Friday, 24 November 2017


Breakfast of champions

Yesterday at midday, had you wandered into La Ranchera, you would have seen me perched at the bar awaiting kick-off in the Cologne-Arsenal game, Europa League, Group H. Arsenal had already qualified for the knockout stages – I have long argued that a spell in Europa rather than Champions League would benefit them – which may explain a youthful team sliding to a somewhat lacklustre 1-0 defeat. But it was enjoyable to see some English soccer, and there were pleasing passages of play. They have a great black kid on the left whose name I forget.

Shortly after hostilities commenced, an old Tico came in and sat at the end of the bar. He looked like an old ranch hand, appropriate for La Ranchera. Like me, he ordered a bottle of Imperial, the clean-tasting national lager. We exchanged pleasantries and had a short conversation in Spanish. He didn’t stick around, and we said our goodbyes. However, I noticed that he had paid 2,000 colones – about $4 or £2.60 - for his beer, and I was mildly concerned that the bar had doubled their prices. I asked the barmaid if this was the case. She replied,

No, he pagado el tuyo.

No, he paid for yours.

I asked if he was a regular. He was not. I had never seen or met him. But I think I know why he brassed up for a stranger’s ale. It was because I spoke his language.

Some of the Costa Ricans here, young and old, resent the gringos, although I do not qualify as a gringo, but as a straightforward Inglés. One of the reasons the Yanks rub them up the wrong way is that some of them have been here 15-odd years and don’t really speak any Spanish. And, when they do, they make absolutely no effort to replicate the attractive Costa Rican accent. I am not exactly on top of the language, but I am trying to learn and I think the old bandero saw that and that was his way of thanking me.

Now, it’s not all plain sailing for me. For the first time in almost two years in Costa Rica, I experienced my first little sliver of racism a week or so ago. I was cutting through past the soccer pitch, heading to La Liga, right opposite La Ranchera, for a quick cold one before afternoon chores. Two Ticos were walking in front of me, both about 60 years old and one walking a bicycle. I was happy to walk slowly behind them. I don’t like to push past people, and I never did it even in London, where rudeness and incivility abound. But one of the guys sensed my presence and they parted to let me pass. I said;

Gracias, amigo.

The larger dude said as I passed;

Él no es tu amigo.

He is not your friend.

I looked back at him, not with animosity, but just with my rather generous eyebrows raised, as if to say; a bit unnecessary, old son. He looked at me with an expression of mild dislike. Did I feel aggrieved? Far from it. I have experienced real racism.

A black guy, a big buck, set his Rottweiler on me in 1991 in Brixton, south London. The dog bit into my arm, I have the scars still and I felt her teeth grinding against the bone. He called the dog off. I think it might have killed me if not. He made it fucking clear that it was because I was the only white on his level of the infamous barrier block on Coldharbour Lane. I was dressy too, and a lot of blacks don’t like all that unless they are doing it. Of course, as the young people will tell you – in very loud, abrasive tones – that incident could not be racism because racism can only be a trait of those with power, or, in other words, white people. Sure, poppet. When a malevolent black man who hates you because you are white sets a violent dog on you, a dog deliberately made violent, and there is nowhere to run, who do you fucking think has the power?

We hear a lot about integration in Europe and Britain, almost always to do with Muslims and almost always concerned with a failure to integrate rather than integration per se. But integration is a complex process, and has as much to do with what you do not do as what you do. And what you do not fucking do is disrespect the natives.

I know several Yankees – and they are quite often queers, for some reason – who treat Costa Rica as one big restaurant in which they are sitting impatiently waiting for service. I often hear that Ticos are lazy, that they are dishonest, that they are rude, that they are disrespectful. My initial thought is always the same; Fuck off back to Denver then, bumboy. Or wherever it is you minced down here from.

You see, I believe that, if you choose to go and live in someone else’s country, then, Toto, I don’t think you’re in Kansas. The rules are not your rules, and you should show some respect. I know Yanks who have been here 15 years and they can’t really speak Spanish. Often, the ones who do have kept their broad accents. My Spanish is improving every day, and so is my accent. And that is because I wish to show respect.

I don’t believe in multiculturalism. I watched it destroy my home city, and it is destroying Europe. For me, the nation-state is everything because it is two fingers in the face of the globalists, the open-borders crowd, the progressives, the ‘liberals’ – although they are the most illiberal people on the planet – the Socialists, the SJWs, the students and all the other white wankers who like to feel good by having lots of jolly brown and black people around them, people who they don’t actually want to live near and don’t like, but serve as a sort of Boy Scout proficiency badge for anti-racism work.

Here is the crux of the matter. The globalist does not believe she is in someone else’s country. She’s, like, on the planet, you know? Where we, like, all live? Because we’re all, like, equal? We are not equal, sweetpea. Please don’t move abroad. Stay where you are. There is a running joke here that says if you wash up in Costa Rica, you are either wanted or unwanted. If you are an open-borders globalist, you are not wanted here. This is someone else’s country. Show some respect. Or stay home.

Wednesday, 22 November 2017


Leader of the free world

The high season is fast approaching here in Costa Rica, and I must turn my attention to music. Writing, after all, does not earn me a red cent. Music does.

With that in mind, postcards from Traumaville will be, well, more like postcards, although hopefully more regular. I know that you hang on my every word, and that without my clarity and sheer Enlightenment reason, you would either be leaning against lamp-posts endlessly flipping quarters, your hats tilted at a rakish angle, or frequenting speakeasies, gin palaces and snooker halls.

Just a quick word about the world. Wittgenstein famously wrote that ‘the world is all that is the case’. Nutcase, more like, Ludwig, my old China plate. However, there are pockets of sanity and resistance in a West that now strongly resembles Rome under the emperorship of Nero.

The Visegrad four is an alliance between The Czech Republic, Hungary, Poland and Slovakia, and they have angered the tin-pot gods of the EU. Their perceived crime is a refusal to accept Muslim migrants. In passing, what is most laughable about the EU’s reaction to this cultural protectionism is that they have threatened to fine the countries in the bloc. I would pay. The cost of Islam in terms of policing, welfare, terrorism, healthcare and general loss of social capital would far outstrip any financial penalty, even if such a thing could be enforced. It would be like the British police fining you a tenner for failing to post a hundred quid down the nearest drain.

Hungarian premier Viktor Orbán is the most vocal of the V4 leaders, and his speeches repay inspection. He is aware that Hungarians are a proud people who wish to maintain that pride by maintaining their undiluted integrity as a people. I have been to Budapest – a city divided into Buda and Pest – and it is quite beautiful. Hungarians wish to keep it that way, much to the chagrin of the intellectual pygmies who ‘run’ the EU. I went with a half-Hungarian girlfriend, incidentally, whose brother Nick Denton’s company Gawker was recently bankrupted over allegations about Hulk Hogan. But that, as they say, is a tale for another day.

Orbán talks often about the importance of the nation state as a guarantor that a carefully nurtured culture will not be overrun by invading hordes. Unsurprisingly, this equates to the fact that he doesn’t want Budapest to resemble Paris, fast becoming a Mussulman slum. Now, we find that this protectionist rhetoric has raised the viper’s nest of the USA’s deep state.

The US State Department – resolutely anti-Trump – has announced it will inject $700,000 into Hungarian media, effectively to correct Orbán’s anti globalist stance. Quite apart from the fact that this is blatant tampering with Hungary’s upcoming elections in spring of next year, it shows that there is no pretence now. This is cultural war which will lead, inevitably, to civil war and then to war. Europe will be Islamised, if the US shadow government has any say in the matter. And the malevolent hand of Obama is clearly visible here. Open borders are the agenda, not the nation state. It should be noted that George Soros is Hungarian. Orbán has made him public enemy number one, to the delight of the anti-globalists.

The most interesting aftershock of the Brexit/Trump double whammy that triggered the Left from its wing-tip elites to the crustiest trustafarian in Hampstead is that it has polarised politics again. This is profoundly to be wished for. I ditched 90% of my friends over their whining about Trump and Brexit, or they ditched me. And that is how it should be.

A snippet of news that was blotted from the MSM copybook is that Hungary has offered asylum to what we might term cultural refugees, those who wish to escape countries with open borders policies. If Costa Rica were to vanish, Atlantis-like, beneath the waves, and given that I managed to escape in my Bond-villain mini-submarine – anyone know where I can buy one, by the way? – then it’s Budapest here we come.

Monday, 13 November 2017


Don't make me come looking for you

A strange day Saturday, one in which I thought about God and nature before, later in the evening, they both came a-knockin’.

The morning featured a visit to a café for breakfast with other volunteer members of an animal charity I work for, two mornings a week. Huevos rancheros and beer for me, por favor. There were lots of hounds there too, which is always a pleasure, never a chore. After breakfast, I elected to walk back into town. This is a mildly risky exercise, as there are no pavements -sidewalks – in any meaningful sense of the word, and Costa Rica ranks fourth in the world for fatal motor accidents. But I made it okay, stopping only for a quick beer in a bar I play in, and at the grounds of a hotel which is rather special.

The hotel is a type of sanctuary for Scarlet Macaws, pictured below – not by me, I hasten to add.

When I strolled past, there were around 15 of these magnificent creatures, eating a type of seed-pod favoured in the Macaw community. I admired them for a while, then minced back into town with my thoughts, once again, on Darwin, God, and nature.

I am more or less of a Spinozistic pantheist. No, wait. Come back. Don’t go to another website. Let me explain. Baruch Spinoza was a Portugese Jew who relocated to Holland and earned his living as a lens-grinder in the 18th century. His most famous work is the Ethics. He also believed that there was no deity, but that, effectively, the world was God. That is pretty much where I’m at, particularly since I moved to the rain-forest.

Then, of course, you get to think about us, about homo sapiens. What are we? The recording angel of the Bible? Would there be beauty if we were not around to see it? Do sloths find Scarlet Macaws beautiful? Does it matter if they do or not?

It seems to me that nature is a god really worth worshipping. It exists to a certainty, for a kick-off. I’m not going to get all eco-conscious and Green on yo’ asses, but nature seems to me to have a purpose, where man does not. Individual men and women have a point to their existence, but mankind as a whole is just a great, blundering behemoth who seems to be better at fucking things up than getting any serious work done. We are not likely to see another Renaissance or Enlightenment any time soon. Just more of the same crap that has been piling up since the end of WW2. As Nietzsche wrote – in Dawn, I think – the brain is our most recent and least-developed organ.

Anyway, I turned my brain off and switched on my basic motor functions and had a Rolling Stones evening. I am learning to play Angie, one of my favourite Stones songs. I have had to transpose it down, as Jagger has a very good falsetto, and mine is a bit lacklustre. Then, I popped on the headphones, got on the computer, and started watching a documentary about Keith Richards, the man who will bury us all. Five strings and nine lives. All that.

It was about 8.30pm. You know that famous opening to Beethoven’s 5th Symphony? Ba-ba-ba-BAAAAAAA, Ba-ba-ba-BAAAAAAA. It’s fate knocking on the door, am I right? Well, that’s pretty much what happened. I’m watching Keith riffing away, and it felt as though someone upstairs had slammed the largest barn door in existence. In fact, that was my first thought. But the Air BnB couple upstairs are such nice people, and so quiet that, in that nanosecond before it all went Radio Rental, I thought they might have slammed a door. Then the house started to shake, and it didn’t stop for ten seconds. Doesn’t sound like a long time, does it? It is.

What frightened me most is that the glass of fine Imperial lager perched on my amplifier, which doubles as a computer-side table, was wobbling and could have gone at any time. This is nature’s genuine threat,

They are calling it somewhere between a 6.5 Richter and a straight 7. The numbers don’t interest me. It was the earth talking. It scared the living Bejasus out of me. I almost had to change into my very brownest trousers. The whole idea that the ground is moving underneath you, and there is nowhere to go. There was a scary bit where everyone on the local Facebook group was talking about tsunamis. Some of this town is below sea-level. I’m not, I’m on a hill, but there was a tremendous sense of bated breath. There was no tsunami.

But I had a bit of a wave of realisation. Now, I liked the old hippies, the ones who got off the grid. Today’s hippies are just wankers. But I do believe this. The world is bigger than we are, and more important. When the planet speaks – and I now have cause to know this – we had better fucking listen. Perhaps she is genuinely angry.

Wednesday, 8 November 2017


Who's next?

Rock is dead they say.

Long live rock!

The Who

One of the advantages of writing a blog, and it nicely balances getting fucking fired all the time because your boss read your Enoch Powell post, is that you can teach yourself about yourself.

My recent postcard about Joy Division, and the song Dead Souls, set me a’thinkin’. Now, I recently bought an old record player down here, along with some 80 vinyl albums. It is mostly Americana, but I play mostly to north Americans, and it is good to know your Gordon Lightfoot, your Jim Croce, your Billy Joel.

Back in the Islamic State of Londonistan, I listened to much more classical music. But not a whisper of Bach here. Instead, occasionally, late at night and when fermented liquor has been taken, I go back, back into my musical past, and the songs that bring me to the edge of a joyful psychosis, what the Ancient Greeks would have called ekstasis. Of course, this is a random selection - in no particular order of merit, much like the West - and there are many, many more. But these are a few of the songs that really tear it up for me… Emergency by 999. Classic art punk. The big chord at the start dictates things, and it was one of the first punk songs with a decent hook line. Never saw them. My mate went to see them but fell asleep in the toilet and missed their whole set. Quality behavior, Dave. He was selling property last time I saw him. I mean, not stolen property. Real estate. In/Out by Come. Now, them I did get to see. Thalia Zedek, diminutive chanteuse, sings one of the sleaziest rock and roll songs ever. American band, the guitar line that cuts in and drives it just rips the whole cinema up and throws the seats at the screen. And her voice could cut through breezeblock. Albums? 11:11 and Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell. Their version of The Stones’ I Got the Blues is so dirty. Milk It by Nirvana. By the way, if you are listening to any of these with a hangover, I’m not drinking with you. Stick with Eno and Satie. This has got one of the biggest bastard riffs ever, and you check out Cobain’s vocal at 3.14. Saw them too. Hackney Empire. The drummer – now the Foo Fighters guitarist – was wearing his bass drum as a hat by the end. Change by Killing Joke Basically, the Joke have nicked a James Brown riff and transported it from Brown’s mansion to the nasty bits of 1970s west London. It is just all coiled like a snake, this song. Singer Jaz Coleman is an incredibly talented classical composer, and guitarist Geordie Walker once got me pissed on Holsten Pils, all night. I offered to buy him one, but he said that the Joke had just got royalties from Love Like Blood. Saw them three times. The first, at my university, was one of the most frightening gigs I have ever seen. Jimmy Page on Jaz Coleman; Jaz is either playing with magick, or magick is playing with him. Loose by Iggy and the Stooges In a way, this is sort of the ringleader here. It’s the riff. Even Iggy thought the Williamson brothers were bastards, and here’s what bastards can play. Never got to see the Stooges, but Raw Power is one of those albums that makes you wreck your own bedroom. Even in your 40s. This is not actually on RP, it’s on Funhouse, but I find that a mere exercise in pedantry, if any of you are tempted to impertinence. Iggy Pop – real name James Osterberg. My dog often chases James Osterberg. It’s like one of those wanky linear thinking exercises in the 70s, no? My dog chases James Osterberg because he is an iguana, and owning an Iguana was what got Osterberg the nickname ‘Iggy’. Might win you a pub quiz, that. She Does it Right by Dr Feelgood A bit too Yankee for my liking, my selection so far. So it’s down to the doctor’s. The sound quality is fucking appalling, but note how each and every one of the band is clearly stuffed to the gills with amphetamine sulphate, which may or may not intrigue the pharmacologists among you, and could even lead to a paper in the BMJ or some such. Saw them, but not with Wilko. Also, apart from Wilko Johnson’s epileptic flamenco guitar playing, I love the way he has just taken the riff from Route 66 and turned it inside out, like a T-shirt you think you can get a second day out of without your girlfriend leaving you. Bodies by Sex Pistols They were never called The Sex Pistols, just as Buzzcocks were never called The Buzzcocks. I never saw them, much like most of the people who claim they did. Bodies has one of the darkest opening riffs ever, followed by Paul Cook’s cannon shot to kick off one of the most Conservative songs ever written. How so? Because it is pro-life. Imagine anyone outside Evangelical Christians with acoustic guitars and tambourines writing an anti-abortion song now. Never Mind the Bollocks… features the word ‘fuck’ or a cognate six times, and five of them are in a Gatling-gun burst during Bodies. The next lines are;

I don’t want a baby that looks like that.

She don’t want a baby that looks like that.

Looks like what?

It’s not an animal,

It’s an abortion…

Gurgling bloody mess.

I’m not a discharge.

I’m not a loss in protein.

This is an extraordinary song.

I recently changed my opinion on abortion. I used to be indifferent, except in the case of rape. Now I think it should be severely limited. When John Lydon ends the song by screaming Mummmmmyyyyyyyy! it is phenomenally moving and frightening. Plus Steve Jones. Tremolo Song by The God Machine From one of the best-named albums ever, One Last laugh in a Place of Dying, this starts off with a jagged pulse of feedback and white noise, settles into a Joy Division-like drum rumble, and suddenly explodes into an atonal riff of power and menace. Also, there is a drum shuffle part-way through that changes the entire dynamic. Not a band I know much about but, curiously, they were on The Cure’s Fiction label, and some songs – particularly In Bad Dreams, bear the mark of the Crawley boys. Now to finish with the big hitters… Nobody’s Fault but Mine by Led Zeppelin. Zeppelin, the first band I ever saw, aged 14, have taken all their studio stuff off YouTube again, but this is the famous 1979 Knebworth performance. I love it at 3.53, as the guitar solo approaches, when Robert ‘Percy’ Plant screams ‘Jimmy? OH JIMMY!’ The song itself, as were many Zeppelin songs, is a blues riff heisted and mangled beyond recognition, and it is a stop-start song. But Jones and Bonham – the best rhythm section in rock with the possible exception of my next and final offering, nail it to the floor while Jimmy riffs like a magician and Plant is at the top of his game. M-m-m-m-monkey on my back back back back… The Real Me by The Who  This is the killer diller, for me. I saw them in '75 and '96, when they played the whole of Quadrophenia. From the greatest album by the greatest rock band at the peak of their powers. From the opening query by Daltrey, through Moon’s trademark drumming-by-continuous-drum-roll, Townshend’s windmill Les Paul thrash. For me, as a bass player, the reason this song is king of the ring is The Ox; John Entwistle. Entwistle, along with Jack Bruce, changed bass playing by playing it like a lead instrument. The section where Townsend drops out - The cracks between the paving stones… - and Entwistle and Moon back Daltrey defy belief as a rock threesome. Then the final roll down the hill, and Moon the Loon takes it home. Utterly incredible.

Part two coming soon. Talk among yourselves until then.

Tuesday, 7 November 2017


Rosie the Riveter comes of age

If you approach your politics from what John Derbyshire calls the dissident Right, the concept of cultural Marxism will be familiar, all-too-familiar to you. Gramsci and Alinsky – sounds like a specialist tobacconist’s – and the long march through the institutions.

Firstly, academia. The guiding principle is that younger children must never be taught anything that will help them to think independently. Instead, early indoctrination will prepare them for ‘uni’, where they will regurgitate the politically spiked garbage they have been fed. In a way analogous to Marx’s shibboleth of the redistribution of wealth, Western education revolves around the redistribution of stupidity.

Next, the media. This should be exclusively run by the Left. While the odd Rightish tutor might be permissible at an academic institution, the same does not apply in the media. The only Right-of-centre media participants allowed onto the BBC, for example, are the ones necessary to be ridiculed and attacked. Peter Hitchens knows a thing or two about this.

The army and, to a certain extent, the police are slightly more difficult to mould into pliant Gütmenschen, but here the cultural commissars were rather clever. The police are soon to be required to have a degree in order to join the force. This means both that they will have their headpiece filled with straw – see my comments above concerning academic indoctrination – and a nice, healthy debt to put them in fear of losing their jobs. They will also be primed with anti-white bias, operating in a judicial marketplace in which the customer is always right, provided the customer is Muslim, black, or whatever other faddish minority has been added to the inventory that week.

Slightly bigger ask with the armed forces. Notice how no-one calls them ‘Her Majesty’s Armed Forces’ in these new culturally cleansed times. But, just taking the army as an example, what you really want is for your land army to be filled to the gills with disciplined nutters, very violent men who will obey orders. But, above all, violent and/or intelligent. You don’t want conflicted personalities in the ranks of the squaddies.

So, to water that down and de-legitimise, you play a classic three-card trick: Women, homosexuals and transgender people. There goes your ability to fuck someone up in a fight. Also, you can enjoy photographs of British soldiers wearing pink stilettoes in solidarity with women. That should chill the marrow of Syrian, North Korean, and Chinese soldiers. Do you think Putin would allow that? No.

And, last but by far from least, the political elites themselves. These are the malevolent gauleiters – good name for a band – who have facilitated this transvaluation of all values. I imagine that, like the police and social workers, a lot of them hate what the deep state is forcing them to do. But an unguarded comment nowadays in the public – or rather media – eye, and it’s goodnight Vienna or, rather, goodnight Brussels, which is the pension pot for the Nick Clegg class of political shit.

Brexit was never going to be allowed to happen in any real sense. Too much of the cultural Marxist sorcery is enabled by this moral and cultural charnel-house. Also, the Schengen Agreement enables the elites to use their ace card, the play that will guarantee they destroy European civilization, if not for a lifetime, at least for a Reichstime; Muslim immigration.

If the indigenous populations of Europe – and they do exist, despite what the Quislings sneeringly claim – are to be destroyed or enslaved, Islam is absolutely vital to Europe’s cultural, legal and demographic disintegration. Allow Brexit, and you allow Britain to ‘do a Donald’ and opt out of having tens of thousands of low-social-capital savages entering your country to drain its financial lifeblood, steal its land for mosques, change its diet to a cruel one, and fuck its little girls. Not what the elites want.

In the end, you have both to admire the tenacity of the cultural Marxists, and bemoan the weakness of the hosts. Losing your culture to these people is like confidently taking your chessboard to a Wetherspoon pub (low-rent pubs in the UK favoured by me and my friends), setting board and pieces up in front of the thickest mouth-breather there, and getting fucked in 19 moves.

Perhaps this is social Darwinism in action, and Europeans don’t deserve the keys to the kingdom any more.

Tuesday, 31 October 2017


Sign of the times

Power, Corruption and Lies

New Order album title

Sex, Lies and Videotape

Hollywood film title

I despise Hollywood. The last time I could be bothered to go to the movies, five or so years ago when I was in London, I saw such an unrelenting stream of utter horseshit produced in Tinseltown, I stopped going to the cinema. And I used to be quite a film buff. The only film that was even halfway decent during that period was the Woody Allen one about time travel in Paris. Was it Midnight in Paris?

It is, of course, now hateable for other reasons. When we wish to be lectured on the earth’s climate, do we ask a panel of divergent experts? No, we ask retarded-looking goblin-boy Leonardo DeCaprio. Robert De Niro, once my favourite Italian-American actor before Pacino edged him out, wants to ‘punch Trump in the face’. The Oscars are an orgy of Goodthink, with black actors fellated and quota systems in place de facto. The whole stinking charnel-house of Hollywoud is everything that is wrong with rich liberal north America.

Now, however, the most entertaining aspect of that decaying, sleazy nest of talentless perverts is the daily newsfeed dragging yet another piece of shit actor into sexual scandals. Hollywood is rotting from the inside. And from the outside, too.

Just as north Americans are shunning the NFL, with its coterie of spoiled blacks disrespecting the country which made them rich – what else would black football players be able to do, crime aside? – so too they are finding something better to do with their time than watch the anti-white propaganda seeping out of Hollywood like pus from a diseased eye.

Harvey Weinstein – a man who makes Shrek look like a young Rudolf Nureyev – just released his first production since a string of allegations were made about him. In its first week, it grossed $742 dollars. Now, it was a sequel to a 1970s movie that was a piece of shit in the first place, and screen distribution was presciently limited. But $742?

Now, look at over-rated virtue-signalling peacock George Clooney, and his new movie Suburbicon. Screened at over 2,000 cinemas, it grossed $2.1 million. Now, that is a few more lunches than $742 will get you, but is a phenomenal disappointment to brands such as Clooney and actor Matt Damon, another vastly over-estimated actor. Why the failure? Clooney and Damon haven’t, after all, been accused of sexual impropriety. But there is another reason.

The film is blatantly anti-white.

And so whites don’t want to go and see it.

I’m going to call this commercial democracy. People who are unhappy with the products on offer are voting by exercising negative consumption. In other words, they ain’t buyin’. And why is that?

I believe it is because ordinary, white north Americans are sick to fucking death of being told how bad they are, and particularly that the largely self-inflicted woes of black people are somehow their fault. The same applies to the NFL debacle. Proud Americans voted for Donald Trump, and this is actually what this is all about. The NFL blacks – and some of their sycophantic white colleagues - who take a knee during the Star-Spangled Banner are actually saying; Fuck you, Whitey. For if there is anyone who hates white people more than chippy black men with a steroidal-strength sense of aggrievement and victimhood, it is white liberals. People like George Clooney and Matt Damon.

I’m not a white supremacist, whatever that is. There doesn’t seem to be any point. It would be like wearing a T-shirt reading ‘I love gravity’. Gravity is just there. It is self-evident. But Hollywood is going to have to learn, as are the uppity NFL cry-baby show-offs, that if you insult the section of the country who should be your financial lifeblood, anaemia and death may well follow.

So, when the next movie about how dreadful slavery was – and it pales in comparison to some of history’s casinos – and it bombs, remember that it will be because whites are sick of being insulted when it was they themselves who built the platform on which these braggarts stand to spit in their faces.

Monday, 30 October 2017


A neighbor of mine

Life is bigger.

It’s bigger than you.

REM, Losing My Religion

All life is will to power.

Friedrich Nietzsche

I want more life, fucker.

Blade Runner

Charles Darwin famously threw his Bible into the sea on the return journey from the Galapagos Islands on the good ship Beagle. What the captain would have thought of this eccentric Englishman’s actions we can only conjecture, but I have to say that I now know how Darwin felt. Since moving to the Costa Rican rain forest, I am almost tempted to throw away my Darwin. The problem is that I have The Origin of Species as a Kindle edition, and it would be foolish to throw my tablet into the ocean here.

I am unclear as to why there is local variegation. In other words, why did not all creatures evolve to be more or less the same? Random mutation in a specific locality should, you would think, tend to the same results. But when I look out from my porch, it is the diversity more than anything else that is so thrilling. The view from said porch is here.

Sloths, three types of monkey, tucans, agoutis, coati mundis, iguanas, raccoons, scarlet macaws, vultures, hawks, snakes, the beautiful tanager; the list goes on. This morning I sat and watched, from about six feet away, a hummingbird doing what hummingbirds do best.

Also, life on a rather more domestic level is a pure pleasure. I have two dogs and two cats, and I am currently fostering four, month-old kittens who were found abandoned in a cardboard box. They need to be fed with Lactol – a milk substitute – from a syringe, and two of them need eye drops to combat some kind of eye infection. I have named them Eeny, Meeny, Miney and Mo, a set of names that would probably get you jail time in Soviet Britain. This is a poor picture, but it shows Mo for an idea of scale.

I have noticed something about animals. They take the most direct route to their goals. It seems that Man is the only animal which needlessly complicates its own existence. The beautiful blue morpho butterfly, seen at the head of this piece and whose wingspan is approximately five inches, seems to flit aimlessly about but, of course, it is not doing that. It is continuing the endless task of obtaining sustenance. What it also isn’t doing is going to a fucking management meeting, or a talk on diversity by the HR officer. At least, I don’t think it is. It is not on its way to what my old ‘line manager’ – a horrible woman whose make-up could not disguise her hangovers – used to call a ‘toolbox talk.’ Here is a transcription of a conversation between us;

Horrible woman: You need to tell your staff this at your next toolbox talk.

Self: My next what?

HW: Toolbox talk.

Self: What on God’s good earth is a toolbox talk?

HW: When you talk to your staff.

Self: You mean a talk.

HW: Yes. A toolbox talk.

Self: Do I need an actual toolbox? Or could I have an eggbox talk? Or a postbox talk?

HW: Look, there is no need to be clever.

Self: Yes, there always is a need to be clever.

HW: There is no need to talk to me that way.

Self: Then talk normally. Use the same language everyone else does.

No wonder they fucking fired my ass. But, unlike the butterfly – morpho menelaus, possibly named after the king of Sparta – I digress.

The point I am making is this. Life seeks to perpetuate itself. Obviously, Schopenhauer’s The World as Will and Idea is a key text here, as well as the man so influenced by his chance finding of that book in a Leipzig bookshop, Friedrich Nietzsche. Life desires only itself, it does not need anything unnecessary or extraneous. The little kitty-cats here wish only to live, more and for as long as possible.

Incidentally, and to keep them alive for as long as possible, my big dog – canis lupus familiaris, with the clue being in the middle name – is barred from the part of the house where the kitties are being housed. I had to keep little Mo in my pocket yesterday because she was cold. Sasha saw her and got that look, like she was watching a starter course. She killed a possum recently, just picked it up and flung her jaws to one side. You could hear the cracking sound of the back breaking.

I will finish with a rather frightening story about life. There was a commotion in my apartment the other day. The dogs and cats had obviously cornered some poor creature, and were taunting it with a view to a kill. This worries me, because I don’t want them eating scorpions or the highly toxic dart frog. The cats seem to think scorpions are some kind of funny mechanical toy I have bought for them. I went out onto the porch, and there was a gecko tail. Just the tail. Geckos obviously have brittle-glass tails to enable them to escape capture. I watched in fascination as the small tail writhed for a full two minutes, and then decided to throw it into the jungle. I reached down, thumb and forefinger poised.

And it moved away from me.

And I suddenly got it. All of it.

As with the motto of the Roman slaves due to be thrown either to lions or gladiators the following day, and who were allowed one last, alcohol-soaked orgy, dum vivimus, vivamus.

While we live, we live.

*Being a well-read bunch, except for the copper undoubtedly reading this, you may be aware that this title is a steal from George Perec’s novel of the same name.

Sunday, 29 October 2017


Here are the young men.
But where have they been?

Someone take these dreams away,
That point me to another day,
A duel of personalities,
That stretch all true realities.

That keep calling me,
They keep calling me,
Keep on calling me,
They keep calling me.

Where figures from the past stand tall,
And mocking voices ring the halls.
Imperialistic house of prayer,
Conquistadors who took their share.

That keep calling me,
They keep calling me,
Keep on calling me,
They keep calling me...

Joy Division, Dead Souls

Everything resembles the truth, everything can happen to a man.

Nikolai Gogol, Dead Souls

Take my hand

And I’ll show you

What was and will be.

Joy Division, Atrocity Exhibition

As one does – and as I am sure you have done – I wanted to find the most violent song I have ever heard. I don’t mean some punk song about fighting, or some rap song about whatever infantile pabulum it is that rap songs concern themselves with, or The Boxer by Simon and Garfunkel, I mean an aurally violent song, a song whose beauty is matched by its sheer violence. And I found it, just where I left it.

Joy Division will be a familiar name to many of you. Formed in Manchester, England, when the original members met at a Sex Pistols gig in 1976, the band recorded two studio albums and several singles. There are many compilations. They were a classic four-piece rock band, by which I mean singer, bassist, guitarist and drummer, and lasted for approximately five years, until 1981, when vocalist Ian Curtis hung himself in his modest Manchester house on the eve of what would have been the band’s inaugural tour of the United States. The last thing he did, before tying a makeshift noose to the light fitting in his kitchen, was to watch Werner Herzog’s extraordinary film Stroszeck. He left a wife and a child, as well as a Belgian girlfriend, an extraordinarily beautiful woman I once met. I met Curtis himself twice, but more of that presently.

After Curtis’s death, the remaining members of Joy Division added a keyboard player, the wife of the drummer, and became New Order. I once spent an enjoyable evening among their entourage at the Reading festival. One guy there seemed to be employed just to roll joints on a production line basis. I put this to one of New Order. He told me the man was employed just to roll joints on a production line basis. New Order’s ground-breaking hit Blue Monday more or less invented a new musical genre, although I would hesitate to give that genre a name. It is very danceable, however, even to one like me who dances much like a psychotic marionette falling down a short flight of stairs.

Dead Souls was one of the first songs to affect me when I saw Joy Division play it live. It is named for the unfinished novel by Russian writer Nikolai Gogol. Ian Curtis was a well-read, literate man. The song opens with an almost melodious, comfortable duet between guitarist Bernard Albrecht’s Shergold Masquerader guitar and bassist Peter Hook’s classic Rickenbacker 4001 stereo bass. It builds cavernously into a roaring chord descent, and then repeats the pattern until Curtis comes in with his trademark solemn punk-croon voice. By the finale, when Curtis desperately screams ‘They keep calling me’, the rest of the band fight out a weird counterpoint riff before the strange and haunting ending. This song has nowhere else to go, in the same way that a dying animal has no more blood to shed. I don’t know about love will tear us apart, but that song was one of several that looked as though it might tear Curtis apart. He was famously epileptic – that is what the song She’s Lost Control is about – and although his strange dance amuses some, I found it frightening. I saw the band six times and saw him collapse more than once.

The first time I met him was in 1979, the day after Joy Division’s debut album Unknown Pleasures was released. I was in a band myself, and we were on the periphery of what was turning into a post-punk era that would include Joy Division, XTC, Wire, Magazine, The Only Ones and other great bands too numerous to mention. As we stood outside the venue, Robert Smith of The Cure walked up to me – I knew him – and chatted, before introducing me to Matt Johnson of The The.

I queued up for my ticket, got it, and prepared to leave for the pub until the gig began. But I needed to go to the toilet. I need to use the toilet quite a lot, as a car accident two years prior to the date I’m talking about cost me approximately half my bladder, as well as various other trinkets that usually lurk in the human body. When I came out of the toilet, my girlfriend told me that a guy had been sweeping through the building looking for people who shouldn’t be there until the gig started – us, for example - and had missed me because I was in the lavvy, and missed her because she flashed her student union card and smiled sweetly. She also told me there was a bar, and thence we did retire.

There were two people, other than the bartender, in situ. One, I now know, was Annik Honoré. The other was Ian Curtis. I talked to him for around half an hour, while my girlfriend got on famously with Annik. We mostly talked about music. Then, the same guy who was turfing everyone out who wasn’t supposed to be there did another sweep, and we were out on our ears. I said goodbye to Annik and Ian. He had a soft, Mancunian accent, piercing and gentle eyes, and a definite air of vulnerability. My girlfriend and I went to the pub, then returned to watch Joy Division. The support bands were Essential Logic, The Teardrop Explodes, and Echo and the Bunnymen, who encored with a song they had already played because they only had six songs. And then Joy Division came on.

That gig changed my life. The power, the tension, the passion, all of those things combined to make it one of the memorable gig from a young life of gigs. I trod on Paul Morley’s foot – look him up – and told him to make sure he gave Joy Division a good write-up. I think he was genuinely intimidated. I am one of those men who is not a tough guy but looks scary. Morley was quite short, but he may have grown now. He did give them a good review though.

The most memorable thing, for me, was around two weeks later. I went to see Joy Division again, at London’s famous Lyceum Ballroom. Making my way into the cavernous old dance hall, I heard someone call my name. That soft Mancunian accent again. I turned round. It was Ian Curtis. He beckoned me over and introduced me to the now-legendary bass player, Peter Hook. We chatted easily. He seemed genuinely to like me.

A few months later, he was dead. He committed suicide, as I have said. I remember exactly where I was when I heard the news, which came via John Peel. I recommend the film Control, and the book by Ian’s wife, Deborah, called Touching From A Distance.  I have to say that Joy Division are certainly not to everyone’s taste, but I listen to them to this day with a sense of awe and liberation.

So, Ian. Rest in peace. You brought me a great deal of pleasure, perhaps unknown pleasure. You spent far too short a time here. You dead soul. I also very much enjoyed my brief time with you.

Tuesday, 24 October 2017


Literally shaking with laughter, more like. Red Pill Black.

A friend of mine in London – who is also a good friend to this weblog – once told me my favourite type of story, the type of story that both makes you laugh out loud, and that you will never forget. It concerned her grandson. A delightful little boy, my friend would often look after him for grandma reasons, wanting to free up time for her son, who is equally as delightful as his little boy, and his charming Australian wife.

She told me that when this little chap was told, or shown, that he could not have what he wanted or do exactly as he wished, he would, to use her term, ‘literally shake with rage’. I know now how he feels.

My day generally begins at around 5.15am. This is when it begins to get light here in Costa Rica, with darkness beginning to spread its cloak over affairs at around the time in the evening. There’s no daylight saving this close to the equator, no pissing around with adding and subtracting an hour so that seven or eight Scottish sheep farmers don’t moan and shout.

I have no need of an alarm clock, as Sonny the cat, and his daughter, little Missy, are generally yowling and mewling and walking around on my head at about that time. The day officially begins with the rattle of cat biscuits in a cheap plastic Costa Rican breakfast bowl. Then, a brief look at the apartment, usually in the anarchic state familiar to anyone who knows me well, and a weather eye kept on Maggie the Labradoodle so that she doesn’t emulate Western governments by putting her snout in food that doesn’t belong to her. Sasha the big dog stays in bed, bides her time, and casts her wolfish eye over proceedings.

Once coffee and huevos rancheros – eggs with hot sauce – have been prepared and consumed, it is time for a seat on the veranda and a peek at the tablet to see what fucking ridiculous nonsense the Left have got up to overnight. I expect, daily, to be literally shaking with rage at one or other of the stupidities these self-hating, social justice mythologists have perpetrated on those of us who read proper books and not graphic novels and The Guardian. I am seldom disappointed.

In the last week, Theresa May’s deputy – marginally more competent than Deputy Dawg – has declared that Breitbart news and its ilk generate sufficient hate to lead to another murder similar to that of Jo Cox, the MP horribly slain by a mentally ill man while in her constituency surgery. Funny, isn’t it. When a Muslim hacks someone to death in a London bar, we are informed that he is mentally ill. When a mentally ill man does the same thing, we are told that he is white and Right wing. Islam is, of course, a form of mental illness, but I have yet to see it in DSM V.

Next, the crime figures are soaring in the UK, but a British policeman has been photographed wearing blue nail varnish to support Slavery Awareness Week. As a good friend of mine says when his patience has been strained, are you taking the fucking piss? Believe me, if we had slavery nowadays, our slaves wouldn't be black. Ever worked with young black men? Yeah. You kind of want the job done today.

Aaaaand the next cultural atrocity. The British police, using money stolen from hard-working people who do productive and useful jobs, have produced a video in which they allow their Islamic friends to explain to us both what a wonderful belief system Islam is, neglecting to mention the cutting out of small girls’ clitorises, often with razor blades, and other inconvenient truths, and also informing us that Islam invented everything from the printing press to the Large Hadron Collider. Meanwhile, many forces are now saying that they will not now investigate domestic burglaries.

My favourite from the week – and by now I was shaking with rage so much that my neighbor thought there was another earthquake on the way – is that a Cambridge university is giving ‘trigger warnings’ to sensitive students about certain plays written by that talentless scribbler William Shakespeare. If I weren’t shaking with rage, I would be shaking with laughter.

And that is the antidote.

My father always swore by laughter as a tonic for all ills, a universal panacea, if you will. Or even if you won’t. After my shaking has subsided, I spend an improving hour watching vlogs, or video weblogs, and my hearty feeling that life is one long sweet song returns like a faithful Spaniel. I suggest you do the same.

You are probably familiar with these names, but I enjoy Paul Joseph Watson, Gavin McInnes, Tommy Robinson, the Angry Foreigner, Milo Yiannopolous and Jim Goad. But, if you are new to this format, have a look at Red Pill Black here.

This is her take on the Harvey Weinstein imbroglio engulfing Hollywood.

If you think I am indulging in tokenism because Red Pill Black is a black girl, think again. I am not trying to prove that I am not a racist – I am – or that I am a feminist – fuck off – I just find this girl vivacious, funny and right on the money. That last sentence sounds like it belongs in a rap song. Enjoy yourselves.

And now, if you will excuse me, there is a planet to save.

Wednesday, 18 October 2017


Santorini's famous blue-domed church,
                                        complete with Islamophobic crosses

Joy Division, Wilderness

Jesus died for somebody’s sins but not mine.

Patti Smith, Gloria

The Greek island of Santorini is one of the most breathtakingly beautiful places I have ever visited. Croydon, lurking on the fringe of south London in England like a mange-covered pimp, and very near which I grew up – or at least got bigger - is absolutely not. Loughborough, a pleasant enough town in what was the heartland of Great Britain’s industrial revolution, I can’t speak for, my one excursion to the town having been to its university – famous for the prowess of the sportsmen and women it produces – to see the popular beat combo New Order in the 1980s.

How are these disparate places linked? Listen. Shhh. Do you hear the adhan, the cry of the muezzin, the Islamic call to prayer, drifting on the breeze...

Santorini has much to commend it. A volcanic island, the sand on its beaches is a shade of grey so deep it is almost black. I visited one of its famous abandoned villages, Agrilia, and I don’t believe I have been anywhere more frightening in my life. Here is an example of the abandoned dwellings.
I walked through the entire village. The only places that scared me more were the tor at Glastonbury and the ruined castle at Berkhampstead. Oh, and a very old abandoned empty psychiatric hospital somewhere in Surrey. I don’t scare easily but, in Agrilia, there was no one else present. Except there was. Let us move on.

Santorini’s famous blue-domed temples are quite something to see. There is a fierce clarity of sunlight in Greece – Nietzsche comments on it in The Birth of Tragedy from the Spirit of Music – that seems to make everything more vivaciously alive than elsewhere. I honestly think this is what accounts for the vivacity of colour used there in public spaces. It is similar here in Costa Rica. But let us, like Jesus, return to the temple.

I had no idea until this week that the supermarket chain Lidl was German. I visited a Lidl store once, and once only, in London. It resembled a yard sale, or car-boot sale for you Brits, in Albania, and is the only supermarket in which I felt I might be beaten up or mugged.

Lidl has used, in its promotional literature, photographs of Santorini’s beautiful blue-domed mosques. They have photoshopped them but not, for Nietzschean reasons I have already outlined, to improve the colour. No. They have removed the crosses from the roof of each dome so as to avoid offence to you-know-who. Tinkering with reality to improve it. Old Traumavillians will recall that I have mentioned the Socialist penchant for tinkering. If I have to explain to you why Lidl have removed the offending crosses from the photographs, and the potential offence to an as-yet-unnamed religion they are seeking to avoid, report directly to the Principal’s office. She will hit you round the head with the clue bat.

So, the beautiful blue-domed temples of Santorini have had their denominational iconic crosses scrubbed out by a business based in the country who gifted us Auschwitz and lampshades made from people. So far, so post-modern. Let us continue the Greek connection.

Croydon, and I apologise to a good friend of mine who lives there, is a shithole. In fact, to call it a shithole is an insult to self-respecting shitholes everywhere. It is one of those places no one visits unless there is absolutely no other choice. It is a transport hub into central London, and its station – which looks like a post-modern architect teamed up with an amphetamine-riddled spider and then forgot to complete the ‘building’ they were contracted to build – is essential for commuters. The first port of call for an arriving migrant, at least one who intends to go down the legal route of immigration to the UK, and hasn’t just hopped out of a truck full of parts for coffee machines in Kent, is called Luna House, and is situated opposite the station in Croydon. It has long been my belief that this is a type of test for our swarthy arrivistes, those people the elites have imported and bred like shoats the better to enrich our failed culture, the principle being that if you can handle Croydon without fleeing in terror back to the arse-end of war-torn Somalia, or whichever failed Islamic state – pardon the tautology – you came from, then you can take anything Britain can throw at you.

As mentioned, I have had fun and frolics, junketing and jollity in Croydon, and I mean no disrespect to its inhabitants but, to quote Michael Caine in Get Carter, stroll on. For our purposes here, it is necessary simply to point out that Croydon is the home of Nestlé, the chocolate giant. I mean, they sell a lot of chocolate. There is not a giant called Nestlé living in Croydon or, if there is, it has not been brought to my attention.

Nestlé have recently taken a minor commercial decision. Curiously, it involves the same temples mentioned above in connection with Lidl, and the decision is exactly the same. Nestlé’s brand of Greek yoghurt featured a stylistic rendering of the same temple, and has removed the crosses in exactly the same way as Lidl. ‘Yoghurt’, incidentally – which north Americans pronounce ‘Yo-ghurt’, with the ‘Yo’ pronounced as in the name of the toy ‘Yo-yo – is one of eight Turkish words to have entered the English language. You may think this information extraneous but, when it wins you a bar quiz, you’ll thank me.

But to return to our theme. Our final port of call, as noted, is Loughborough, where, until recently, a lady named Tina Gayle had a market stall in what is apparently a thriving local emporium. Here is a report, from Breitbart London, about the lady’s summary dismissal from the market in which she had previously sold rare books and a range of paraphernalia;

A local council in the United Kingdom has banned a rare bookseller from having a stall in Loughborough Market after someone complained that novelty mugs she had for sale could be “offensive to Muslims”.

The mugs, sold by 56-year-old stallholder Tina Gayle, featured Knights Templar iconography and their Latin motto, which is based on the words of Psalm 115:1 — “Not unto us, O Lord, not unto us, but unto thy name give glory, for thy mercy, and for thy truth’s sake.”’

In passing, I have long thought I might offer my services as a sub-editor to Breitbart. Can you see what is wrong with describing someone as ‘a rare bookseller’? But I am straying from our path.

Semiotics is the study of signs and sign systems. Roland Barthes is a good place to start but, given that he was knocked down and killed by a laundry truck, maybe the attention he paid to signs was insufficient. As the young folk say, whatever.

The point I am making is that this war against the cross is a semiotic one. Muslims might be offended by seeing the cross, therefore the sign of the cross must be done away with. Of course, no Muslim was ever offended by any such thing, and this is because it is not possible to be offended, and this is because offence doesn’t exist. Saying ‘I am offended’ is much like saying ‘I’ve just got back from Narnia’. The sentence is sound, but it has no ultimate referent.

But Muslims understand the gradual power of pretending to be offended, and the useful idiots who run the country – the UK, that is, not my country here in Costa Rica – are pleased to help them have their bullying way because those same idiots hate Christians.

The cross. I’m going to buy one on a dinky little chain. Next time I’m in England, I’ll make sure it is prominent. Here, taxi drivers and old women cross themselves when they drive past the Catholic church. I like that. Personally, I don’t cross myself. There’s no point. God knows who I am and he knows I would be pretending. It also doesn’t matter to him what I do. He has no interest in me. Not yet, anyway.
When I was young and rebellious, I once completed and signed a social security application and, in the section marked ‘Religion’, I wrote ‘none’. A pinch-faced martinet who smelled like my grandmother’s house looked at it, clucked, struck through the word ‘none’ and wrote ‘C of E’. Church of England. Today, that would happen in reverse.

Theodore Dalrymple – real name Dr. Anthony Daniels -  is, in my opinion, the greatest essayist currently writing in English. Discussing Communism in one of his pieces, he makes the point that the lies told by the political elites are not intended to deceive, but to humiliate. When you are told by Theresa May – a woman whose torn skin would surely reveal wires and solid-state electronics – that the latest attack by Muslims has nothing to do with Islam, she is not expecting you to believe it. Quite the opposite. She is telling you what is permissible and impermissible for you to think. This visual tinkering with photography serves a similar purpose. The removal of crosses from churches and market-stall paraphernalia is intended to state, on behalf of both the elites and the Mussulmen, that they are the masters now. Fight back. Let us see crosses everywhere, let the bloom like flowers, like some vast cemetery, which is what the West is rapidly becoming.