but will vote early and often in order to maintain those freebies.

The most dispiriting aspect of this whole farce is the weaponisation of the media. If anyone still believes in an impartial Western media after this debacle, don’t leave your kids with them and definitely do not allow them to use scissors or any other sharp object. Clinton’s wagon train of treasonous misdemeanours has passed the media camp entirely unremarked, while Trump’s potty mouth has created a shrieking chorus of syndicated Bacchae eager to rip him to shreds. This is not politics, it is the crudest type of authoritarian propaganda. It is, however, to Trump’s credit that he has refused to play the modern Leftist media game, realizing that his base does not care what the metropolitan elites think. After this election, and to adapt a skit by Bill Hicks, anyone in journalism would do everyone who isn’t a favour by killing themselves.

In the end, the dysfunction visited on Europe by Merkel and her people will become the doom that comes to America. And you can only say she deserves it. Two terms of Obama followed by one of Clinton will effectively finish the States, and I will not mourn its passing. I used to love the USA, and I recall distinctly that the affection I held for the country came to the fore on 9/11, and helped very much to define the type of Leftist I so despise. The best comment I have seen on the election comes from the excellent Zero Hedge. The emphases are in the original:

On the one side is, maybe, a rapist. On the other side is certainly a warmonger. The next US President will be one of those two people. Each voter must make his/her own choice: either drink possibly cyanide, or drink definitely arsenic. Those are the only two choices left in America’s 'democracy'. No intelligent estimation of America’s immediate political future can be positive; it’s either zero (like Trump) or else negative (like Hillary).

A zero or a negative. Such is the USA’s immediate future. As with Europe, which is now a disgrace to civilisation, the coming financial collapse and its attendant social breakdown cannot come soon enough.




Tuesday, 18 October 2016

GOING OFF SCRIPT: THREE SCENES FROM A LIFE IN POLITICS



Many years ago I was at university. It was before special snowflakes, safe spaces and triggering, before micro-aggressions, white privilege and Mickey Mouse degrees in subjects which don’t exist. I did a lot of acting, and during the miners’ strike I took part in a benefit review for Thatcher’s downtrodden. Of course, we didn’t know in those far-off days that Harold Wilson closed more mines than Thatcher, but she was Satan. The BBC said so and so did all your friends.

The theatre group organising the event had got themselves a real prize; a genuine miner. He was from a Kent colliery and not only was he going to attend, he was going to perform. On the day, he strapped on an acoustic guitar and played a couple of songs. I think he played Woodie Guthrie’s This Land is Your Land and some other protest song. The students looked on in awe. Imagine! A genuine member of the oppressed working class is performing for us! Then things started to go wrong for the student body.

The miner finished his competent renditions and started telling jokes. You would have expected humour tilted at the Tories and Margaret Thatcher, but you would have been disappointed. This chap’s gags were more in the Bernard Manning line (American viewers will have to look up Manning on YouTube, and I recommend it). Mothers-in-law, ethnic minorities, women, this guy nailed them all. I thought it was hilarious, not just the jokes themselves, but their effect on the reverent students. They began to shift and squirm in their seats. Muttering was heard. Finally, some walked out. The miner, you see, the real person in the room, the one with callouses and coal dust under his skin like poorly inked tattoos, had not kept to the script.

We now fast-forward some 25 years. I am now working as a live-in caretaker at a block of flats next to Westminster Cathedral, as you might expect for a Doctor of Philosophy. The block was almost a century old, with an unreliable lead pipe plumbing system which never would behave itself. Three doors away was a blue plaque announcing that Winston Churchill and his beloved Clemmie had lived there right up until 1939, when events elsewhere persuaded Winston to move house. I saw Gordon Brown come out of there once on the morning he was due to appear on television denouncing those who had used his child for some news angle, the hypocritical bastard. I watched him and he watched me, becoming increasingly skittish until he summoned a security guard and pointed me out. The guard got on his mobile and I waved to them both with a cheery grin before going back inside. But I digress.

Due to its proximity to Victoria train and coach stations, the end of the street in which this block nestled was now home to several Romanian men. They would drink and cavort, cavort and drink, leer at women, stare aggressively at men, defecate, urinate and sleep wherever it so pleased them. It was a charming precursor of the multicultural enrichment which is now beginning to accelerate in London. They were, not to put too fine a point on it, a fucking nuisance. More than once, I saw them ogling the small children playing in the school playground opposite their carnival of unpleasantness.

Now, there happened to live in one of the flats a woman I particularly despised. She was one of those bourgeois Lefties. Plenty of money and a ‘Free Palestine’ badge. Having had our Romanian friends mentioned to me a couple of times by concerned single women who felt threatened, I asked her – board member that she was – whether there was anything that could be done about the problem. She scolded me. It was not, she had me know, the fault of these poor refugees that they were homeless. If the Tory government had a heart they would have homes and jobs. Yeah, one of those.

Six weeks later, she approached me and asked if I would be prepared to make a statement to the police. Certainly, I said. Concerning what? It transpired that she was on her way to the cop shop to make an ‘impact statement’ concerning the Carpathian cavorters. They had started to affect her life adversely, you see, and the Left are only happy with immigrant dysfunction when it takes place nowhere near them. Another Leftie pulled up short by reality, stupid bitch.

Last year I was in Amsterdam for a few days, never having been and wanting very much to see van Gogh’s paintings in situ. One evening, I was drinking bourbon in a pleasant little bar when I struck up conversation with a young barmaid. She was about twenty, and you can curb any salacious thoughts that might be squirming in the mired sewers of your filthy imaginations. I’m too old for all that shit. At one point, the conversation drifted towards the political, and it is always instructive to see the tabula rasa of the millennial mind when it comes to matters political. I mentioned that I found Geert Wilders and his treatment by the Dutch establishment to be very interesting. Boy, had I pulled the trigger.

The smile vanished from her face. She looked at me as though my face were covered with open, running sores. Did I know, she enquired, that I was literally evil? She went on in this vein until I drank up and left. I was going to remind this self-important and witless little cunt that she was in the service industry and I was the customer, but what was the point? I merely hoped that her job would soon go to a cheaper Eritrean. I have to admit I also hoped she was raped in half by Arabs.

And thus the Left. Everything is fine in Looking-Glass Land until reality walks through the saloon bar doors looking for a fight. If you wish to understand the modern Leftist, imagine a spoiled, brattish child whose nose has been put out of joint and decides to hate Daddy even if it means ruining the holiday for the whole family. I simply will not and would not have Leftist acquaintances. I despise them and the onerous world they are creating. I hope their children, if they have any, suffer hard and suffer long.

Monday, 17 October 2016

AFTER THE GOLDRUSH: TEN DAYS IN AMERICA





They’ve all gone to look for America
Simon and Garfunkel, America


America is waiting.

David Byrne and Brian Eno, My Life in the Bush of Ghosts





Virginia reminded me of Munich. Not architecturally, of course – although there is a fine Bavarian-style inn on the banks of the Shenandoah River – and there are no men sporting lederhosen or apprentice Valkyries in dirndl. It was a more personal reminiscence. And not, in its consequence, a particularly happy one.

In May of 2015 myself and two long-standing colleagues well versed in the fine art of enjoying ourselves in liquor and fine conversation made the trip to Munich from Paris by train. Train travel in Europe is, at the time of writing, still a pleasure, and one is spared the deliberately imposed inconvenience of air travel security brought to us by our Mohammedan friends, in league with governmental enablers.

Munich was a pleasure to behold. One of our party was something of a dab hand with German history, and I forewent the guided tour for an early morning stroll with him explaining the history of the city, the bombings and the beginnings. And the endings. We walked past Hitler’s local, and I remarked that I was surprised to see that it hadn’t been renamed The Sturm und Drang. Hitler came up a lot in our bierkeller conversations – during which we referred to Hitler as ‘yer man’ to avoid complications with the surrounding tables - not because we are neo-Nazis, but because we were in Munich and are three intelligent men interested in how Europe came to the pretty pass in which it finds itself. So much for history. Let us turn to the present.

A year later I saw photographs of Munich. The light, spacious and clean station next to our hotel was a carpet of detritus and improvised bedding. The streets ran with hooded, scowling Arabs. I read that this year’s Oktoberfest attendance was down by half. This is now, like Paris, a city under occupation. Munich was occupied before, of course, but at that time the Germans had put up a fight. This is not so today. It is as though, in some terrible Freudian equation of repression and guilt, the Germans – or at least their leaders – had decided to reverse Hitler’s dream of lebensraum  - room to live – and reduce their living space, ceding to an invading force none in Europe dare name, lest their livelihood be forfeit. And so to America.

As we made our way up country from Virginia to Carolina, I was struck by the beauty of the countryside. Of course, it has been disfigured by American consumerism (See the excellent book The Geography of Nowhere by xxxx xxxx), but the trees were on the cusp of changing colour, and pumpkins strewed every porch of the beautiful clapperboard houses and their occasional witchy turrets. As a car passenger, I found it as bewitching as travelling by train over the Rocky Mountains. The towns were clean, light, and non-intrusive in terms of the many tourist shops that thrive there. There was surprisingly little of trademark American vulgarity either in the townscape or the people. Of course, seeing Virginia and claiming to know America is akin to seeing Tunbridge Wells and claiming to know England, but the scene provided me with much food for thought, food served in the larger portions you would expect in the USA.

In three weeks America goes to the polls in what is arguably its most important presidential election. I absolutely vowed to avoid politics as if it were the very devil during my stay, and it was rare vow that I kept. But I did observe.

The first eye-opener was the unrelenting, egregious media bias in favour of Clinton, dialectically achieved by a non-stop barrage of invective against Trump. Being an Englishman, I am of course used to BBC bias, which is subtle, pompous and rather polite, although becoming increasingly shrill when dusky women such as Yasmin Alibhai-Brown or Diane Abbott appear, which they frequently do. I note, in passing, that Abbott is Shadow Home Secretary. Christ on a pogo-stick.

American televisual media bias in on another plane, another planet, entirely. Where the BBC have a succession of scolds, nags and martinets denouncing, say, Nigel Farage, American rolling news and opinion has a parade of screaming schoolgirls clutching their pearls and virtue-signalling as though it were an Olympic sport and they were hoping to make 2020. Hillary Clinton was barely mentioned, unless to include her in the chorus of denunciation unleashed by Donald Trump’s use of the word ‘pussy’. To paraphrase the famous saying, there is nothing so ridiculous as the American press in one of their periodic fits of morality. The Clinton emails, Benghazi, rapey Bill and enabler Hill, the state of the economy under the Democrats, Saudi Arabia, Soros and Black Lives Matter: all relegated to the bench as the spotlight played on two Trumpian phonemes.

Something my partner said to one of her family I am forced to blushingly admit; I know more about American politics than most Americans. The people I met were intelligent and reasonably well-off, and they knew nothing. Their opinions easily reduced to a type of college football cheerleading: Yaaaay! Booooo! One of the oft-repeated quips was the idea of Trump with his finger on the nuclear button. This implies that Clinton is more trustworthy and less likely to unleash Armageddon. Golly. I would rather have a WWF wrestler who had spent some time in Rampton or Broadmoor in charge of the delivery systems of Ragnarok than Clinton.

The other great, lumbering woolly mammoth in the room was, of course, immigration. Now, the codification concerning immigration in the West is as engraved on people’s minds as the Lord’s Prayer or the Constitution; Large-scale immigration, particularly of Muslims, is so self-evidently a Good Thing that to oppose it is a symptom of the gravest psychosis, namely fascism. Trump has breached this protocol in two main ways. He has proposed a wall on the USA’s Mexican border, much like the one Mexico itself has on its border with Guatemala, and he has suggested a moratorium on Muslim immigration until such time as order can be restored. He knows that many people know that a country that can put a man on the moon and then, forty-some years later and with all the concomitant advances in technology, can’t protect its own borders is pulling a fast one. Clinton has already pledged a million more Syrian loveable rogues if or when she wins. She says it if as if that act of treason were some great good in and of itself, like a sunny day or a cure for cancer.

I am very aware of small vignettes in my life, symbolic experiences which seem to hold in themselves deep significance. In the pleasant town of Harrisonburg, VA, I was struck by many things. The almost uncanny cleanliness of the streets and absence of garbage strewn about, as per the UK, and all without a street cleaner in sight. In London, you can’t move for street cleaners chatting happily on their mobile telephones while pushing a desultory broom around, and the streets still look like shit.

More than anything, I enjoyed the amiable air that drifted among the people. People smiled at one another, even at strangers like me. It was a bit different to, say, Southall in London. When people say, ‘Good day, y’all’ there is an air of sincerity about it, and the service industry actually gives service industriously, unlike the sullen and nose-ringed barkeeps of London, who say but don’t mean ‘enjoy’ when they give you your chemical pint. And then, just as I was revelling in this ocean of white goodwill, we turned a corner. There were four adults and two children. The man was in his thirties and immediately scowled at me when I looked at the family. The three women were around his age, doubtless his wife and her two sisters. They were swaddled in heavy clothing entirely inappropriate for the unseasonably warm October weather. They all had the unmistakably toothy look of Somalians. I was informed later that day, by a friendly engineer, that there were plenty more scheduled to arrive as soon as was convenient and they had a space in their diaries.

Now, obviously this a racist observation, but racism, eventually, cannot be avoided, like death and taxes. Another gentleman informed me that, if things took a, shall we say, European turn in terms of migrant unrest, there were a lot of good old boys in the hills who would turn off the TV, leash the hounds, and lock and load. This is Civil War country – I visited Antietam battlefield and was sold a book in a second-hand store which was highly recommended by the knowledgeable owner – and I couldn’t help thinking, as I watched a Confederate flag flutter from a porch stave, that the USA as a whole may well be civil war country before too many moons have come and gone.







Saturday, 1 October 2016

GUNS OF CANTERBURY: SOFTLY SOFTLY CATCHEE KUFR



When they kick at your front door

How you gonna come?
With your hands on your head
Or on the trigger of your gun?

The Clash, Guns of Brixton




Come with me on an imaginative journey into the past. We are going back a mere five years. There is no need to be concerned that your attire might give you away. My presupposition is this. Instead of your current career path, you have just earned a large advance for writing a televisual drama for the BBC. In the series, scheduled to run for an initial season of 13 weeks, Britain is under siege by terrorists. These antagonists will not, of course, be Muslims. Do you remember Spooks? I never saw five minutes of it, not being a TV user, but apparently it ran for several series featuring an acceptably multi-ethnic task force of intrepid agents beating various terrorist threats with the efficiency of Batman and Robin. The antagonists were never Muslim. Welcome to the BBC. I’m surprise they called it Spooks, incidentally. Have they not read Philip Roth’s The Human Stain, and seen into what kind of trouble that word can get you?

So, in your series, the enemy will be white Right-wingers, or Jews, or football hooligans, or Brexiteers, or white Right-wingers, or climate change deniers, or the Salvation Army's provisional wing, or people who want grammar schools back, or friends of Nigel Farage, or Scientologists (except they wouldn’t dare attack the Scienos) or white Right-wingers - have all struck simultaneously, and have taken by surprise the armed forces, occupied as they are by brave and just foreign wars and by compulsory diversity training, as well as a refresher course in LGBTQ with reference to trigger warnings cause by mention of guns or bullets, or anything shaped a bit like a penis. Your initial problem is not that of plot, continuity or characterisation. It is making sure that Lenny Henry has at least three parts, and his friends and family have almost all the rest. Except for the roles of policemen, obviously, unless they are good policemen.

A striking visual image leaps from your meisterwerk. It’s so good it makes the cover of all the TV listings magazines in the country, as well as The Compulsory Diversity Times. It is of several armed, white policemen – and don’t forget that policemen are bad, because they shoot unarmed, and probably even one-armed, black men who are being bothersome enough to resist arrest, and so they must be white – guarding Canterbury Cathedral, home of The Archbishop of Cunterbury. My mistake. Typo. Canterbury. And the home of God, obviously, since it’s his house and I imagine he lets a room to the Archbishop. Tippermost-toppermost ratings are your reward. It’s a hit!

Armed policemen guarding the iconic home of world-wide Anglicanism. What an image! Thing is, it’s not from some crappy TV drama starring Benedict Cumberbatch and some black tosser. It’s from the news.

This is the way we live now. Or, at the very least, the way people in the UK live.

I remember seeing CIA-type dudes with Ray-Bans and walkie-talkies outside an American school in an affluent part of London in 2009. I remember seeing some heavy-duty lumps patrolling outside a synagogue in St. John’s Wood in 2010. But armed – heavily armed – filth outside Canterbury Cathedral? Whatever would Chaucer have thought?

Now, the lion’s share of the work done by government and their media catamites these days consisting of shouting at the citizenry; Step away from the dots! Do not attempt to join the dots! But if dots there are to be joined, then join those dots we must. Not a sentence I leapt out of bed this morning expecting to write, I must say, but there we are. Let us turn to the diminutive and yet extraordinarily politically privileged Mr. Sadiq Khan, Mayor of London.

Of course, it was axiomatic even within my lifetime that being a white, Oxbridge-educated, Debrett’s endorsed chap who could tie his own bow tie and would never befriend a man who wore one with a secreted elasticated band, was a compound sine qua non for entry into the political class. Those days are gone. The fellow who would have been serving drinks at an Oxford University graduation ball in 1981 has more chance of a political career now that the chinless wonders he was serving. So it is with Khan, who now holds all the political top trump cards.

Khan has refused to extend the contract of the present top cop in old London Tahn, a Mr. Bernard Hogan-Howe. Now he is, as you would expect, a diversity-obsessed booby, but it is interesting that he has managed to keep London relatively free of Muslim attacks on the kufr. Not any more. To quote Wild Billy Childish, You’re out the band, sunshine.

One of the reasons Hogan-Howe is out of a job, one of my top men in London informs me, is that Khan is upset by the presence of heavily-armed policemen patrolling the streets. He is upset, of course, for one reason and one reason only. He is concerned that white British people – those that are still left in what the Romans called Londinium, but which was not the Roman capital of choice – will associate the presence of heavily armed paramilitary-style coppers with terrorism, and terrorism with ISIS, and ISIS with Islam, despite all the correctional training the media have been carrying out. This could ultimately be mildly damaging to Brand Islam, and up with this Mr. Khan will not put.

Khan is in a very interesting position. He is obviously going to be the first British Muslim Prime Minister, just as David Cameron wished, but the time-frame of the mayorship could interfere with that eventuality. Of course, for the next four years he will be filling London with his co-religionists – he has announced as much to cheers from the press gallery – and his second term will be assured for that very reason. But when does he time his tilt for Number 10 Downing Street? It’s a tricky one.

If you are a white, kufr, non-Leftie Londoner, I would just run. This is not going to be your decade. If you haven’t read Michel Houellebecq’s Submission – reviewed by me at New English Review here and here on this blog – then read it. It is going to become as prophetic as Orwell’s 1984 – my review here – or Jean Raspail’s Camp of the Saints – my review here.

Armed guards outside Canterbury cathedral is very now, and will soon be a thing of the past. There will be no need for such troubling symbolism when that building is Canterbury Mosque, inshallah.