Tuesday, 28 February 2017


12th-century wall mural, Chaldon Church, Surrey, England

Dropped into a church

I passed along the way.

The Mamas and the Papas, California Dreamin’

Scented cathedrals and curved minarets.
Some can’t remember and some can’t forget.

Me, Dancehall Seduction

I have taken to going to church. I haven’t found God, although he is probably right where I left him, but I enjoy the experience. Not in the William James Varieties of Religious Experience sense, you understand, but I like the cool interior of the building, the quietly spoken people who shake your hand, the sense of a shared and gentle spirituality prevalent among the religious here in Costa Rica. Taxi drivers cross themselves as they pass the Catholic church, the Immaculada, and there are religious festivals throughout the year which are a pleasure to see. The church is well attended and, on occasional Thursdays and Fridays, as I wait for a driver to take me and others to do voluntary work at the local animal shelter, you will find me there. And, naturally, one’s thoughts tend to turn toward religion.

Religion, for the elites and the media, as well as the SJW contingent, is neatly divided in two, and polar responses are required for orthodoxy to reign, as it always must for the Left. Islam is the religion of peace, and terrorism is not connected with it. Terrorists are not Muslims, no matter how often their expert scholars say they are or what they shout while butchering Europeans or their fellow citizens who happen to be Christian. Christianity, in bold contradistinction, must be suspected, banned, harassed and blamed for all the supposed ills of the West. The use of language and its control are paramount here. Thus, when the ridiculous show-pony Justin Trudeau says that ‘honour killings should not be called barbaric’, he is not saying that they are not barbaric. He is saying that you, little people, are not permitted to call them by that haram appellation.

There is a playbook of Liberal responses to criticism of their beloved Islam. One of them is that all religion is tainted by exhortations to violence. I don’t think this is true of all religious creeds, but the debate is only ever intended to defend Islam and defame Christianity, so you will forgive me if I forego a detailed examination of the Vedanta or the Upanishads.

As I sit in the church here, however, I spend some time looking at the central image of violence and two things occur to me. The first is that the violence visited against Christ – who I believe existed – is not a rallying cry for violence against anyone else. The Bible may have violent sections, but the iconic image connected with Christianity is the cross seen as the reminder of Christ’s agony, not a thumbnail blueprint for a training manual for the Ku Klux Klan.

Now, quite apart from the fact that parts of the Koran make American Psycho read like The House at Pooh Corner, it seems to be the case that the book is an ideological and social instruction manual for much of the Muslim world. And that world is changing its geographic distribution, like a very high-stakes game of Risk. The Koran has over 100 graphic commands on the killing and maiming of the kufr. One of the weakest bits of Liberal jugglery is that the Koran is always misinterpreted, and can only be read in the original Arabic. This is bollocks on stilts. While Kant and Heidegger, say, may be problematic in translation, this is because they contain complicated and metaphysical abstractions. The Koran – or the holy Koran, to use BBC-speak – is a series of simple commands. You could translate it into any language and it would still be telling madmen in comedy beards to chop up Jews between prayers. It says what it means and means what it says.

The next piece of Liberal humbug is that it is only a very small percentage of Muslims who pose any threat to the West. Again, this is pathetic and willfully misleading. It is only a small percentage of an army that will kill the enemy. The rest are radio operators, paramedics, sappers, logistics officers and so on. Although they will not kill you themselves, they are on the side of the guys in the front line with the rocket-launchers and assault rifles. So it is with Islam.

The Islamic army of occupation – for that is what it is de facto – currently turning parts of Sweden and France into literal war-zones poses an added threat. As the police continue to exercise the bare minimum of authority towards criminal migrants, there is a second level to the anarcho-tyrannic strategies of which they form a part. The goading of the indigenous population is an integral part of anarcho-tyranny and, when the inevitable vigilante pushback begins in earnest, then we will see the police clamping down hard on what they will see as dissident action. And so the Sovietisation of the West proceeds through the form. That Muslim immigration is beneficial to anyone but the elites and their catastrophic plans is a miserable lie.

And miserable lies are now the currency of the West, and these lies will kill the innocent again and again. Except, of course, for our mortal enemies on the Left, white Christians are never innocent but guilty, as guilty as Pilate found the man hanging in front of me on the cross. One thing I know to a certainty concerning the Catholic church here – and there are two other denominational churches in the small town, plus a Jehovah’s Witness meeting hall -  which no one in Europe could ever say about their church. It will never be a mosque.

A note in passing. The church I have described has fourteen windows on either side, arched and unglazed and unbarred. They sit about seven feet from the ground and it would be the work of seconds to scramble up to a ledge and drop down into the silence of the church. Once inside, as is usual with Catholic churches, there is enough gold to make such an incursion worth your while. It is inside glass cases, but that will not stop the determined. As anyone who has ever broken into a building via a closed window will know, one simply takes honey, a newspaper, and some leather gloves with one. Smear the honey on the glass, apply the newspaper, and put your gloved hand through it.

Now, I think that in this rather light-fingered land, there are two possible reasons why the treasure of the Immaculada remains in the clutches of the church. Firstly, there is a local code among the criminals on this particular run of the Pacific Coast. There have been dark mutterings even a straniero like me has picked up on the radar. Petty criminals who go too far, who rob the wrong relative or generally exceed an unwritten and Mafioso-style set of protocols, often evade the clutches of the local police, a fairly lackadaisical, affable bunch. But sometimes they fall foul of their co-workers, and can end up being tossed off the Crocodile Bridge, a structure whose nick-name needs, I feel, no explanation. The police are, understandably, reluctant to investigate these events, although apparently one or two bleached skulls have washed up on the river banks. It could be that. But I prefer my second explanation. The local bad guys don’t steal the church gold because they are scared God will see them.

One last church, which it may well one day be. When I was a small boy, I went to Primary School in a village called Chaldon, in Surrey. It makes me sound posh, and we weren’t, but the village had a famous church dating from the 11th century and mentioned in the Doomsday Book. In the 1950s, workmen discovered a large mural across one wall. Dating from the 12th century, it is supposedly one of the first English wall paintings. The area was apparently owned by a knight, and I suspect he was a Templar, which would explain the crois epaté at the bottom of the tableau. There is a passable reproduction – post-restoration – at the head of this piece. It is a familiar judgement tableau.

The mural rather frightened me as a little boy, as it was intended to do when it was created all those centuries ago. It also puzzled me that there were two devils in Heaven, along with the hippies in nighties. They were being tortured and made to perform tasks, all right. But they must have used Jacob’s Ladder to get there. Devils in heaven are all very well, as long as they integrate. What if the angels lose control of them? Worse, what if their fellow demons become bored with torturing the damned and decide to make use of Jacob’s Ladder themselves…

Friday, 17 February 2017


I love Twitter spats. I hope the company doesn’t fold, because some of the fun to be had there makes me want to ride a bike up a hill. The Left, of course, are the principle source of amusement. Nothing cheers me more than to race across the lawn of the internet, leap Stalky-like into the dorm room of Twitter, and open the toybox in which I keep my Leftie chums. The only thing I enjoy more than a wrassle with a Leftie is a dust-up with a Leftie journalist. I realise that the phrase ‘Leftie journalist’ is a pleonasm but, pace Leibniz, this is not the best of all possible worlds.

David Aaronovitch is, in my opinion and as I told him on Twitter, one of the most over-rated journalists currently working in the UK media. His latest opinion piece assured us that ‘populists’ – and populism is the new racism – will not be gaining power anytime soon. Apart from being wrong – see Geert Wilders, for example – this stance exemplifies the attitude the media have towards the ordinary person, the little people, me and you. They despise us. ‘Populism’ even comes from populus, the Latin word for people. What Aaronovitch is saying is that the people and their votes - what the vapid android John Major recently called 'the tyranny of the majority' - will not triumph, will not take part in preventing the type of globalist craphouse journos would be quite happy to impose on the rest of us, so that they can have a good laugh from their gated communities at the little people making soup from cardboard boxes.

So I told him what I thought, not expecting that he would get involved or reply any more than Diane Abbott did when I called her a disgrace to black people, Alastair Campbell did when I asked him whether he could sleep at night, or Anjem Choudary does when I ask him endless questions about Chas and Dave. (Example; ‘Imam. If Chas and Dave revert to Islam, will they have to shave their beards and grow new Muslim ones?’) And I feel anyone on Twitter is fair game. It is not The Vienna Circle. So I was shouting down an empty well, as usual, or so I thought. With David Aaronovitch, however,I was wrong.

Boy, did he bite. He obviously had a peek at this weblog, an internet site so influential that it is clearly worthy the attention of time of journalists employed by the world-famous The Times. I wonder whether his employers know he spends his time looking at this filth. I shall have to ask them. Here, with intermissions, is the conversation we had on Twitter, that halfwit agora, that idiot’s debating chamber we love so much. My comments are italicised, David’s stand erect:

·        Aaronovitch is one of the most over-rated journalists writing in the UK.

Now, I take this truth to be self-evident. The usual suspects we know about: Toynbee, Bunting, Clark, White, Fisk et al. But I put Aaronovitch on a par with someone like Howard Jacobson. It’s all comfortably numb, Leftist, north London navel-gazing. No pressure, no literary élan, no incisiveness, just a suave Leftist intellectual lockstep. Popular, of course, in the way that Miley Cyrus or Lady Gaga are popular despite being anodyne. It’s just that the popularity of these journos doesn’t extend outside of a sort of virtual Islington. My American reader will have to look that one up.

These writers, you see, are little more than corporate bloggers annoyed that chavs like me are allowed into the party, even though I’m lucky to get 100 readers a day while these guys are read – for the time being, at least – by tens of thousands. But let us move on. David, as I say, obviously swung by Traumaville, and was concerned at what he ‘read’. Behold.

·        "I’ve just visited my local supermarket, in which I swear I was the only white face." Where was that?

·        Costa Rica, you oaf. Read the whole fucking piece.

·        No. It wasn't. The 'fucking piece' said it was a town in the U.K. So where was it?

What greatly concerns me here is that a professional journalist can read an opening paragraph, even one in a pissant blog such as that maintained here, and just not get it. I was going to refer you to the paragraph in question but, of course, silly goose that I am, I forgot that you can just scroll down to my last post and see it for yourselves. I suggest you do. *Whistles a popular tune* Ah, so there you are. We swashbuckled on;

·        David, you must read the paragraph again. I may have to speak to your employers about this. Read it again. Don't look foolish.

·        And also, once u've named it tell us more abt the "Pansy Left" and women who are "egregious porkers".

·        The Pansy Left was a phrase used by George Orwell in a letter. Egregious porkers are fatties. Next Q?

·        See David? You are just not as good as you think you are. I'm going to refer to you, from this day onward, as Dunning-Kruger.

·        Have you got all busy, Dave? You are my next blog post, amigo.

·        Um, it doesn't say women. It says Americans. Get a sub to help you if you can't keep up, Dave.

Now, I admit that I am a nasty little bastard on Twitter but, as mentioned, that is for me a part of the pleasure of the platform. Social media should be rough and tumble. I had to shed a lot of old ‘friends’ on Facebook (although they were once genuine friends) when they scolded me for making political comments that were not in alignment with their Leftist world-view. They littered Facebook – or LongFacebook as I christened it after Brexit/Trump – with their Leftist bollocks, but say a word about cautious immigration, say, or Muslims, the new Jews, and fuck me did they come down on you like a sack of hot horse-shit. But I digress.

To his great credit, David Aaronovitch apologised.

·        You're right. It's a strange conceit, but yes, you did mean Costa Rica. My apologies for that.

·        Accepted. I had Breitbart interested in this spat for about 5 minutes. But all is now quiet on the Western front.

·        I don't give a monkey's about Breitbart, Mark.

·        I suspect that to be something of an untruth. Much like my original statement concerning them. Good day to you.

·        And I believe I stole that conceit from the opening to Waugh's Handful of Dust. I'll check.

In closing, a few points.

The Left are extraordinarily thin-skinned. I have one Twitter adversary, Jamie McDonald, whose Twitter profile reads as follows;

I'm not pretending to hate you, I actually fucking hate you. All Opinions my own, who the fuck else would they belong to? Not a Blairite, thanks.

Tough, two-fisted stuff, you’ll agree. He even has the Twitter handle @JamieMcBastard. But when I sent him a link to this blog as a little tease, he reported me to the company for ‘spamming’ him. Baffled, I explained to him that spamming is a phenomenon restricted to email. Twitter is, if you like, constant spamming. All comments are unsolicited. If you don’t like it, my opinion is that you should fuck off to your safe space. I mentioned to Jamie that he would be in this posting, and do you know what he said? He said this.

·        If you’re writing about me you either need to get out more or consider a trip to Dignitas.

Extraordinary on two counts. Firstly, as Old Traumavillians know full well, I am in the Costa Rican rain forest. When I pause from my writing, it is usually to look up at a passing Toucan, White-faced Capuchin monkey or Scarlet Macaw. And the occasional sloth. Where does he suggest I ‘get out more’ to? Croydon?

Secondly, Dignitas is the famed centre – in Switzerland, I believe – for assisted suicide. Is he suggesting I kill myself? Or is this a veiled threat? If it were a threat, and I were him, I would be whining to Twitter or the police now. And, to look at his profile, he himself belongs in jail simply for wearing that tie. I told another Twitter Leftie recently that I could find out where he lived – I can, there’s a trick to it with Twitter – and he included the Twitter handle for the London Metropolitan Police in his reply. Their skin is so thin that the finest gossamer is stout protection by comparison.

But to return to David Aaronokvetch. Sorry, Aaronovitch. I bear him no animus. I don’t know him. But I am concerned about three things.

He failed to read what I had written. I was a sub-editor for ten years, and failure to read accurately is a cardinal sin.

He has not read Eric Blair’s letters.

On believing that I was attacking women – I wasn’t – exhibiting homophobia – I wasn’t – or being some Ukipper Colonel Blimp – I’m not – he was as triggered as a Black Studies student in a London university who has just been into the library and seen a copy of Conrad’s Nigger of the Narcissus.

As we know, the UK print media are not hiring. ABC figures are looking as healthy as a publisher who has decided to bring out a pop-up edition of Mein Kampf. The Guardian and The Independent may not be around this time next year. The Telegraph is haemorrhaging jobs faster than Kellogg’s. The legacy media will last Mr. Aaronovitch’s life time, but his children may have to seek alternative employment. The reason? Populism. That is, the people. They are beginning to wake, as though from a long sleep.

Monday, 13 February 2017


Well we got no class.
And we got no principles.
And we got no innocence.
We can’t even think of a word that rhymes.

Alice Cooper, School’s Out

I’m English, I’m from London. I was born in the north of the city, grew up – or at least got bigger - in the south, and I’ve lived east and west too. Now, things have changed. I’ve just visited my local supermarket, in which I swear I was the only white face. No one spoke my language. I even had trouble making myself understood at the checkout. The whole town is the same. These are not my people. I don’t recognise this as my home town, the one I grew up in. And I put the whole thing down to immigration. I should know. It’s not my home town. Things have changed. I’m the immigrant.
As both my regular readers know, I re-located to Costa Rica in Central America a little over a year ago. I was bored with spending my time in London either in the pub or getting fired for not kissing the arse of management companies, and the chance came to try something – and somewhere – new, and I duly took it. I have a few loose ends to tie up in London, but when they are firmly tied, I will be staying here and looking to gain permanent residency. Staying in Britain, or anywhere in Western Europe, seems to me about as sensible as staying in Pompeii just as you are feeling the ground beginning to tremble.
Were I a Pakistani Muslim wishing to live in London, of course, the path would be swept of leaves as I rode triumphally into town. It isn’t as easy in Central America. And if I came here and asked for welfare, or social security benefits, I would be greeted with a broad grin, the one you generally find on the faces of those people who have just heard something genuinely amusing.
My biggest disappointment, however, was finding out that I am not a gringo. Apparently, you have to be an American – a north American – to qualify. I am merely el inglesé. Crazy inglesé, on occasion. I am, and always have been, un poco loco. There are plenty of gringos here, however. Oh, yes. I saw one of them yesterday, waiting at the bus stop with her two friends, waiting for the bus that would take them to the world’s 12th most beautiful beach.
She was about 17, unattractive, a bit of puppy fat, but not an egregious porker as so many Yankees are nowadays. The most interesting thing about her, however, was her T-shirt. It featured a cartoon of the president of her country and bore the legend; Fuck Donald Trump. A few initial points.
A year previously, someone wearing a T-shirt reading Fuck Barack Obama would quite possibly have got themselves into a spot of legal bother. Trump, however, is fair game, what with being a white man and all. The Yanks here would certainly have no issue with this silly little bitch’s apparel. They are almost unanimous in their vocal denunciations of Trump. They are also pig-ignorant when it comes to politics of any kind.
Secondly, I am something of a prudish conservative when it comes to public displays of profanity. I myself swear to an extent that would blanche the face of a docker’s tart, but I would never swear in front of children. The children here are charming and well-behaved, and I have seen them in some amusing – and English-language – T- shirts. Go Climb a Cactus. Your Hashtag means Nothing to me. Learning English is important to the locals for a number of reasons, and I really don’t think that this little slut should parade around in a country in which she is a guest with the word Fuck emblazoned across her tits.
Thirdly, it is becoming the signature of the Pansy Left in the west that politics is a game of slogans. What you must never do is to enter into reasonable debate with someone holding diametrically opposed political views to yours. Instead, plenty of exclamation marks and upper-case slogans, lots of dumb, ape-like chanting at interminable rallies, marches and demonstrations, and the reduction of valid criticism to some stupid cunt walking around in someone else’s country with a T-shirt reading Fuck Donald Trump. I wished, silently and fervently, that she ran into some good old boys, like my neighbor, a country singer and military veteran.
Ultimately, one becomes so tired of the Liberal-Left. The combination of raw stupidity, foam-flecked anti-white invective, virtue signalling, hatred of home, the worship of celebrities, a visceral hatred of education, rigorous and psychotic policing of thought and word, and lack of social skills become like that dreadful moment on a crowded bus when you realise both that someone has emitted a particularly obnoxious fart and that there is nothing you can do about it.
The most telling thing is when Yanks meet someone such as me. English, urbane, educated and intelligent, a talented musician and general wit and raconteur. And modest to a fault. They all of them assume that I am effectively wearing a T-shirt reading Fuck Donald Trump. It would never occur to them that I might think that Trump is the last chance for their country, and Obama and the Clintons should be buried together in a hole in the Nevada desert. And that is because these Americans themselves are, virtually speaking, all walking around with T-shirts reading Fuck Donald Trump. If you are what they deem a good person, like them, one of the Gütmenschen, you are in the club, the good person club. Where right-thinkers go. The intellectual landscape prevalent in Orwell’s 1984 had more colour than the denuded mental scrubland of these fuckers.
The Left are now incapable of debate. Slogans will do. Look at the gormless placards at any Leftie march, strewn all over the street like an insane woman’s excrement. Twitter is infested with these patsies. Now, winning a Twitter argument is like winning a game of rock-paper-scissors in a psychiatric hospital, but debate in the sense that I understand the word is just not possible in 140 characters. Therefore, I have given three of them my email address – mark_gullick@yahoo.co.uk by the way – and I haven’t heard a fucking word. Slogans are easier than good old Platonic, Enlightenment debate.
In a decade or so, the girl in the T- shirt will probably be on the right side of history but the wrong side of the Walmart checkout. Late for work, she will be chewed out again by her Hispanic team leader. She is searching in her clothes drawer for something to wear under her work shirt that reads I’m here to help! or Just ask! or some other slogan intended to belittle her and remind her of her status. In one of the drawers, crumpled into a corner, is a faded T-shirt she has forgotten about. She pulls it out and looks at it. Tears start in her eyes. It reminds her of her holiday in Costa Rica all those years ago. She looks at the faded cartoon. She has tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of college debt, and all it bought her was a degree in Kill Whitey Studies or Feminist Gobshite Studies, something utterly useless both in the employment market and in her head. America is great again, but not for people like her, who don’t know anything worth knowing, and are only equipped to think in Touretter spasms of emotive nonsense. She looks at the T- shirt. She thinks; why has my life come to this? I was right. I was right.

Monday, 6 February 2017


When I was a young teenager, like many boys of my generation, I devoured science fiction. I could often be found with my snout inside some garishly covered paperback by Heinlein, Clarke, Bradbury, Vonnegut, Dick. With this in mind, my mother organised a birthday present when I was around 14 or 15 which no young boy could have failed to love; two tickets to a London lecture by Isaac Asimov.

It was exciting and wonderful. The great man, with his mutton chops and fear of flying (he had come to Britain by sea), talked of many things and captivated us all. The high spot – and I see it still in my mind’s eye – was when we were invited to ask questions at the end, and he spotted a young lad in garish trousers and accepted his question.

I asked Dr. Asimov – he was a scientific historian in his own right – if he felt that it was the duty of the sci-fi writer to prepare the rest of us for the future. He praised my question – something I will never forget – and said, yes, essentially it was. Asimov was an exponent of ‘hard’ science fiction – the type that adhered to conceivable physical laws – rather than the ‘soft’ variety that became so faddish afterwards and segued into some of the dreadful fantasy nonsense one sees nowadays. For a non-scientist like myself this is a difficult division to grasp, and I dearly wish I had my battered paperback copy of one of my favourite science fiction books, containing as its foreword a brilliant discussion of this very topic by Brian W. Aldiss.

The book in question is Roadside Picnic, by the Russian – then Soviet - Strugatsky brothers, Arkady and Boris. I came to the book via Andrei Tarkovsky’s 1979 film Stalker, the first film I had seen since watching Hitchcock’s The Birds as a child whose images haunted me and haunt me still. It also contains Tarkovsky’s brother Arseny’s poem Now Summer Has Gone…, which became one of my favourites. The Strugatsky brothers wrote the screenplay to Stalker, although the film is a loose adaptation based on just one of the novel’s four sections.

The premise of Roadside Picnic is that earth has been visited by aliens who did not stick around long. This is not one of those Mexican stand-off, Independence Day-type scenarios. What the aliens did do, during the short duration of what is known as ‘The Visitation’, is to leave various items inside a mysterious area known as ‘The Zone’. The government wants these objects for research, both ethical and nefarious. Collectors want them for curiosity and cash value. Others want these blasphemous things destroyed. But the only ones able to retrieve the bizarre range of physics-defying objects from The Zone and brave its deadly unpredictability are the stalkers, men on the cusp of sanity who both fear and yearn for a return to The Zone. We follow Redrich Schuhart, a stalker, for three of the book’s four sections as he comes back from The Zone with a fabulous and sometimes deadly treasure trove. There are myths and legends surrounding the stalkers and the objects they retrieve from the strange pathways of The Zone.  And then there is the fabled Golden Sphere, which will grant the finder his innermost desire, whether he wants it or not…

This is not space-suits and rockets sci-fi, not a western in outer space or a bunfight with marauding aliens. The aliens are never seen, and there is no clue as to who they were or where they might have returned to. There is only The Zone, with its mystifying objects, some entertaining, some valuable, some deadly. This is not intended as a spoiler – Ursula LeGuin gives the game away anyway in the foreword to the Kindle edition – but the novel takes its title from a throwaway comment made by one of the workers at a research institute, who has a theory about the real meaning of The Visitation;

‘“Certainly,” said Valentine. “Imagine a picnic – ”

Noonan jumped. “What did you say?”

“A picnic. Imagine: A forest, a country road, a meadow. A car pulls off the road into the meadow and unloads young men, bottles, picnic baskets, girls, transistor radios, cameras… A fire is lit, tents are pitched, music is played. And in the morning they leave. The animals, birds, and insects, that were watching the whole night in horror crawl out of their shelter. And what do they see? An oil spill, a gasoline puddle, old spark plugs and oil filters strewn about… Scattered rags, burnt-out bulbs, someone has dropped a monkey wrench. The wheels have tracked mud from some god-forsaken swamp… and, of course, there are the remains of the campfire, apple cores, candy wrappers, tins, bottles, someone’s handkerchief, someone’s penknife, old ragged newspapers, coins, wilted flowers from another meadow…”

“I get it,” said Noonan. “A roadside picnic”.’

This is the beauty of the book. It is about the search for meaning with absolutely no clues whatsoever. Everything about The Visitation is a conundrum, including the almost erotic yearning of the stalkers to return to The Zone. Take one of the objects, the highly prized ‘empty’. An empty is comprised of two copperish discs a couple of feet apart, as thought they were the two ends of a cylinder. But there is nothing in between. A hand can be passed between them, but the discs themselves cannot be moved in relation to one another. The teasing descriptions of the alien detritus are one of the most entertaining features of the book.

Roadside Picnic is a science-fiction novel about the impotence of science in the face of mystery. When science cannot explain, it becomes scared. The effects of The Zone are far-ranging. The stalkers have mutant children. Curious and terrible things happen to those who move away from The Zone and the areas they move to. And still the inventory of mysterious and dangerous objects grows longer as the stalkers return with their plunder.

But this is Soviet science fiction, and there are other considerations than that of plot and mood, ideas and quests. Although I began by bemoaning the fact that I do not have with me my battered old copy of Roadside Picnic and its marvellous foreword by Brian W. Aldiss, the Kindle edition, as well as Ursula LeGuin’s foreword, has a curious appendix which I found almost as fascinating as the book itself.

The Afterword is written by Boris Strugatsky, and is a small diary of the genesis and eventual publication of Roadside Picnic. The first and most delightful fact is that the word ‘stalker’ was brought into Russian by the Strugatskys as a description of the semi-sinister prospectors of Roadside Picnic. It came not from a simple etymological derivation, but from Rudyard Kipling’s Stalky & Co, his short novel of artful public school boys amid the gathering storms of war. The novel was a favourite of Arkady Strugatsky.

But what makes the afterword frighteningly contemporary is the inevitable struggle with the Soviet censorship board in order to have Roadside Picnic published. As Boris writes;

‘I’ve preserved a remarkable document: the page-by-page comments on the novel Roadside Picnic by the language editors. The comments span eighteen (!) pages and are divided into sections: “Comments concerning the immoral behaviour of the heroes”, “Comments concerning physical violence”, and “Comments about vulgarisms and slang expressions.”’

What follows is eight years of bargaining, nit-picking, endless correspondence, the rumour that the Politburo wants nothing more to do with the brothers, and a final victory Boris calls ‘Pyrrhic’. The purpose of all of this is the purpose of Communism itself, the ritual humiliation of all those who do not agree that two plus two equals five. It is coming to the West, with its attendant train of censorship and, eventually, prison sentences for writing the wrong words in the wrong order.

In the modern West, of course, these things are not done by centralised government. They are farmed out to the private sector. Do you think that if you wrote a novel in the UK whose elderly white heroine was bemoaning the effect Islamic immigration has had on her town, it would be published? Would your book about black gang violence be published by a known house? Milo Yiannopolous’s upcoming book has already led to threats against the publisher Simon & Schuster.

Roadside Picnic is vital on three levels. As a science-fiction novel, if you are an aficionado of the genre, it is unmissable. The film is beautiful, but is one to be watched on a big screen. And as a ‘Pyrrhic victory’ against the monolithic Soviet, science fiction indeed prepares us for the future of writing in the West, just as Isaac Asimov told a young boy many years ago that this was the way science fiction ought to function. I don’t, however, quite think that this was quite what the good doctor had in mind.

I’ll leave you with Arseny Tarkovsky’s poem, from the film Stalker:

Now the summer has passed.
It might never have been.
It is warm in the sun,
But it isn't enough.

All that might have occurred
Like a five-fingered leaf
Fluttered into my hands,
But it isn't enough.

Neither evil nor good
Has yet vanished in vain,
It all burned and was light,
But it isn't enough.

Life has been as a shield,
And has offered protection.
I have been most fortunate,
But it isn't enough.

The leaves were not burned.
The boughs were not broken,
The day clear as glass,
But it isn't enough.

Friday, 3 February 2017


Is there a bullet with his nom de plume on it?

It was still at the stage of clubs and fists

When that well-known face got beaten to bits.

The Clash, English Civil War

So just open fire when you hit the shore.

All is fair in love and war.

Tom Waits, Hoist that Rag

Faggot: A bundle of sticks or twigs bound together and used as fuel

The one prediction I would make about the current wave of anti-Trump-inspired protests is that somebody is going to die soon. That’s how it is with violence. And violence is, as the young people say, ‘trending’. I rather like the idea of things ‘trending’. On social media, as you and I sip our cocktails and idly attempt to toss horse-shoes over pegs in the ground, pegs placed there by our servants, topics are trending all over social media like button mushrooms in a dewy morning field. Various hashtags pop up their little heads, courtesy of a collusion between the Left and their compliant social media babysitters, and by golly there’s a trend.

Do you remember #BringBackOurGirls, #IllRideWithYou, #NeverTrump, #ThisIsWhatAFeministLooksLike ? Of course you do, although you may wish you didn’t. They are, essentially, graffiti on a special-needs playground wall. A hashtag is what you do when your impotence has been set free by social media, when the need to virtue-signal is so strong that you have to express it, even though you are not yourself actually virtuous. Then, when you see that your Leftist, Progressivist, millennial, snowflake, anti-racist, Islamophile, fascist-hating hashtag is starting to trend, you can feel the warm glow of being on the right side of history. What never seems to trend is reality. And the reality is that somebody is going to die soon. If or when that happens, and depending on who it is that dies, we may well move into an entirely new phase of this incipient civil war.

If Milo Yiannopoulos is to be the Archduke, and this is not impossible given the scale of violent protest at his speeches, then who will be his Gavrilo Princip? Princip was the young Serb who killed the Archduke Franz Ferdinand in Sarajevo in 1914 with a home-made bomb, and effectively started the First World War. Whether or not there will be a civil war in the USA, that possibility is more likely now than, say, a year ago, when Trump was a laughing stock Yahoo having a fun day off from the office. Now that he has achieved what we, the people, were told was an impossibility, everyone even vaguely connected with the Alt Right is increasingly at risk from the aggravated assaults becoming a commonplace at Leftist ‘protests’. Look at Richard Spencer’s slug to the jaw and the pepper-spraying of a Trump-hatted woman at Berkeley. Either of those could have been a knife. Violence is in the air and threatens the luminaries of the Alt Right. Yiannopoulos is no exception.

The violence that now routinely erupts at Milo’s campus talks is becoming ever more audacious. Of course, much furore attaches to just how much of a spontaneous eruption these chimpouts are, and the name Soros is never far away from rumours of funded violence and paid agitators. Aided and abetted by the police – apparently told to stand down at Berkeley – these protests are becoming more and more chaotic and aggressive. It will not be long before someone is murdered.

What has happened since last year’s extraordinary and historic election is unprecedented, I believe I am right in saying, at least in my lifetime. For a political establishment bar none, in league with the MSM in its entirety, academia in toto, the public sector, social media CEOs, Uncle Tom Cobley and all to be so blatantly devoted to the horrid down-tumbling of a democratically elected president is the stuff of fiction. In this case, the truth is definitely stranger.

The boots on the ground for this extraordinary anti-Trump coalition are the people who set Berkeley alight, and their ilk. Chancers like Soros provide the payroll for this blitzkrieg, but the black-clad anarchists, the pussy-hatted feministas, the social justice warriors, the Black Lives Matter fatsoes, the various Islamic agitators and the well-meaning fellow-travellers are being motivated by what can only be described as an epistemological sleight-of-hand.

The Left are making the most extraordinary existential category mistake, made even more extraordinary by the fact that there is no mistake about it. A deliberate inversion of the usual meanings of words, an old Leftist trick, and of the range of effects of the language those words belong to, is funding the current mini-riots. What is happening, on an epistemological plane, is this.

The Left are equating ‘violent’ speech or text with actual violence itself. Furthermore, ‘violent’ speech or writing is not defined as language endorsing, inciting or describing actual, physical violence, but is viewed as speech or text which does conceptual violence to their cherished and immovable ideas. One of the defining traits of the modern Left is that Groupthink, intellectual lockstep, and the solidarity that comes from all hating the same enemies are the equivalent of not just a written constitution, but an actual set of physical rigidities such as Newton’s Three Laws of Thermodynamics. To disagree with the Left is, for the Left, to wound and kill, to threaten and menace. If you said it, it exists in the real world, like Adam naming the animals in Eden. Words are real things and events to the Left.

Once this conceptual Pepper’s Ghost is put in place, and imaginary violence takes on a phenomenological reality that enables it to be labelled as ‘violence’, actual violence perpetrated by the Left becomes a justifiable and morally correct response. This is a very dangerous place to be. Curiously, the looking-glass world we now inhabit is summed up not by a thinker or intellectual, but by ex-England soccer player Gary Lineker. He stated in a Tweet that the world was drifting towards the ‘Alt violent Right’. Of course, we may feign surprise that people pay attention to an ex-soccer player turned pundit, but we live in a time in which members of one profession – preferably one within the entertainment industry - are routinely, and even compulsorily, expected to shed light on areas which ought to come under the rubric of quite another.

Of course, the vast majority of violence is emanating from what we might call the Alt Left, but as I have pointed out, violence for these people is not an event in the real world, but an impertinence on the part of the Right when commenting on events, a refusal to come into line with management-style, immutable protocols. But this makes little or no difference when you are on the side of the angels, and the Left are so quasi-religious now that they resemble a sort of cross between Puritans, the Spanish Inquisition, and the self-flagellating millennial hordes described in Norman Cohn’s brilliant book, The Pursuit of the Millennium.

If Milo is ever lying on a campus tarmac, breathing his last breath while looking into the face of a paramedic, it will be little consolation to him to know that he took a couple in the back because of a category mistake. But with members of the media and the political establishment openly calling for the assassination of President Trump, I suspect we will not wait too long before the Alt Right has its personnel depleted by some Gavrilo Princip, Mark Chapman or Jack Ruby of the Left. Then the stakes, and with them the nature of the game, will change.

Thursday, 2 February 2017


You have white privilege!!!!


Blacks nourish and take pride in an intense, combative racial consciousness. It is only a matter of time before this gives rise to an explicitly white racial consciousness.

Jared Taylor, White Identity: Racial Consciousness in the 21st Century

This ain’t rock ‘n’ roll. This is genocide.

David Bowie, Diamond Dogs

Following on from the thread of my last postcard, in a piece of continuity that is – as you have correctly noted – brilliant, I’m beginning to wonder whether the decline and fall of the West 2.0 is not only developing into a wonderful piece of theatre, but also, if that is the case, whether we would not be best advised to take our seats and adjust our opera glasses. The chorus of aggrieved women alone who are having what must, clinically, be described as breakdowns, would serve as the Bacchae, and you can tattoo that on your arm, so true is it. But hysteria is not confined to the political Left…

The new kids on the block, the young Turks of the Alt Right, are getting themselves into a lather about ‘white genocide’. Now, I know what they mean. It does look an awful lot as though the elites are attempting to scrub the white man from the picture, in the same way as Stalin had his pre-Photoshop experts retouch photographs to remove images of non-people who had crossed Uncle Joe. And they are using the usual suspects in politics, academia and the bizarre fantasy worlds of social justice and feminism to do their dirty work for them. Academia is abuzz with Ice Whitey Studies and suchlike. White privilege is the flavor of the decade for the Left and blacks. There are talks, seminar courses, degree courses, articles and blog posts everywhere whose topic is how it is time to replace white folk with… well, with what?

White genocide is not happening, and for a number of reasons. Firstly, whites are not being slaughtered wholesale, which is the meaning of ‘genocide’ still, even in these times of shifting semantics. The West is not Zimbabwe or some other pissant ‘black-run’ failed country. The Armenians or Rwandans would have something to say about describing a few Liberal college professors and their gormless Leftist students, plus the chimpout brigade at Black Lives Matter, as carrying out genocide. Whatever happened to Black Lives Matter, incidentally? Did the basketball season start?

Secondly, who does anyone think will replace the white man following this supposed genocide? The black man? Good luck with that. And I am not sitting here writing this swathed in a bedsheet and wearing a cone-head. White supremacism is not something basement Nazis support at torchlit night parades. It is self-evident, like gravity. White men built history, and must now maintain it in the face of the many-headed hydra of Liberalism. This is partly what Trump signifies. The enemies of white men are not predominantly black men, or even Muslims, but other white men and, in particular, Liberal white women.

The answer is, I suspect, white secession and separatism. This is already happening in places like New Hampshire, but it is also happening on a natural scale with the phenomenon of white flight, wherein white people move away from where black people live and live somewhere where other white people live. Obama tried, naturally, to put a stop to this with his Affordable Housing Act, otherwise known as bussing in dysfunction, but hopefully Trump will have strangled that vine by now.

Liberals, who see racism in the very patterns of the air, view white flight as racist, as though trying to protect your family from what Paul Kersey calls ‘Black-run America’ were somehow reprehensible, but as a phenomenon it will surely catch across Europe soon like a bush-fire. Germans are already beginning to move to Hungary. Eastern Europe seems the only sane white portion of the globe left. Liberals do not find themselves quite as popular in Estonian universities as they do at Berkeley.

The white man’s burden never went away, it just changed its clothing to something more ridiculous and began speaking in ebonics and hipster slang. I wish I could find the essay from a collection recounting white teachers’ experiences in predominantly black high schools. At one point, a white woman teacher asks a particularly exasperating black ‘student’ what he thought would happen if whites left town and left blacks to their own devices. The kid smirked and replied; We screwed. But if white flight becomes white fight, the black/Liberal alliance may be screwed in more ways than one. Again, I am not cheerleading. But a friend of mine and I agreed a decade ago that, if genuine Conservatives did not begin having mature debate about immigration, black dysfunction, Islam and radical Leftism, the nutters would eventually kick-start the debate themselves, with a strong emphasis on the kicking. Then white flight may become the least of Liberal snowflakes’ concerns…

Speaking of white flight, you may be aware that Richard Spencer, self-styled ‘leader of the Alt Right’, was punched in the face by an ‘Antifa’ last week. You may even have seen the video. It was described as a ‘sucker punch’, but it wasn’t. A sucker punch is one that is set up, like Reggie Kray’s ‘cigarette punch’. Spencer was just assaulted by an assailant who then ran away. Spencer himself walked away, rather sensibly and undramatically. For how much longer will white people walk away from black and white Liberal provocation? To dust off one of my favourite quotes – surprisingly from the otherwise useless John Major – concerning the response of an Englishman to having his foot stepped on. Step on my foot once, I’ll apologise. Step on my foot twice, I’ll apologise. Step on my foot a third time, I’ll knock you down.

If whites, by whom I mean at the moment the organised Right, but whose numbers will swell if a depression hits, decide they have had their feet stepped on for a third time, it will be worth pulling up a deckchair, cracking a cold one, and watching the show. This ain’t white genocide, this is rock ‘n’ roll.

Wednesday, 1 February 2017


Soros and Davros. Separated at birth?

The time is out of joint…

Shakespeare, Hamlet

You would think such a day would tremble to begin…

Thomas Harris, Hannibal

Anarcho-tyranny is a program which, if it doesn’t actually exist, behaves exactly as though it does. This may be a clumsy attempt to reduce the strategies involved, but here is a suggested ten-point plan by which the elites, in conjunction with their useful idiots on the Left, promote anarcho-tyranny in the West:

·        Import and maintain dysfunction.

·        Goad the indigenous populace.

·        Weaken educational standards.

·        Weaponise culture.

·        Subvert the function of the police.

·        Normalise the denial of biological fact.

·        Massively boost management.

·        Maximise surveillance.

·        Control the media.

·        Deny all of the above.

These are in no particular order, although some are more obviously connected than others. The connections are just as important as the points taken separately. As Aristotle wrote in the Metaphysics, the wise man sees cause and effect. A brief overview of each point, then.

Import and maintain dysfunction. This is happening most obviously in Europe. Muslims, in particular from the Maghreb, are being shipped into Western Europe in an obvious ploy to destabilise the indigenous culture. With African populations about to starburst, there is no theoretical upper limit to the invasion. Muslims are perfect for the elites, as their culture – Islam – is utterly inimical to what remain of Western values. Immediate friction will therefore result. This connects the importing of dysfunction directly with the second category below.

As for the maintenance of dysfunction, this is achieved by hyper-complication. The massive growth in Tolley’s Tax Guide under UK Prime Minister Gordon Brown is a perfect example of this. Hyper-complication also functions through needless regulation, excessive bureaucracy and, as we shall see below, a totally unwarranted expansion of management, particularly in the public sector.

Goad the indigenous population. This is done in a number of ways. Fear of bombing, stabbings, vehicular attack and general anti-social behaviour keeps the populace frightened and wary, as well as questioning what they have done to deserve this. Islam is the ideal tool for this approach to anarcho-tyranny. Taxi drivers who refuse to take guide dogs, supermarket assistants who refuse to sell pork or alcohol, preferential treatment for Muslims requiring healthcare, welfare and education are all tried and trusted ways to irritate the host peoples. The ongoing war on Christmas, enforced school visits to mosques on pain of a racism record for refusal to attend, special dispensations at swimming pools and preferential employment opportunities are some of many expedients. A tension is built up between immigrants and natives, and this is further exacerbated by vastly differing custodial and judicial attitudes to immigrant crime.

Weaken educational standards. This is one of those statements one takes to be self-evident. Education has been possibly the most socially engineered area of society in my lifetime, certainly in the UK. The role of the family and home life in teaching behaviour and accepted social norms has now been taken over to disastrous effect by politicised schools, while education of genuine worth has been constantly downgraded at the same time as grades have been artificially upgraded. Parents who attempt to make up this educative deficiency by home-schooling have many obstacles placed in their way. Home-schooling is illegal in Germany. With higher education, the ethnic cleansing of the syllabus and curriculum ensures that political correctness dominates instead of genuine study. Also, the recent emphasis on a university as an ideological environment rather than a place of learning distracts students from the onerous task of actually studying. Finally, the replacement of the classical disciplines – again, likely because of the implicit links to white races – has led to the introduction of largely meaningless degrees requiring nothing other than pre-conceived ideas and strong and unswerving opinion.

Weaponise culture. It is a well-known fact that if a person has any affiliations not approved by the political Left, they will not at any point be working for the BBC or many British newspapers, and will indeed find it difficult to get any work at all in the culture industries. As for programming, we have recently seen a suggestion that awards are withheld from productions that do not feature sufficiently multicultural casts, a transsexual storyline in one of Britain’s dreadful soap operas, and the usual gaggle of distressed and petulant actors hooting and braying about Donald Trump. Culture in the UK is a weapon of the state, and television is its avatar. Television teaches you two things. Firstly, it teaches you how to watch television. It informs you of the little mental flips you need to perform to tell an advert from a drama from the news. Secondly, it teaches you that you should and ought to watch television. To do otherwise can leave time one one’s hands, and the devil makes work for idle hands…

Subvert the function of the police. This is complex but essential to anarcho-tyranny, as the police are the provisional wing of elite power. The police will arrest, broadly speaking, who they are told to arrest by Downing Street, and the operatives selecting the targets are driven by political agendas. It is now, surely, common knowledge to all but the ignorant and the Left – who are wilfully ignorant – that Western policing is increasingly concerning itself with non-violent crime, and spending more time trawling social media for thought crime and what a German Minister called ‘wrong opinion’ than in attempting to shut down injurious acts. Rainbow-coloured police cars to encourage the reporting of LGBT-phobic crime. Policemen standing with a Muslim, grinning inanely and making the one-fingered ISIS sign. An advert by West Yorkshire Police for recruits featuring a Muslima in a hijab. All of these are essential to the dismantling of police authority.

As an example of how policing has been stymied, the regimen of the average rookie police officer is summed up by a pseudonymous policeman – PC David Copperfield – in his book Wasting Police Time;

“The signs were there on my first day at training school. I joined the job in my late 20s, a married man with a mortgage to pay and several years working in industry behind me. I finished on the Friday afternoon and turned up at police headquarters on the following Monday morning wearing my old work boots and with the oil and dirt from the factory still ingrained in my hands.

Three days later, we were still talking about prejudice and discrimination; burglars had to wait while we set about changing the racist, homophobic and male-dominated world in which we lived… Nobody seemed very interested in telling us how to investigate crimes, or about the actual criminals themselves.” (Location 396)

The justice secretary at the time – I forget his name, but they are all interchangeable – at first called the book as fictional as Dickens, then was forced to row back and admit its accuracy.

Normalise the denial of biological fact. By encouraging even young children to question their biological gender, more confusion and distraction are sown throughout society. Transgender toilets are a novel element in the goading of the populace noted above. There now supposedly dozens of genders, and people can also ‘self-identify’ as being a different colour from that which they actually are. You can even be ‘Otherkin’, a phrase I urge you to look up if your mood is in need of a lift. Note that the elites use the fact that the Left see absolutely no argument against taking a position simply because that position cannot be, cannot exist anywhere in the world. Truth, objectivity and the realm of facts are all moveable feasts to Progressives, malleable and available for use in the war of rage against ordinary people.

Massively boost management. This move works in conjunction with the maintenance of hyper-bureaucratic dysfunction requiring ever-more government. Modern British management bases its practice on fixed, static models rather than organic growth of natural talent. It specialises in demanding that non-management underlings duplicate their workload by echoing it in pointless reports. It is obsessed with useless training schemes poorly taught. In particular, it is obsessed with diversity training and, with new genders, cultures and immigrants in plentiful supply, there will be no shortage of these non-courses. Management consultancy, in particular, is an effective ruse for preventing efficiency. I worked with a board of directors all of whom were consultants. One of them described his job as ‘training people to get through interviews’. What is wrong with simply being interviewed, without having been primed in such a way that the interviewer has no idea of your genuine range of ability? Management comes in the guise of efficiency and expertise. Beneath this disguise is the crippling of talent, the complication of simple process, and the sheer wasting of time which could be more usefully employed.

Maximise surveillance. Surveillance is, of course, not at Orwellian proportions quite yet, but the big difference is that, in Orwell’s prophetic novel, everyone is under genuine surveillance. That is not really the case in the West, where terrorists can often strike after having been on intelligence radars for some time, while those with problematic opinions expressed on social media may not escape so easily. What a German minister recently called ‘wrong opinion’ is more to the taste of the police now than chasing down boys with knives. It is, of course, a lot easier to arrest and intimidate white middle-class people who have a bone to pick with immigration policy than it is to tangle with feuding Armenian and Turkish gangs in Wood Green.

Control the media. To control the media, it is not necessary to own it. But the parameters of what can be reported and what can be said about what is reported should be strictly controlled and regulated to ensure that no dissident journalism makes it into the MSM. So we discover now that David Cameron attempted to have Paul Dacre of The Daily Mail fired from his job for having too strong a tone in favour of Brexit. The Leftist-Progressive-Globalist bias of the BBC scarcely needs to be pointed out, but even supposedly Right-of-centre outlets push the same agenda, albeit in a ‘soft’ way. This relates to the ‘soft despotism’ of de Toqueville, under which the populace is being controlled but is not aware of the control. Orwell’s 1984 is, of course, a key text to understanding thought control of the masses.

Deny all of the above. In particular, go after those who point out the Emperor’s lack of attire on social media. The bosses of Facebook, Twitter and so on will help you, because you have made them feel they are playing at the heart of the geo-political game. Denial is also part of the new Great Game, like those card games in which one is forced to lie – and always rather enjoys it – in order to win the hand. And it bears pointing out that we are only playing dummy hands at the moment. I don’t believe the competition has started yet.

Anarcho-tyranny can only work in a society whose members have been duly prepared. Citizens should be atomised and left with no transcendent cultural options. They must be de-educated, so that even the common sense which is the birth-right of all is replaced with anti-natural – and mostly anti-white – propaganda, misinformation intended to ward off the possibility, which governments dread, that citizens may, for example, use the internet to educate themselves. The paths to wisdom must be closed down and, once they are, anarcho-tyranny looks not so much like the machinations of a totalitarian despot, but the benevolent helping hand of a caring state.

It must, of course, be phenomenally enjoyable to be able to play this kind of game for the rich, powerful, and the connected. The model of playing God is not apt. It is more like an assemblage of the Ancient Greek gods, constantly deceiving one another and men – and women. Yes, I’m looking at you, Leda – in their pursuit of order from chaos. And, just as we still read the Greek drama, history and philosophy in which these Greek gods play their cosmic and often malevolent sports games, so too we enjoy it. We like the anarchy, the reckless use of power, the shape-shifting. As for the contemporary version,  I’m actually starting to enjoy it myself.