Wednesday, 26 July 2017


Who is drawing whom?

We live increasingly in an age of meta-media in which the subject of the media is the media itself. As we shall see, this is not a scrutiny willingly undergone by the MSM, but one which is being gleefully taken on by the alternative or dissident media outlets. I recall, a few years ago, seeing a photograph in a newspaper recording some pointless piece of political theatre, the visit of one stuffed suit politician to the country of another, or some such. But the photograph, mercifully, did not feature any of today’s ugly-mug political elite. Instead, it was a photograph of photographers. There were dozens of them, wielding their cameras like some military arsenal.

Now, one of the major sleights-of-hand practiced by contemporary newspapers is that we all need to see another photo of some political potentate. This is primarily to avoid having to fill that space with anything as potentially informative as text, and is wholly unnecessary. Angela Merkel is, as we know, no oil painting, and yet we see her map plastered all over the shop. Macron looks like the kid on the front of Mad magazine, but his image is ubiquitous. Theresa May always appears in photographs resembling one of those unfortunate Victorian mental patients receiving a huge jolt of electricity in a vain attempt to cure their malady. On reflection, that might not be a bad project for someone. But that is not my point.

The photograph of the photographers, which I believe was on a prominent front page, was the media commenting on the media. Then, it seemed a curio, an amusing take on the modern obsession with media. Now, it is a symbol for a new obsession; meta-media, media about media.

I use Breitbart as my main news source, and they have a separate page for stories about journalism. This is not, however, in the spirit of self-celebration – that is a job for the MSM, with their endless masturbatory awards ceremonies - but intended as a critique. And it is part of a reporting process which is having interesting effects. The press, who for so long had a monopoly on truth – or ‘truth’, to be properly post-modern about it – is now being held to account. Of course, and as a journalist friend of mine points out, the mainstream media are still the most capable of reportage, largely due to their financial apparatus. Even this, however, is changing. The British print press has been in gradual decline for some time now, and newspapers regularly shed staff as sales drop and advertising revenue wanes. Correspondent with this is the rise of the independent, ‘citizen’ journalist. ‘Peter Sweden’ is one such, and is currently in Italy reporting privately on the scandal of what we might call assisted immigration, in which NGOs and charities – notably Oxfam – are colluding to swamp Italy with Maghrebian men. The authorities, as you might expect, are none too pleased with Peter’s efforts, and here we are approaching the heart of the matter.

The self-introspective turn of the media is a response not to what is being reported, but to what is not being reported, what is being avoided and elided. A worldview is formed not by, or not simply by, what the populace is told, but by what they are not told. An example from social media.

My partner was showing me, on Facebook, some photos of her at the beach with our dogs, when she scrolled past something that caught my eye; 25 reasons to move to Sweden. The woman who had posted this is north American, and probably comes equipped with the average Yank’s sketchy knowledge of France, the one in which Oxford is near Paris and so on. I skipped through the list, and discovered a Sweden I wasn’t aware still existed. Three of the 25 reasons to move to this Socialist utopia were as follows;

·        Swedes start their day with a tea-drinking ritual called fika, and eat delightful pastries with their infusions. (Actually, I would want to check the translation of fika before I got involved in the general merry-making, this being Scandinavia…)

·        Swedes have a wonderful Midsummer festival. (I have taken part in this. It’s like The Wicker Man on acid).

·        Swedes have an excellent recycling program. (This really was one of the reasons.)

The rest was more of the same, an accurate description of Sweden in, say, 1968. What was missing?

The fact that Sweden, with vanishingly small rates of rape 25 years ago, is now the Lesotho of Europe. The fact that 80% of the police force want to leave their jobs. The fact that there are 61 admitted no-go zones in the country. The fact that a Swedish minister has stated that Sweden ‘has no culture’, and has vowed to get rid of Midsömer. The fact that Muslim immigrants are being fast-tracked into key public secret jobs, including policing. The fact that hand-grenade and gun attacks are now a daily feature of Swedish life. The fact that many young women, in good, shariah-compliant fashion, do not go out alone.

So, let’s all move to Sweden.

The woman who posted this catalogue of fantasy and Liberal nonsense has had her worldview crafted by the Liberal-Left-Progressive media, possibly the most malevolent force on the Western side of the planet. She believes what she is reading because she doesn’t have the knowledge or willingness to look outside the MSM for her information. She is, in fact, clinging tightly onto nurse for fear of finding something worse.

And so the current trend for meta-media is to be applauded. The great Roman poet Juvenal’s famous line Quid custodiet ipsos custodes – Who watches the watchers? or, Who guards the guardians? – could not be more relevant. When what people believe to be reality is confected by those who have an active interest in hiding reality, a watchdog is needed, and the more vicious and angered the better.

Breitbart’s charismatic editor, Raheem Kassam, is about to publish a book on European no-go zones. Merely for the sin of announcing the imminent arrival of his – ludicrously expensive – tome, his Twitter account was immediately suspended. In these treacherous times, the watchers will not take happily to being watched.

Saturday, 15 July 2017


I believe so sir. Uh, Miss.

In the most high and palmy state of Rome,

A little ere the mightiest Julius fell,

The graves stood tenantless and the sheeted dead

Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets.

Shakespeare, Hamlet

Baby maybe you’re wrong

But you know it’s alright.

Aerosmith, Dude Looks Like a Lady

Things are changing quickly as the Western empire reaches its final stages of decadence, ruin and collapse. While economies become ever more sclerotic, while Europe imports its own destruction in the form of Islamic hordes who despise even the rags and tatters of what is left of European values, while the north American deep state ties its democratically elected president’s hands together, while the establishment media present an alternative universe while screeching about ‘fake news’, while the Left closes down free speech with all the zeal of a Tower Hamlets imam, while the goaded and gelded indigenous populations of the West seethe ever more obviously, while fascists calling themselves anti-fascists roam the streets, while blacks are encouraged to kill whites, and while the vast majority of mainstream media outlets lie blatantly concerning all of the above, we are asked the important question as to whether we are prepared to have the correct attitude towards mentally ill people who believe they were ‘assigned’ the wrong gender at birth.

One of the truly depressing aspects of the current culture wars – which my side is losing heavily – is how few people will be positively affected by the outcome when the Left declare victory. Wars are always about control, whether that be of territory or thought, and it must be conceded that the Left have been extraordinarily inventive of late with regards to new ways to make the rest of us conform. Transgenderism is the latest in a series of incredible victories for those who wish to subvert civilization by hobbling the white man.

Look closely at the photograph at the top of this page, because it is your future. We have recently seen both the British police and armed forces making commitments to the LGBTQ ‘community’, as well as flying the rainbow flag. Does that make you feel safe and secure? Even Sadiq Khan, a Muslim fifth columnist Londoners foolishly voted to be their mayor, had to bite his lip and praise the new set of perversions the Left have foisted on us. He will be given a pass by his Mohammedan handlers however, as they recognise skillful and strategic taqiyya when they hear it.

Up until a short while ago, it was still possible to believe what was almost certainly true, that Britain’s top cops, for example, would believe in secret that transgenderism and ‘gender neutral’ terminology is nonsense, Leftist thought’s latest perversion of reality. Now, though, looking at Cressida Dick’s credentials, even that surety has gone. I imagine the army’s generals have a bitter laugh about it over drinks, but even they will be wary of informers now that Britain approaches Communist levels of spying and other intrusions.

The most interesting aspect of both transgenderism and homosexuality is that championing them sets up an imminent conflict with two of the Left’s most cherished victim groups, Muslims and blacks. I don’t imagine the Gay Pride march in London passed through Tower Hamlets, for example, or Peckham. It will be an interesting reckoning, when it comes as it surely will, and gays and transsexuals and transvestites will be dismayed to find themselves thrown under the pink bus when it is realised that brown victim groups trump rainbow-coloured ones. Thanks to the wonders of cognitive dissonance, however, the Pansy Left will be able to accept the contradictions and absurdities of the coming fracasse.

It’s that awkward moment that gives the modern SJW cold sweats. You’ve spent the previous evening nodding furiously as your gay/transgender/genderqueer friend complains about homophobia or transphobia or, well, genderqueerphobia, if that is the construction I want. That, of course, is all as it should be. You know these things exist because your peer group, as well as the redoubtable Guardian and Laurie Penny, have told you that they are a ‘thing’. But they are not an Islamic thing, or a black thing, but can be pinned on the universal scapegoat, the straight white man.

It’s the next day that the problems start for our snowflake moral content provider. The thing is, a few of the Muslim brothers turn up at the demo and starting talking – and laughing! – about poofs and trannies and cocksuckers. It’s the type of stuff Lennie Bruce used to riff on, and it sure offended folk in 1959. So did the ‘nigger’ bits Lennie used to perform, and when the Muslim fellow travellers start referring to blacks as niggers, the SJW is falling ever further down the rabbit-hole. Then they start talking about wimmin…

But, as noted, the Leftist will have no problem accepting both homosexual/transgender rights and the concomitant Muslim denial of those same rights because of the twin intellectual prosthetics of cognitive dissonance and a visceral hatred of straight white men. And, before we leave this subject, a note to those straight white men.

You had better start fighting back. Europe has already been homosexualised, feminised, neutered and ideologically cuckolded. The more you allow the elites and their enforcers to tell you that people suffering from body dysmorphia – which is what transgenderism is – must compulsorily be honoured, respected and applauded, the more you will simply vanish. The Left want to do away with heterosexual white men primarily as breeders. If you agree with that, it is right that you should vanish but, if you do not, Tweets will not save you.

This is a war and, as Leonard Cohen sang, it is a war between the ones who say there is a war and the ones who say that there isn’t. And it is a war being fought, by our enemies, not by us, across different types of terrain. Take the case of Transport for London. The aforementioned mole Sadiq Khan is on record as saying there are too many white men in control of the trains. That this pipsqueak can even make that kind of statement is testament to just how many white men have been turned into social castrati. Oxford Circus and, I assume, other stations, have just started putting up rainbow station signs. When Khan’s longed-for brown men start taking over the underground system – making terrorism easier, to begin with – I wonder how long those signs will stay rainbow coloured.

If you accept the Left’s tyranny of thought, you deserve everything that is coming to you. Reject it. Live right, damn it. The Left do not, incidentally, care a fig about transgender people, nor blacks, nor Muslims, nor any of the other approved victim groups that they champion. But their hatred of straight white men is now so rabid, they will use any means necessary to try to expunge him, us. It doesn’t matter how many children are psychologically warped by the whole artifice of transgenderism, it doesn’t matter how decadent it makes a country look to perpetually enraged Muslims, it doesn’t matter how much it undermines the authority of the police force and the armed forces, it doesn’t matter how much lost time and money it costs companies and the public sector to implement new LGBTQ protocols, and it doesn’t matter how many good workers lose their jobs due to each new sub-species of Wrongthink. As long as the Left gain a measure of control, the sacrifice is always worth it.

Tuesday, 11 July 2017


          Tailpiece by William Hogarth, 1761

A few short years ago, Peter Hitchens’s – that possessive is correct, incidentally, as ‘Hitchens’ is not a classical name – column in The Mail on Sunday was one longish essay. Then, I imagine a reluctant editor took Little Hitch aside and said, Peter, not great news. The focus groups have reported back and, well, it seems that essentially people are now so shit-thick that they can’t follow one long essay. They watch adverts and Sherlock now. We need a shorter lead piece and some fun-size snacks to break it up. Hitchens would have sighed, but he took the candy bar. However, I am going to present today’s blog offering as a patchwork quilt, a series of impressions of the week. Sit down, pull up a pouffe – or a wife, if you are Muslim – plant your feet thereon, and we will begin.

Those who know Markie well will happily attest to the fact that he needs no excuse to party. However, should such an incentive ever be required by self, I can think of nothing better than to be informed when they start shooting Antifa. These revolting people are in dire need of bullets to the head. A German politician with access to the relevant purse-strings – and a woman, naturally – decided a few years ago that Left-wing extremism wasn’t what the young folk call a ‘thing’, and cut the funding that might have nipped this phenomenon in the bud. Now, we see the city of Hamburg put to the sword by these very people, while Germany frets about ‘Right-wing extremism’. It really is time for live ammunition, both for the monkeys who perpetrate this kind of unpleasantness, and for the Jew Soros, who funds it.

One of the songs in the repertoire with which I stun and amaze visitors to Costa Rica is Lola by The Kinks. The song features the immortal line, Girls will be boys and boys will be girls, it’s a mixed up, muddled up, shook up world. And, gentle reader, it is a line that never rang truer. The world’s first non-gender-assigned baby has been born in, as one might expect, Canada, whose Prime Minister and My Little Pony have never been seen in the same place at the same time. The parents’ blather is too depressing to repeat here, but suffice to say that ‘the state is no longer to be allowed to oppress our newborns by assigning gender without our permission’. I am convinced that this approach will not play well with our future Mohammedan overlords. And so is Lola.

It is not, it goes almost without saying, difficult to make fools of creatures of the political Left. They make it easy, for a start, and twitting those whom the wags call ‘Libtards’ is, to quote the eminent thinker Iggy Pop, like hypnotising chickens. One north American chap, however, has performed above and beyond the call of duty. A gaggle of anti-Trump supporters dutifully cheered and applauded the gent as he gave his impassioned anti-capitalist speech. The only snag was that the speech was compounded entirely of quotes from that sizzling 1930s bonkbuster Mein Kampf, by one A. Hitler. Anyone can make a mistake.

Here in Costa Rica, the government of President Solis has a curious knack of signing into law legislation that actually benefits those outside the political class. Some time ago, Costa Rica made it illegal to feed wild life, and this particularly concerns the three main species of monkey here, they being the White-Faced Capuchins, Squirrel Monkeys or Titis, and the fearsome-sounding Howler Monkeys. The Capuchins are the Mafia of the rain-forest who shake tree branches at me and my dogs when we are out for a stroll. They are feared by the Titis, sweet-natured, chirruping creatures who like to maraud the mango trees like little pirates. If a Capuchin corners a Squirrel Monkey, it will call its mates, attack and eat the smaller animal. The Howlers make a frightening noise, although they are vegetarian. They are slow-moving – although faster than Sloths, which we also have here – and need to be able to communicate over distance. One yelled outside the chalet in the middle of the first night I spent here, and I nearly converted to religion. Anyway, the new legislation will stop airheads such as the north American girl in the rental chalet along the way, who could regularly be heard shouting, ‘here monkey monkey monkey monkey monkey monkey monkey! while proffering bananas from her balcony. Giving bananas to monkeys seems like the most natural thing in the world. It is not. If monkeys want bananas, they will take green and unripe ones from the plant. Giving them ripe bananas can pass disease – and this works both ways - cause female monkeys to abort, and change the route the monkeys travel for food. The legislation is most welcome in a country which covers 0.2% of the world’s land, but contains 5% of its animal species. President Solis is also the man who politely refused to take in Muslim refugees as ‘you wouldn’t like it here’. How refreshing to be in a country where one thinks its premier a good egg.

In other Costa Rican news, the national soccer team – the Ticos – squeaked a 1-0 win over Honduras on Friday to edge that little bit closer to the next World Cup. I long for them to qualify. On the day of the big quarter final in the last World Cup, Prez Solis gave the entire country the day off. They are crazy about football here. Notably, being in a bar full of Costa Ricans watching a game – any game – is preferable to being in an English pub with fat skinheads using football as an excuse to shout a lot and hug each other without being thought a poove. Funny that.

In other Association-Football-related news, I see Roy Larner’s 15 minutes have come to an end. Mr. Larner was the hero who did what the police all too rarely do. He took on Muslims, one of whom attempted to slice his head off with a machete, while uttering the immortal words “Fuck you, I’m Millwall.” Mr. Lerner’s actions came during what Diane Abbott called the ‘incident’ at London Bridge in which Muslims killed several people while screaming that their god is greater than, presumably, Mr. Larner’s god. But now reality has caught up with Roy. I thought it wouldn’t take long. He has been ‘caught on tape’ uttering a ‘racist tirade’, which is what the press call heated opinion. He is now guilty of wrongthink, and his defenestration is proceeding through the form. You cannot tarnish Brand Islam with impunity. The Daily Telegraph, incidentally, describes Mr. Larner’s actions on the night of the Muslim attack as follows;

‘Larner made headlines when he shouted "F--- you, I'm Millwall" at the London Bridge attackers last month.[

Is that all he did? No. He stood up to enraged, insane Muslim men with machetes in their hands. How I despise the British, shariah-compliant press.

When will two of the world’s most powerful and influential nations see the folly of giving high-ranking jobs to black women because they are black women? The UK has Diane Abbott, who may be Home Secretary by Christmas, and who has shown a spectacular level of stupidity, bias and malice in her career as a beneficiary of the unofficial positive affirmation and tokenism that the political class cannot resist. Ms. Abbott’s inventive style of mathematics we know about. She also has interesting and creative ideas concerning race, believing the problem with modern Britain is not immigrants but white people. She sends her children to public school while partaking fiercely in class war, spent £12,000 of tax-paid money on a portrait rendering her as grandly tribal, and thinks Mao Xidong did ‘more good than harm’. The US, for its part, has Maxine Waters, a woman whose level of mental illness threatens to thwart the most accurate measures of psychical dysfunction. Her speeches often finish with three or four minutes of leading the crowd in the chant, ‘Impeach 45!’ referring of course to the nemesis of the Yankee political class, Donald Trump. She often refers to Trump as mentally unstable, which strikes me as being a case of the pot calling the kettle, er, a kettle of colour.

I think we will have this sort of round up every week. Best wishes to all Traumavillians and remember; This is 2017. You must keep your sense of humour. As I once wrote in poetic mood;

Never lose your sense of humour.

Humour’s what your sense is for.

You might lose the battle

But you’ll never lose the war.

Friday, 7 July 2017


Hi Yankees! Would you mind awfully talking louder!

Purposefully or unwittingly, a generation of Americans now exists that is terrified of critical thinking.

Milo Yiannopolous, Dangerous

“You’re American.”

“Don’t hold it against me.”

“Just try not to say anything too loud or crass.”

In Bruges

I used to love America. Then, quite recently, I started meeting lots of Americans, and the appeal faded somewhat. The country fascinated me as I grew older. The literature, the movies, the rock music, the whole cultural razzmatazz the English seemed to lack. The writers. Hemingway, Scott Fitzgerald, DeLillo, Danielewski, Heller, Roth, Melville, Updike, the sainted Bukowski; the words seemed to shuck and jive on the page, swinging like a big band. I never finished a book by closet fag Norman Mailer, but on the whole I found in Yankee literature an antidote to the occasionally stifling strictures of my native scriveners.

Now, however, north American publishing houses have begun employing ‘sensitivity readers’ to check the manuscripts of wannabe Yankee authors. They will, apparently, be looking for negative racial stereotypes, white privilege in characters and, of course, racism. And they will find plenty, and many good authors will never see their books between covers. If anyone can’t see the obvious parallels with Soviet Russian literary censors, get back to your – ethnically improved – Marvel comics.

Hollywood. Where do you begin? The imagination of my generation of English kids was moulded not by television, as it is now, but by gangsters and cowboys, lovers and thieves, tragicomedians and villains with personalities. And the acting. Nicholson, Pacino, Bogart, De Niro, Walken… Again, the list is extensive.

Now, producers of one of the interminable Star Wars movies – I saw the first one the week it came out in the UK. It was shit then and it is shit now – are crowing about making a film without any white people in it. Every second film to ooze out of Tinseltown is called Boo Hoo Slavery or Carry On Shoah. Hollywood’s latest wheeze is a film based on the actual transcripts of Joan of Arc’s trial. Jeanne d’Arc herself will be portrayed as a white Christian terrorist. I am not making this up. As for the remaining white actors, we have Leonardo DeCaprio jetting around the world to tell the little people about the dangers of carbon footprints. We also have, perforce, the massed ranks of Hollywood luvvies railing against a president attempting to haul their country, whose mug punters feathered their nests for them, out of the toilet. It is a spectacle without dignity. The few actors who have stood up to be counted – take a bow James Woods and Jon Voight – will likely never work again. A new black list for this century’s witch hunt. Only now the witchfinders are the Commies.

And the music. I return, with a jolt of memory, to myself as a teenage boy. My parents took me to visit a cousin of my mother’s in Bracknell, near Reading in England. I was given a very precise brief. I was to spend the afternoon in the teenage daughter’s bedroom listening to music. Now, none of your smut. She looked like 1970s cartoon character Crystal Tips, pictured below with her dog, Alistair

and wasn’t the rock chick I fantasised about. I knew I would be in for an afternoon of Donny Osmond, David Cassidy and The Bay City Rollers. There would not be a Zeppelin, Lizzy or Who record in sight. I was only right about the second bit.

The first album this little sweetpea pulled out changed my life. Even the cover cast a fierce glamour on me. A girl who looked like a boy pouting and sullen, baggy shirt, black jeans and braces, photographed in black and white.

My new friend put on the album. Dreamy piano chords and then,

Jesus died for somebody’s sins but not mine.

To this day, Patti Smith’s Horses is among my no-particular-order top four albums of all time and the only north American entry, along with London Calling, Unknown Pleasures and Quadrophenia.  By the time my new chum had played me Iggy and the Stooges’ Raw Power, Ramones and The New York Dolls, my baptism was complete.

Now? Well, cast your eye over the US music scene. A grotesquerie, a carnival of vulgarity, venerated stupidity and political correctness. Rap and its encephalic offshoots is the seat of the monarchy, rappers who make Donald Trump seem as vulgar as Peter Hitchens the new monarchy and aristocracy. And, as Trevor Noah said, behind every rap billionaire there is a Jew twice as rich. It all comes to pass.

As for US television, one can only, to echo Bertie Wooster, shake one’s head and pass on. It is psychotic. Of course, there has been excellent US TV – mostly comedies – but, in a far stronger way even than British TV, the formatting is like watching drunken dervishes dancing under strobes in a maximum-security prison for the criminally insane. It affords no peace. It makes your head itch from the inside.

And then there is politics. US politics has always, during my lifetime, been a three-ring-circus. The UK is struggling to keep up but, as ever, can’t quite get to it with as much chutzpah. But away from the smell of the greasepaint, what appalled me the most about the election coverage when I was in the US, and what I have glimpsed refracted through the prism of the dissident media before having it confirmed in situ by actual Yanks, is that the level of north American political wisdom is vanishingly close to zero point fucking zero.

The election campaign was fought entirely around the phenomenon of personality, which of course meant that both contenders were actually viewed epiphenomenally, that is, as a direct competition between two fictional characters the MSM had created out of whole cloth. They say race is a social construct. Fuck me. Did you see the bald manipulation of reality that went into creating the reliable, maid-of-honour, public servant, friend to the black person, diesel-dyke compliant, Muslima, LGBTQ-lickin’, egalitarian Hillary Rodham Clinton, as opposed to the retrograde, Neanderthal, woman-hating, nigger-lynching, throwback, knuckle-dragging caricature they made out of Trump? Where are we when people learn their ‘facts’ from TV drama, and are fed fiction via the nightly news?

And then I arrived here, in a small but prosperous – for the Third World – Pacific coastal town in Costa Rica. Most of the Yanks here are pensionados, meaning that they are drawing pensions and this gives them residency. A lot of well off north Americans are doing this now, working the poverty theme parks of Latin America. By the time they get to Ecuador, say, it’s less about sun and sea and more about using the socialised – and therefore cheap – housing and medicine actually designed for older Ecuadoreans.

The ones who stay here in Costa Rica have a distinguishing feature; they know nothing, absolutely nothing, about politics, but boy do they spout off about it a lot. And the ground note is unwavering in its monotony. It runs something like this;

Trump’s an idiot, man.

Why’s that?

(Incredulous look) Why’s that? He’s just an idiot. You only have to look at the man.

I have. He is doing what he said he would do.

Pause. Trump’s an idiot, man.

Inhaling your worldview from CNN, and then thinking Snopes and The Huffington Post are valid fact checkers is no way to go through life, son. Even if it were, swallowing a CNN non-story about Trump and then using the immortal line “Uh-uh! Don’t think so, girlfriend!” is not particularly argument.

I have met four Republicans from a cast of dozens. An intelligent and funny guy I chatted to at a party, an affable Country and Western singer, a drunk bar owner, and a conspiracy theorist with the Illuminati on speed-dial. The rest are nauseating Democrats who, as mentioned, are shit-thick when it comes to politics. One more thing.

They are all from the north. From the Manhattan Jews on the west coast to the latte-sipping faggots on the east, there are hardly any southerners here. I don’t suppose they can afford it, what with having to do real jobs all their lives and all. Now, I know I have a north American readership (not any more – Ed.) and I am sure these people, with the intellectual equivalent of Thalidomide, are not representative of you, but there is a trend developing. The only downside to being here is the fucking Yanks.

It takes them on average about three or four minutes to go into their flapgums dronologue about Trump, fact-free and about as intellectually edifying as reading a milk carton. They all seem to think that I want to listen to their fuckwittery, and they all seem to think they have something original to say about Donald the God-King, as I am beginning to think of him. I just walk away now. I’d rather read Norman Mailer. And the more of them I meet, the more I love Trump. I nod and smile at social occasions, because some of these bastards are my girlfriend’s friends, but my inner voice is repeating ‘Take it up the arse, faggots.’ My mental life is an interesting one.

I see Trump is donating his first pay check as President to restore the Civil War battlefield at Antietam, a site I visited last year. Now there is one war that went the wrong way. I would have fought for the South.

Wednesday, 5 July 2017


What is, like, wrong with you, fascist?

Of course nobody stopped to talk - because the Left does not want to talk. It wants to triumph.

Peter Brimelow, VDare

Twitter is, they say, in financial trouble and looking for a buyer. I don’t pretend to understand the various goings-on in any way, shape or form, but doubtless I shall have to migrate to one or other of the alternatives before too many moons have come and gone. I have been banned more than once for thoughtcrime, as a matter of fact. I have just served 12 hours in the big house for referring to an economist who called philosophy ‘a bit of fun’ as a ‘cocky cunt’. I imagine it will only be a matter of time before they drop the big one when it is discovered that Traumaville is a veritable Gomorrah of hate speech and general beastliness. It will be a bit of a shame, as I have enjoyed the humour on Twitter, as well as the odd spat with the Left, be they of the Pansy, Malevolent or Common-or-garden variety.

I am not interested in winning a Twitter argument, which I have likened to winning a game of rock-scissors-paper in a psychiatric hospital. What does interest me is drawing out the common thread connecting the tactics of Leftist argument on social media. I recently got into a tangle with a Tweeter who calls itself ‘Mr. Tickle’, after one of the famous children’s characters created by Roger Hargreaves, who lived a few miles from where I grew up.

Now, the other party to this minor virtual altercation is not here to defend himself (I assume, were Mr. Tickle a female of the species, the avatar would have been a Little Miss), and I am not attempting to twit him in his absence. Curious that the delightful old English appellation ‘twit’ is embedded in ‘Twitter’. All I wish to do is hold up an example of Leftist debate, presented in miniature by the dictates of Twitter.

Mr Tickle had read a previous postcard from Traumaville, and was mildly triggered. Here is the opening exchange (my replies are italicised);

·        You are reading Islam as a monolith. It's not. It's a spectrum of views. I think you are also entering into conspiracy theory.

·        The Nazis also entertained a spectrum of views. I would rather be a conspiracy theorist than a slave to nuance.

·        So now you are equating me with Nazis? Also #falseDictomy you don't have to be either conspiracy or a slave.

·        No, I am not equating you with Nazis. You must read what’s there and what it was an answer to. You’re not making sense.

·        But you equated Islam with Nazis. That’s what I read for your retort on spectrum of views. Do you wish to withdraw that?

·        Absolutely not. Are you in management or something? Read. What. You. Wrote. Comparison is not equation.

There are a number of points for discussion in these opening salvoes. The very first sentence is interesting, the charge that I am ‘reading Islam as a monolith’. I take this to mean that I am treating each and every Muslim as though they held identical beliefs. This is a common Leftist ploy, and the implication is an extraordinary one. If, as Mr. Tickle goes on to claim, Islam does represent a ‘spectrum of views’, there is an implicit suggestion that none of those views represent Islam faithfully, and so Islam, in a sense, does not exist as an object of criticism. That is to say, because the Berlin truck jihadist held views which were part of a spectrum, Islam is not in any way to blame. Thus, the Leftist can cherry-pick the bits of Islam she likes, like a child at one of the old Woolworth’s Pick ‘n’ Mix counters gathering together her various and favourite types of sweeties in the same bag. This hyper-relativism is the essence of post-modernism.

I did promise not to poke fun, but I am a serial liar. #FalseDictomy is as written, and it strikes me that it may be a surgical operation to remove fake news.

The other interesting comment Tickle makes is ‘Do you wish to withdraw that?’ This is a very familiar trope, hence my reply. I had my fill of management in London, who would often suggest that I withdraw an email or a comment therein, watch my ‘tone’ or otherwise refrain for speaking outside of their ridiculous parameters. It is yet another method of Leftist control. Furthermore, as I never tire of pointing out to people, Twitter is Twitter, not the Vienna fucking Circle.

Yes, I did drag the Nazis in rather, didn’t I? And that is the hoariest of Leftist evasions. But note the response; So now you are equating me with Nazis?  I wasn’t, as you see. Unless, unless…

I began to suspect that Mr. Tickle is in fact Ahmed Al-Tickle. What else could explain this sudden taking personally of an objective comparison? But to return to the supposed Islamic ‘spectrum of views.’ Now, in that there is – as I pointed out in a subsequent Tweet – a central division between Sunni and Shi’a, so there is division in Islam. The dar al Islam  is divided de facto. A Wahhabist holds very different views from a Salafist, who in turn differs in point of doctrine from a Sufi. There! A spectrum of views. Does that nullify the threat of Islam in and of itself? Gentle reader, it does not. American serial killers may support different baseball teams. This does not lessen their threat. So, let us move on.

·        Let’s make this more simple. Do you accept Islam is spectrum of views and not a monolith as you have expressed? Yes/No.

·        I don’t do closed questions. There is a Sunni/Shia divide for a start if that is your idea of a spectrum.

This is a variation on the old ‘Have you stopped beating your wife?’ question. According to imam Tickle, if I answer ‘no’, then I am reading Islam as a monolith, which is a Bad Thing in Tickleworld, and throughout the Left. If I answer ‘yes’, then Tickle wins. A spectrum of views as a defining trait of the ummah automatically means that the Boston Marathon bombers could have been Amish.

I tried another tack. As is well known, Tweets are confined to a maximum of 140 characters, including spacing, and debate is not easy in that format. Thus;

·        My email is Quite happy to debate you at length, unless you insist on anonymity.

·        Understandable if the questions are unfair. However, you have not argued that let alone explained why. Is that reasonable?

·        You’re making a category mistake. Serial killers hold a range of views. That’s not a defence of serial killing.

·        Humour me if you must but is that a yes?

·        And look, best of luck with your acceptance of Islam. I hope it doesn’t adversely affect your kids’ future.

·        I have said nothing about myself. Thank you! I am only pointing out the problem with what you have expressed in your blog.

·        Your comments have been noted.

Tickle is perfectly well mannered. I wished him a happy Christmas, and he wished me and my family one straight back. I don’t think a Muslim headbanger would have found it in himself to do that. It would have stuck in his craw. However, what is of note is the sudden explosion of Tweets explaining the undesirability, in his eyes, of transferring the debate to a limitless format away from the miniaturist confections Twitter offers. I will limit myself to quoting the first two of several, because they hold in essence the whole point I am making here, that of the inability of the Left to hold lengthy debate, or at least lengthier debate than Twitter’s snack-sized format;

·        I really don’t see how extending this to a lengthy debate would have helped you to state your case.

·        Why when we are finally making progress in understanding our points of view in this format?

Did you note any progress, gentle reader? I just noted the same weary communicative equivalent of two drunk people playing ping-pong. I have offered my email to seven or eight Tweeters from the political Left. Only one has taken me up, and we traded precisely one email each on the subject of Islam. Mine was the reply, and he never got back to me. Some get very huffy when you suggest email correspondence.

We see it everywhere. The Left wish to reduce all political argument to slogans, as though a cross-parliamentary committee were being chaired by The Clash. It may be that, at one or another level of their sub-conscious, they realise their arguments, if subject to analysis, would fade like morning mist.

Don’t allow them to get away with it. Challenge Leftists over every daubed placard, every witless exclamation mark, every dim-witted platitude, every fudge-brained Tweet and addle-pated Facebook rant. Make them explain their thought processes instead of acting as though Tourette’s Syndrome and its symptoms were political argument. I suspect there may be wavering Leftists out there, and they may just require the small nudge of extended debate to make them see sense before darkness descends on us all.

Tuesday, 4 July 2017


F-f-f-f-fourth estate!

If Trump achieves nothing else, by the end of this, when the tide recedes, he will have validated scoffing at political correctness and enlarged the space of what can be discussed.

Ann Coulter, In Trump We Trust

Sometimes it is almost possible to feel sorry for the media. During last year’s US Presidential election, 93% of the US media’s coverage concerning Donald Trump was negative. This more or less matched the polling that trumpeted – so to speak – a Clinton landslide. The MSM fawned over Clinton almost to the extent that they fellated Obama. The occasional dissenter who claimed that the apple-cart might be overturned were laughed at, quite literally. Ann Coulter must be enjoying watching and re-watching the howls of derisive laughter that met her pronouncement that Trump would wear the crown when she made that claim on some vacuous US talk show, if that is not a tautology. For the north American media, the campaign was a sideshow, the result a foregone conclusion.

Then Trump won.

As what is now known as Trump Derangement Syndrome took hold of the media, Hollywood, and the US political class on both sides of the – actually non-existent – divide, something interesting began to happen. Old Traumavillians will know that it is my firm belief that the Liberal-Left-Progressives who infest and currently control the West exhibit a psychopathology which qualifies them, in my view, for a diagnosis of mental illness. After Trump won the Presidency, this madness began to emerge and metastasize. Now, the only people who can’t see the madness of the Left are the Left themselves.

As I have written many times before, the Left run the West. They super-saturate the media. They have made academia occupied territory. They sit in every public-sector post across Europe. They effectively censor entertainment. Most importantly, they make up the political class. The constant white noise of their whining about a largely mythical ‘far-Right’ is just secular taqiyya. Their Gramscian long march through the institutions is almost complete. Incipit Trump.

This was not supposed to happen. It was not in the playbook. Trump gets in and, not only does he begin doing, or attempting to do, everything he said he would do on the campaign trail, he shows a contempt for the MSM which is as refreshing as a draft of fresh cool air on a muggy day. He has connected with ordinary people via social media, and left the formerly pampered courtiers of the legacy media looking like a hound dog with a face full of porcupine quills.

And it is wonderful.

The smugness of the MSM is one of the hardest things for Right-wing people to tolerate. The joyous mood of the BBC when some statist such as France’s Hollande is elected (how did that work out for you, France?) as opposed to the funereal atmosphere when an all-too-rare nationalist success or Brexit-style political event occurs is galling for those of us on the Right.

Every aspect of modern Western life clearly deleterious to the white, working- and middle-class, indigenous, tax-paying populations of Europe and north America is cheered to the very echo by the MSM, with the BBC proudly strutting and twirling its baton at the head of the parade. Mass immigration, identity politics, minority privilege, Islam, homosexuality, human rights, globalism, miscegenation and the Left’s latest toy, transgenderism, are all openly celebrated or solemnly venerated, while the once-prevalent social and cultural norms, as well as anything remotely connected with Christianity, are jeered, mocked, scolded and criticised. The media control the flow of this malinformation.

Then Trump.

Tweeting his way around the press corps in the manner of a soccer player bending a free kick past a wall of players and into the net was a stroke of genius which, like most strokes of genius, was as simple as picking cotton. And, if anyone thought simply poking jibes at the MSM via Tweets was the end of the story, think again.

The Trump WWF Tweet in which The Donald takes out a wrestler labelled as CNN was a masterpiece. The media themselves, of course, are now outraged. They have lost their effete, black, Muslim president, who worried about the ‘optics’ of golfing through some disaster or other, and are now having to watch a real man at work. I have just read – and have not confirmed it – that US news rooms are having to hire extra security staff after Trump’s ‘anti-press incitement’. Why would anyone want to kill journalists? Right now, we like you just the way you are.

Let us be in no doubt; Barack Hussein Obama was a pimp. He pimped for Islam. He pimped for black criminals. He pimped for Soros. He pimped for Alinsky. The man – although his wife is more mannish – couldn’t let a John go past without taking his money and arranging for him to get fucked. He did everything that disgusts real men about pimps; he lived from the earnings of immorality. And the very worst thing about Obama? He dressed that immorality up as its polar opposite.

Now Trump is here and, instead of comfortable press junkets at the White House, where media catamites were able to lob softball questions about tractor production to a president adored for his colouring, the press are having to scrabble about for tid-bits tossed from the royal table as Trump shows genuine audacity of hope by communicating directly with the great unwashed. And boy are the media mad.

The past few months have seen a production of Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar in which it is clearly Trump murdered on the Ides of March, a video by some rap chimp in which Trump is shot in effigy, and a talentless bitch of a ‘comedienne’ apparently holding up the President’s bloodied and severed head. This in addition to the usual panoply of death-Tweets and pictures of Trump with cross-hairs superimposed on his skull. Oh, and a Bernie Sanders fan shot a Republican in the head to general Leftist and media approbation.

Then Trump’s smackdown.

The media went predictably haywire. This, they said, is going to end up getting a journalist killed. (Despite what I wrote above, why stop at one?) The media narrative has been composite. Trump is psychologically unfit to be President, the man is clearly insane. This is, of course, pure psychological projection made by those suffering from Trump Derangement Syndrome. Trump is a racist and a misogynist. I thought all white Western men were racist and misogynist. No? That is what the Left tell us every day. That, then, is like saying Trump is a Western man. Hardly a syllogistic triumph. Trump is a thug and a boor, a line held by many of my now ex-friends – themselves not free of thuggishness and boorishnesss, I seem to recall – on social media. Now you are on to something. Perhaps, instead of swimming upstream, Trump epitomises the zeitgeist. Western culture, after all, is scarcely Hellenic in nature.

You see, when ‘Western culture’ is mentioned nowadays, the speaker is hardly referring to Beethoven and Bach, Turner and Tintoretto, Conrad and Kafka. They are, and have no choice but to be, talking about Love Island, Jay-Z, Glastonbury, Miley Cyrus, training shoes, Tracy Emin, Coldplay, The Daily Show, television, films based on comic books, slutwalks, Ta-Nehisi Coates, facial piercings, programmes about motor cars, Harry Potter, shopping centres or malls, gay pride, professional sport and politicians wearing pink pussy hats. Culture is thuggish and boorish, racist and misogynist, and deeply boring. It is also in the advanced stages of psychosis. Even by the standards of the media’s own critique of Trump, the man is supremely qualified to be the leader of what could still rally, on this Independence Day, to be the strongest nation in the world.

So, bring on the wrestling Tweets and the pussy-grabbing comments. Bring on the spelling mistakes and the contempt. I want a thug and a boor in charge because thuggishness and boorishness is what many ordinary men do.

The MSM are scared now. They are scared that no one wants what they are selling anymore. And all because one man took them on and, in so doing, redefined the Pansy Left term ‘Presidential’. Have you ever laughed with a politician before, rather than at them? I hadn’t before the wrestling Tweet.

I propose a new word to describe Donald Trump’s presidential style; Swaggerdocio. An amalgam of swagger and the Italian braggadocio, it is intended to describe the new style. And don’t say you don’t disapprove. What would you rather, Chris Martin or Alice Cooper? Beware Pansy Left, look out media catamites. Flaws compris, warts and all, real men are back in charge.

Monday, 3 July 2017


The flag of my home nation.
Do I have to go to jail now?

An evening of fun in the metropolis of your dreams.

Wire, On Returning

Oh England, my lionheart.

Kate Bush, Lionheart

“Well,” he said. “I’m back.’

Last line of The Lords of the Rings

The first thing that happened when I set foot in England was that my money was no good. After customs and immigration – all automated now – I high-tailed it to the Gatwick Wetherspoon for a pint of London Pride, proferred a fiver, and was told that those days were over. They’ve changed the five-pound note. When did that happen? Turn your back for five minutes and they are buggering about with the currency. Still, they exchanged my bluey with a cheery smile at the bank, and I was pleased to see Churchill’s scowl on the back and not Benjamin Zephaniah.

Prior to this jaunt, and absent the original three months I had spent in Costa Rica, the longest time I had ever been away from England was two weeks. Fourteen months, then, seems a very long time indeed. It seemed a little unwordly, as though I was watching a familiar movie I had not seen for some time. Train, two trains, to Purley and into The Foxley Hatch, possibly my favourite Wetherspoon. I like J D Wetherspoon pubs (a chain of UK hostelries, for my American readership). I like them because of the people who don’t like them. I used to use people’s attitude towards Wetherspoon as a little litmus test to find out whether someone is worth talking to or not. They are unpretentious and affordable, pub grub and ale, and you don’t see hipsters there, which is all to the good. The boss of the chain, Tim Martin, also writes a regularly incisive and entertaining – and anti-EU - editorial piece in the pub magazine. I went to five or six while I was there. Fish and chips, fry-up breakfast, Abbott Ale. England, my England.

I spent the first evening at a band rehearsal, the band being one in which my brother has played drums for twenty years and I sang with for ten. They are strictly amateur, but with a more professional attitude than some of the self-described pros I have played with here in Costa Rica. They have made a lot of charity money over the years, and had a lot of good times. They happily let me belt out some of my old specialities: Mustang Sally, Get Ready, Hard to Handle, Rock and Roll (The Zeppelin one, but not, I hasten to add, in the original key for obvious, Robert Plant-related reasons). A good time was had by all.

Next day was an early start. I met my two friends and drinking companions – aka The Flying Martini Brothers, collectively – at Victoria Wetherspoon at 11am, and off to the Kent coast we did hie. It was one of those weekends which come back to me now in the manner of Proust watching the shapes cast by his magic lantern on the wall; a shape here, an outline there. But I believe that, as Kent coastal jaunts go, it was up to house standard.

To my brother’s the next day where I did something I would never usually dream of doing. I watched a grand prix. It was actually quite absorbing. I must seek help. We also drank Long Island Iced Tea, my brother’s other hobby.

The rest of the week was spent at my mother’s, pottering about among what is left of my library, talking to Mum, walking her dog and mucking about with her new cat Charlie, and strolling across the cow-field to the pub. If this sounds wonderfully bucolic, then for perspective I ought to tell you that my mother lives in a tiny council flat. Whatever other things I have had in my life, money does not number among them.

I went to London for one afternoon, to buy various musical items. I saw no acts of violence and, actually, no real sign that the city of my birth fears terrorist attack. The underground was as horrible as ever, and the air smelt putrid with exhaust fumes. I remembered how attractive English girls are, or can be when not dressed like sluts. The Costa Rican girls have perfect skin, lustrous black hair, pearly teeth and smiles that would cheer the flintiest heart, but they are not my type. Not my phenotype, I suspect, because not my genotype.

I had hoped to meet up with a fellow Tweeter, but it got too late in the week, which was a shame. Perhaps we can meet up on my next visit, with more notice. There was really only one more notable experience during this sentimental journey, something to set against the rolling hills of Surrey, the pleasing bite of pale ale, playing guitar in a Kentish pub, seeing family and friends, and finding my copy of Heidegger’s Being and Time in my mother’s attic, alongside a pair of Mexican lizard-skin cowboy boots; television.

I had watched no television in 14 months, with the exception of a handful of football matches and some children’s cartoons to try to improve my woeful Spanish. However, Mum is a semi-religious TV watcher, and I got more exposure to the tube than I have had in a decade. If I had to sum British television up in one word, I would have no hesitation; psychotic.

Full disclosure. My mother has fully mastered the recording function on her telly, and had recorded some programmes for my viewing pleasure. I watched a very passable documentary on Nietzsche, a very good documentary on the artist Turner, which focused on the role of scientific discovery and the Industrial Revolution on the work of that genius, and a collection of interviews with and sketches by the great Peter Cook and Dudley Moore. But it is not specifics that concern me about the idiot box. It is the presentation.

Televisual content is packaged as though its target audience were hyperactive special-needs children. The migraine-inducing graphics, the paint-by-numbers news items, the weakness of the wit and humour. The whole medium is still the same carcinogenic antibody – and anti-brain – it ever was. And the BBC, as though you needed to be told, is still shot through with reflexive anti-Right-wing bias in the same way as a stick of rock says Brighton all the way down.

I enjoyed my stay, on the whole, but I was pleased to get back to my gal, my dogs – who mobbed me on returning, as they should – and cats, my guitar, and Costa Rica. As we drove through the rain forest in the dark, I had a thought, neither unpleasant nor pleasant. I didn’t realise it, but I’m prepping.

The next day, at dawn, as I sat on the porch watching the strangely silent jungle, the smaller of my two cats, little Missy, was watching too. She, however, could probably see something I could not, a vole perhaps, or a gecko. She was waiting for it to make its move, and then she would make hers. I had another thought.

We’re all watching the jungle to see what is going to come out.