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.

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