Tuesday, 27 September 2016

A CONSPIRACY OF DUNCES? WHY IS THERE NOT MORE TERRORISM?


Now they would have got on with it


A few years ago I was making myself comfortable in the snug of a Midlands pub. I had a good view of the giant TV and my first pint, and I was looking forward to watching my beloved Arsenal play Manchester United, always a gargantuan game and, with the exception of the deadly dull FA Cup Final of, I think, 2005, usually an entertaining one. Thierry Henry was on form and playing, and all stood fair.

I think United were three up in about 20 minutes, and it was something like five by half time. I remember thinking, as the second half got underway; get a sixth. In fact, get seven. Why not double figures? It was such a gutless performance by the Gunners that I thought a genuine humiliation might have a better effect than a mere thrashing. I think it ended 6-1. Too few for my liking. And now I feel much the same way about Europe.

The mystery concerning Islamic terrorism is not why governments have been unable to stop it – they have no desire to do so – but why there is not a good deal more of it. I am not a criminal kingpin, but if I were to fly to London tomorrow, withdraw a few thousand pounds from my account, and talk to a couple of people who know a couple of people who know, I could have three or four guns and ammunition by the weekend. You just have to know who to ask. Now, with a couple of likely lads who believed my apocalyptic chatterings, we could go down to Westfield or Lakeside shopping centres, or Oxford Street, and get a fairly respectable kill rate. So why can’t the supposed hundreds of terrorist cells dormant across the UK? Let’s look at the alternatives.

There is an Islamic chain of command in the West, either with or without the collusion of governments, which regulates the frequency of terrorist strikes. At present, the UK is being moderated. One reason might be that something spectacular is coming, and the Islamists have no wish to attract attention. Islamic terrorism is all a bit passé just at the moment in London, and maybe that is a policy decision. London mayor Sadiq Khan was able to say last week, on a baffling trip to the USA to shill for the Democrats, that major cities would just have to get used to terrorist attacks. Effectively, he was saying; ‘We are the masters now. We will tell you what you must get used to.’ The MSM barely batted an eyelid.

The next possibility is strategic. Muslims, being metaphysically equipped for the long game, and an extended route to power, have realized that demographics are far more explosive than the nastiest of pressure-cooker bombs. Now, Muslims, or at least Muslim men, still want to fuck where their emasculated European counterparts do not. As Islam is a religion with an afterlife, genuine Muslim believers – and I don’t believe many leading Muslims believe in anything more than the reality of power – know that after they have gone to paradise, the ummah will live on stronger for their jihadi efforts while still on earth. So no bombs, please. Just the occasional Lee Rigby to remind the kufr who the boss is.

Another possibility comes from what we might call the constitution of Traumaville. The point of Traumaville is to keep you reasonably frightened and in comfort. Be not too afraid (The Faerie Queene?) is the motto of Traumaville, scrolled across its coat of arms. Good television drama plus a fear of being stabbed is part of the very weave of life in Traumaville. So the short answer is that there are no such cells, just a series of false flag ops plus the occasional loony-tune. Wouldn’t it be hilarious if Islamophobia actually existed? The point of state force is partly to keep the citizens mildly terrified. Look at the history of health scares over the last 20 years. Scare story followed by scare story, and all for the greater good of the pharmaceutical industry.

I can’t think of any further viable reasons why there has not been a wave of Islamic attacks in the UK. There is no election scheduled, the referendum has been and gone, Islamic terrorism in the UK would have no bearing on the US Presidential Election, so no reason for terrorist activity to be especially policed right now. And I doubt radical Muslims have just got bored and decided they prefer Pokemon Go.

The point of terrorism is, perforce, to terrify. But it can’t really do that if there isn’t any. And I think Europe could do with a bit more – no, a lot more – serious and nasty terrorism. In the same way I willed United to score ten, I think – though it grieves me to say it – that Europe needs some bloodshed. I can’t see what else is going to wake the warrior. The men of Europe seem quite happy for their women to be raped in half. Maybe if their mothers are blown up at the shops they might actually do something.

A last possibility is one of my fondest conspiracy theories. It runs roughly as follows:

The European elites are importing dysfunction in the form of Islamic men because they are all too aware of an upcoming financial catastrophe.

Once the catastrophe hits and countries successively fail, with ATMs going out across Europe, the populace will blame the influx of Muslims and start a war.

The EU state, possibly with the assistance and connivance of the US Army, will impose martial law across Europe.

A new globalist government is formed with draconian powers. Small wars are still allowed to rage across Europe, and the global army polices it whenever it threatens to compromise the new oligarchy.

There! All my own work. It must be extraordinary to be someone like George Soros, or the bank gods, or the US President. To be able to play chess on such a grand scale, and with real people, millions upon millions of real people. Stalin did it. Mao did it. Hitler, Genghis Khan, Alexander the Great. It must flatter the soul to stand in such an illustrious line-up.

As for the worrying lack of terrorism in the UK, I will probably jinx things. All we can say to a certainty is that if Muslims can’t manage a bit of upscale killing in a land as pathetically guarded as Britain, the caliphate will seem a long way off.

Monday, 26 September 2016

TRUTH’S AWAY ON BUSINESS: WHY THE MEDIA LIE


O'Brien


 I saw her today at the reception.
A glass of wine in her hand.
She was practiced at the art of deception.
In her glass was a bleeding man.
The Rolling Stones, You Can’t Always Get What You Want

Everybody knows that the boat is leaking.
Everybody knows that the captain lied.
Lenard Cohen, Everybody Knows


My brother is a magician. He earns his living as a documentary producer, but magic has always been a hobby. He’s even a member of the Swedish Magic Circle, having relocated to Göthenburg a quarter of a century ago. He fully intends to teach my young niece the illusionist’s art when the time comes, but his card and coin tricks have been amazing family and friends for years. I could never hope to master even the simplest of his baffling sleights of hand, but he has taught me the key lesson of the art of prestidigitation; even when the audience knows it is being deceived, that knowledge doesn’t remove participation in the deception. It is akin to what Coleridge famously called ‘the willing suspension of disbelief’ in, I think, the Biographia Literaria. We are gathered here today, primarily, to look at the collusion between modern media, the political class, the hard Left and the art of deception.
When I was living in London, and not being a television user, I often used to listen to LBC, the London Broadcasting Company, on the radio. The format was phone-in and news punctuated, with the usual tiresome advertising. They had a good rogues’ gallery of presenters: bluff old Rightish-wing Nick Ferrari – who was a regular recipient of calls from my mother on the subject, usually, of animal cruelty – Iain Dale, the political blogger, Julia-Hartley-Brewer, a sort of jolly-hockey-sticks Rightie. And they had a Leftie too. They still do, as far as I am aware.
James O’Brien is a public-school educated bien pensant ­cultural Marxist who has worked superbly well to create a brand for himself. People used to make a name for themselves, now they create a brand. He often cries on air, uses his skill with the phone-in format to bemuse those not so used to being on the radio, and thus apparently wins an argument, and lives in the leafy London enclave of Chiswick with his wife and two young daughters. I used to work there. There are scarcely any black people or Muslims, the rapidly expanding core of O’Brien’s listening audience.
After the infamous London riots of August 2011, O’Brien - I love the fact that he has the same surname as the arch thought policeman in Orwell’s 1984 -  was very exercised by the fact that TV and press pictures had informed the country that the majority of rioters were black. Now, I met several eye-witnesses to those riots, and they all agreed that the majority of rioters were black. Anyone who has lived in south London knows what a hell-hole it has become largely due to the presence of young black men and the young white men who ape them. But this did not agree with O’Brien’s ideological template.
As an aside, it is also worth noting that after the riots, O’Brien made the extraordinary claim that young urban black men suffered from low self-esteem, and that this was a factor in the recent and largely unpoliced orgy of malice, demonic glee, racist anti-white violence and looting that comprised the London riots. Anyone who has walked the streets of south London, without wearing ideological blinkers, will know to a certainty that the self-esteem of young black men makes Muhammad Ali look like Woody Allen. But back to O’Brien and his racial discontents.
Imagine his joy the next day! The riots had spread to Manchester – not that many people there noticed a difference in quality of life – and this time the pictures told a different story! O’Brien crowed that TV reportage had featured mostly white men. QED, for the Leftist journalist, and I would say that well over 95% of journalists in the UK are Left-of-centre, although that is an unschooled opinion. It just feels that way.
You see the problem, of course. At first, I wondered how O’Brien, as a journalist, could be so obtuse as to believe that BBC and Sky News pictures would not be strictly and selectively edited to package reality in a way that would please Yasmin Alibhai-Brown. Slowly, the penny dropped. Of course O’Brien knew, but truth is the first casualty of modern journalism. His agenda was that he wanted his parish to believe that the reality they saw portrayed on their TV screens was reality itself. It is as though O’Brien had re-written the famous first line of Wittgenstein’s Tractatus Logico-PhilosophicusThe World is all that is the case – to read; The world is all that is the case on the syndicated news networks. Controlling reality. It’s happening now, on a television in your town. But, as O’Brien proves, it is happening with the mutual consent of both the producers and consumers of the news. As Leonard Cohen sang; Everybody knows…
Everybody know about spin, too, and journalism in the UK today is not exactly the headquarters of political spin, but it has rented an impressive amount of office-space therein. Spin is uncomplicated as a concept; it is a sub-set of lying. A fact or event or set of figures exists, the transmission of which, via media, to the general public is viewed by the political class as possibly affecting future voting habits. That fact or event must, therefore, be presented in such a way as to maximise the apparent goodness and efficiency of the party or politician making the presentation. Statistics on crime, imprisonment, immigration, by-elections, unemployment or economics, the outcome of summit meetings, policy decision or indecision, a gaffe here or there, all are malleable and subject to alteration in order to gloss or smear. Peter Oborne’s description of Labour’s 2005 general election campaign provides a good working model of political spin. ‘The preferred method of communication,’ writes Oborne, ‘involved marketing techniques drawn from the modern advertising industry, with everything that implied in terms of manipulation and deceit.’ (The Triumph of the Political Class).
Lying. Spin. Deception. Legerdemain. Prestidigation. Magic. We are back in Plato’s cave, with its flickering and illusory shadows. What is absent from the MSM is the truth. We are involved in the greatest experiment in the history of civilisation. For the elites, the next two decades will prove whether Capitalism, combined with a type of Socialism, can continue to support itself fiscally via a sort of Indian rope trick. We deserve the truth concerning these momentous upheavals in which we are small rodents endlessly running in little wheels, but we will not get the truth any time soon, not from the media, certainly. Truth, to paraphrase Tom Waits, is away on business. Truth is goofing off somewhere, on a sort of cross between a sabbatical and the witness protection scheme and, if we are on the subject of the law, it certainly serves to sign off with J L Austin’s famous invocation of the Bible’s most famous judge;
'What is truth?' said jesting Pilate, and would not stay for an answer. Pilate was in advance of his time. For 'truth' itself is an abstract noun, a camel, that is, of a logical construction, which cannot get past the eye even of a grammarian. We approach it cap and categories in hand: we ask ourselves whether Truth is a substance (the Truth, the Body of Knowledge), or a quality (something like the colour red, inhering in truths), or a relation ('correspondence'). But philosophers should take something more nearly their own size to strain at. What needs discussing rather is the use, or certain uses, of the word 'true.' In vino, possibly, 'veritas,' but in a sober symposium 'verum.'[


Saturday, 24 September 2016

MALEVOLENT GOVERNMENT: BRINGING THE WAR ON HOME


Separated at birth?



The present time is pregnant, and the world is waiting.
Ernst von Salomon, It Cannot Be Stormed

There is a war
Between the ones
Who say there is a war
And the ones
Who say that there isn’t
Leonard Cohen, There is a War



To utilise a modish construction common among the young people, I don’t do good and evil. Good certainly exists, good deeds done by good people abound but tend to have a limited and local effect which has no share or stake in power. But the opposite pole or antipodes of good is not evil, which is a puppet devil still giving off the acrid smell of religious brimstone, but malevolence. There are many malevolent people doing many malevolent things, from the street thug up to the toxic billionaire, but the real problems for the rest of us begin when the first is funded by the second.
There has been a lot of notice taken in the dissident press, although not in the lickspittle MSM, concerning George Soros and his open funding of Black Lives Matter, the racialist bullies and nihilists currently serving as Progressivism’s shock troops in the USA, just as Muslims are doing in Europe. Soros also has a stake in the current reconquista taking place across the EU. Soros has been described as a philanthropist, a lover of mankind. When it comes to the distribution of ideologically driven financial largesse, however, it seems not all men are created equal.
It’s difficult to see what can stop Black Lives Matter. Their most recent pandemonium was the direct result of the shooting of an aggressive armed black man by a policeman who was himself black. Once you can twist a situation like that to suit your narrative, once you have triumphed over reality, there is nothing you cannot do unless you are stopped physically, and no one seems in the right frame of mind for that. That Soros funds them with the sort of money that can buy an awful lot of vulgar jewellery, hair weaves, and clown trousers, indicates that he is openly in favour of a manipulation of the truth which is becoming disturbingly commonplace among the financial and political elites.
The Left, of course, ethnomasochistic to the core, have answer for every question thrown up by showcase nihilism such as Charlotte.
There have been racist beatings of whites by blacks.
Blacks cannot be racist as they have no power.
The policeman who shot the man was himself black.
He is a tool for the white racist police.
Why burn down and loot your own neighbourhood?
Blacks have no choice as they are poor.
Try as you might, you cannot outflank people who don’t take the real world seriously. It is as though you were playing chess against an inferior player who suddenly decides that all the pieces on her side – but not on yours – can behave as though they were a queen.
It is not just Soros, of course. Governments are also complicit in both Black Lives Matter and the Muslim invasion of Europe. Whites who practice ‘hate speech’- which is the term the elites use for ‘truth-telling’- will be hounded out of jobs and into prison. Much-needed money will be diverted from the indigenous population and showered on ungrateful and uncultured arrivistes. Business will be forced to accept unskilled labour to fill skilled positions, again at the expense of the white population. Politicians will reiterate that both North American Blacks and Maghrebi and Arabic Muslims provide a great deal of positive social capital when, of course, they do no such thing. For the dissident, this does not seem a winnable war.
There is, however, a further hurdle for the globalist elites to vault. Now, something is coming and the elites are well aware of it. Governments, contrary to much dissident opinion, are not stupid. They are much like the teams of erudite, intelligent, cultured and astute script-writers who come together to produce the latest piece of shit to emerge from Hollywood, culture-eater and destroyer of artistic worlds that it has become. The most amusing comments on weblogs are the ones that begin;
When will the government realise…
When will governments wake up…
Doesn’t the government know that…
Governments realise. They are awake. They know. They do not employ thousands of special advisers, wonks, PR consultants, advertising gurus and other reality-tweakers without knowing to a near-certainty how stands the zeitgeist. They form a global script-writing team producing a movie that, if you are white, you are not going to like very much. This granted, it is extremely difficult to see how both the USA and Europe will avoid what the Lügenpresse will term a civil war, but will in fact be a simple, unadorned war. This has to have formed part of their equations. It may even be argued that the war has already begun.
In Europe, ordinary citizens have already begun to push back against their government’s policies as physically manifested by waves of immigrants. Asylum centres are being burned. Ordinary people are beginning to fight back in the streets against provocation. Immigrants are being banned where not long ago they were welcomed with open arms. In the States, Black Lives Matter have so far encountered no such opposition, but it may be a mere matter of time. Blacks are still a relatively small minority in the USA, and they are kicking and kicking again at a rather large hornets’nest.
What will happen next, according to the Progressivist playbook, ought to be that first the police and eventually the army will be deployed, not against the Black and Muslim agititators, naturally, but against the white indigenous population pushed to breaking point. There is, for the Left, always an explanation and exoneration for Black and Muslim violence. This courtesy will not be extended to any white resistance. There is a slight problem for the elites in that, for example in Sweden, police officers are quitting at the rate of 20 a week, and some 80% are considering a career change. But, as Sir Oswald Mosley pointed out, there is no chance of a revolution in a country with a well-armed, loyal militia.
There is one another huge roll of the dice that the elites are praying will go their way. The economies of both the USA and, variously, Europe are now so mired in debt it is pointless to talk about their recovery. The West has to hope that it is possible to continue kicking the can down the road until the shock troops of Black Lives Matter and Muslims can attain defensible beach-heads. Then we will see what the next stage of the war against whiteness entails.

Thursday, 22 September 2016

ARROWS AND MAXIMS – A PASTIETZSCHE



Friedrich Nietzsche was famous for many things but, for those of us who love his style despite philosophical protestations to the effect that style is lost in translation, his use of the aphorism is both a delight and a surprisingly effective way of transmitting his ideas in these days of the short attention span and the advertisement.

Aside from being pithy and laden with meaning far greater than their brevity at first indicates, Nietzsche’s aphorism may well have been the result of his appalling myopia, a condition that meant both that he had to take frequent rests, work in partial gloom, and keep his eyes very close to the paper on which he was writing.

Influenced by French verbal miniaturist La Rochefoucauld, several of Nietzsche’s aphorisms are common currency:

He who fights with monsters should look to it that he does not become a monster…

That which does not kill me makes me stronger…

That which is done out of love takes place beyond good and evil.

It bears pointing out that only the last of those three is fully quoted here, and the second and perhaps most famous appears in modified in Ecce Homo. Why should we not draw one aphorism from inside another, like a Russian babushka doll containing a smaller version of itself? Nietzsche is famously non-systematic as a thinker, and being taken out of context would not have concerned him, as I suspect, as part of his whole project, existential, historical and philosophical, was to try to examine what context was or is, what, as Marcus Aurelius might ask, is its nature. This is what fascinated Derrida about the German. But I digress.

The best-known selection of Nietzsche's aphorisms are in The Twilight of the Idols, and known in English as Maxim and Arrows (Spruche und Pfeile). I have always enjoyed dipping into them and selecting one at random like a child pulling a little toy from a tombola. I recently came across a notepad – I am a compulsive keeper of notepads – in which I have obviously tried an homage to Nietzsche, always the philosopher of choice at Traumaville town hall.

Without further ado, therefore, and in the order they occur, here are my Pfeile und Spreche, my Arrows and Maxims.



Western governments are not incompetent. The West, in decline as it is, is what a certain type of competence looks like.

The Liberal-Left – who could not envisage not being loved – believe their children will love them for creating the world those children must live in. The truth may not be much to their liking.

Literature, music and art; these faithful, moist-eyed friends will link arms and lead you through a world of faithless, dry-eyed, illiterate, tin-eared Philistines.

Wisdom casts religious philosophy as the babbling of children, Enlightenment philosophy as the voice of strong men. But, during the darkest night, does the child whisper to the man to comfort and console?

For the modernes, a new and uncomfortable idea is not to be debated, but drowned out by the harpie’s scream.

The philosopher asks of the world; What will you allow me to see? The moderne says of the same world; Thus you will be allowed to be and must be.

There is no ‘we’, just an empathic and imaginative ‘I’.

The leaders have studied into the night, but their schoolroom is the looking-glass, their subject themselves.

Live like a student, love like a miser, drink like a stevedore. Then come down into the world to die.

For the man, compassionate love is a malady. For the woman, a surgical procedure.

The only army being out-generaled by Islam is one composed of Western Liberal Progressives.

The base salt to which the chemistry of human relations reduces is control.

If Islam is permitted to take a lead in the West, the West will become a class of pupils learning at the pace of the slowest child.

‘Commanding right and forbidding wrong’ (Koran). Why the Left adores Islam.

To accept the right of other countries to implement shariah is to admit there is no universal value system. But then, my friend, of what value are you yourself…

The strength of minority opinion is proven by the fact that the West is run by an opinionated minority.

The USA is Puritan Europe’s failed experiment.

The importation of Islam into Europe is being fast-tracked because the elites want Muslims to police the rest of us.

We can indeed learn from Islam; That the world is a fiercer place than Mummy told us it was.

The elites mean to re-primitivise the West as a corrective to the freedoms brought about by Liberalism and enhanced by technology.



Not bad, I think, for someone who doesn’t have tertiary syphilis. Well, not yet.

Wednesday, 21 September 2016

WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT IDENTITY: NEO-ROUSSEAUISM AND LIONEL SHRIVER



Several years ago, I wrote two small and modest pieces for the British magazine Standpoint. The magazine was a breath of fresh air for me when it first appeared. I had been a faithful reader of Punch until its demise, then turned to The Spectator and Private Eye until they became, respectively, boring and unfunny. Standpoint was unashamedly Right-wing without being immature. There was no Richard Littlejohn writing there. It dwelt lovingly on culture, my culture, not ridiculous forays into what I call the Hip Other, no pieces on rap, Piss Christ or contemporary LGBTQ dance, unless to jibe and belittle. Its writers were erudite, and treated the reader as though he was an adult rather than someone with an X-Box and a television habit. There was some political rough and tumble, too. I haven’t seen the magazine for some time, and I must check its progress. I hope it hasn’t chickened out.

For those of you who have no drying paint to observe, my two aquatically themed pieces are here and here.
Insignificant as they were, these micro-articles were sufficient to earn me an invitation to the Standpoint Christmas party five years ago, and through the surprisingly Dickensian snow of London Town I made my way to a comfortable bar.

It was a wonderful evening. I had a talk with Janet Daley. I was introduced, by Daniel Johnson, to Douglas Murray, one of the clearest writers on the Muslim threat you will ever read. But my abiding memory is of an hour-long conversation with Lionel Shriver.

Ms. Shriver is the author of several novels, including We Need to Talk About Kevin, which I had then recently read. She is elfin and boyish, with a charming US American accent and an intellect which prowls around her conversation without ever bursting into song and ruining things. I have to say I was very taken. We talked of literature, of which she is a practitioner, and philosophy, in which I hold a doctorate. I follow her career with interest.

Recently, Lionel – yes, I have decided we are on first-name terms, such is my pomposity – has been the target of a journalist at that redoubtable British newspaper The Guardian. Now, for my American reader, The Guardian is so Left-wing it makes The New York Times look like Der Stürmer. If I’m ever feeling particularly gloomy, I often race over to their homepage and just read the feature headlines. They are pure entertainment, even if I lack the emotional ballast to venture in and read. Every other piece is about how scary it is for some Pakistani woman to walk around London and see so many white faces, or how there simply aren’t enough black people on the small screen clustered around Benedict Cumberbatch at any given time, or how using menstrual blood as art is okey-dokey. I swear that when that newspaper hits the rocks, which it surely must, I will party like it’s 1999.

Enter Yassmin Abdel-Magied, which I have no desire so to do. Yassmin saw Lionel speak at the Brisbane Writer’s Festival. Her piece on the experience, the first line of which is 'I have never walked out of a speech', is here.
I note with amusement that this opening sentence is typical Guardian, which used to be called The Grauniad  by Private Eye, such was the parlous state of its sub-editing. I have been a sub-editor, and know several excellent purveyors of that orthographic trade. The whole point of the piece is that this cloth-head walked out of Lionel Shriver’s speech. The sentence should therefore read 'I had never walked out of a speech'. If you think that is being pernickety, you should fuck off and read The Guardian yourself. And don’t let me see you here again, or I will set the Traumaville hounds on you.

If you go to the piece and can get through it without experiencing gastric reflux, you will see two things. One is a link to another article by someone called Rowan Hisayo Buchanan – I suspect there would be no future for a writer called, say, Joan Smith, at The Guardian – which bears, like a cross, the title ‘Pain shape-shifts down the generations’. Does anyone outside of Islington in north London ever actually read this shit? The second thing you will note is a microcosmic vignette – I think I could do with a sober sub-editor myself – of what is wrong with today’s Pansy Left™ (Orwell).

You see, poor Yassmin has been traumatised, that new-found hobby of minorities and students, by what Ms. Shriver said. The crux of the speech was the legerdemain that is “cultural appropriation”. Now, the logical impasse that this phenomenon leads to is not hard to discover. If no one is allowed to appropriate the cultures of others by wearing their hats, eating their cuisine, or wearing their hair in stupid Trustafarian dreadlocks, then there is going to be some cultural untangling to do and, for example, some of the blessed minorities and magic Negroes worshipped at The Guardian are going to get a bit bored without being allowed access to all the good things wrought by white men. Electricity, for example. But that, you see, is the whole point. It is only Whites who culturally appropriate, and cultural appropriation is therefore a Bad Thing.

Lionel’s speech is an erudite whistle-stop tour of her area of expertise, literature, and an appraisal of where it might without cult. app., which is sure to be a degree course by now. But poor Yassmin wouldn’t have known that, having left after 20 minutes. Her personal trigger was the following from Ms. Shriver;

“Let’s start with a tempest-in-a-teacup at Bowdoin College in Brunswick, Maine. Earlier this year, two students, both members of student government, threw a tequila-themed birthday party for a friend. The hosts provided attendees with miniature sombreros, which—the horror— numerous partygoers wore.

When photos of the party circulated on social media, campus-wide outrage ensued. Administrators sent multiple emails to the “culprits” threatening an investigation into an ‘act of ethnic stereotyping.’ Partygoers were placed on ‘social probation’, while the two hosts were ejected from their dorm and later impeached. Bowdoin’s student newspaper decried the attendees’ lack of ‘basic empathy.’”

You will all be familiar by now with this kind of sandpit behaviour and neo-Rousseauianism. But is is special snowflake Yassmin’s trembly lipped response which is worth your time;

‘“Mama, I can’t sit here,” I said, the corners of my mouth dragging downwards. “I cannot legitimise this …”

My mother’s eyes bore into me, urging me to remain calm, to follow social convention. I shook my head, as if to shake off my lingering doubts.

As I stood up, my heart began to race. I could feel the eyes of the hundreds of audience members on my back: questioning, querying, judging.

I turned to face the crowd, lifted up my chin and walked down the main aisle, my pace deliberate. “Look back into the audience,” a friend had texted me moments earlier, “and let them see your face.”

The faces around me blurred. As my heels thudded against they grey plastic of the flooring, harmonising with the beat of the adrenaline pumping through my veins, my mind was blank save for one question.

“How is this happening?”’

Note the themes that recur every time something like this happens. The turning of a sulk into a triumphant personal drama, the bold defiance of the victim stranded far from her safe space, the evil white person who caused The Triggering, the idea that what an intelligent person has to say needs ‘legitimising’ by a doofus cum laude.

Yassmin’s piece can’t go where Lionel’s goes. She lacks the intelligence and has only a quiver full of emotivism with which to fight. Her piece goes on and on in this vein, and is the type of thing The Guardian excels in, being now the intelligentsia’s anti-White newspaper of record. Whether or not Yassmin had left for a refreshing pot of Sumatran nettle and lychee tea by the time Lionel got to the kicker is not recorded. Here is the upshot of the dread Sombrero Party;

‘The student government issued a “statement of solidarity” with “all the students who were injured and affected by the incident,” and demanded that administrators “create a safe space for those students who have been or feel specifically targeted.” The tequila party, the statement specified, was just the sort of occasion that “creates an environment where students of colour, particularly Latino, and especially Mexican, feel unsafe.” In sum, the party-favour hats constituted – wait for it – “cultural appropriation.”’

It is, of course, hilarious that Yassmin’s ‘writing’ is now seen as the Left version of discursive best practice, while Lionel’s is cursed as white privilege. I will leave you with a caveat Yassmin adds to the whole sordid affair. Lionel had said, in short, that being black, queer or disabled was a state of affairs, but not an identity. Yassmin makes sure that she too does not infringe on the new mysteria, those sacred spots within churches where only the priest may enter;

‘I can’t speak for the LGBTQI community, those who are neuro-different or people with disabilities, but that’s also the point. I don’t speak for them, and should allow for their voices and experiences to be heard and legitimised.’



.


Friday, 16 September 2016

FELIZ DIA: SOME THOUGHTS ON INDEPENDENCE DAY ON THE RICH COAST



Cause the darkness of this house has got the best of us
There's a darkness in this town that's got us too
But they can't touch me now
And you can't touch me now
They ain't gonna do to me
What I watched them do to you

Bruce Springsteen, Independence Day

¡Feliz día de la independencia! (Happy Independence Day!)


How nice to walk into town yesterday and see the red, white and blue of the national flag fluttering outside buildings, draped from the back of taxi cabs, and woven into the hair of little girls. Of course, I am not in my native country of England. That sort of thing is well on the way to being banned there. I am in Costa Rica, a country unashamed to be patriotic.

185 years ago, led by plucky Guatemala, Central America threw off the shackles of the Spanish conquistadores and gained its independence. I don’t imagine that 48% of the country stood around moaning about it, either. Now, Costa Rica has 4.5% annual growth in terms of GDP, while Spain is an economic basket case. Funny how things turn out.
There was a parade early in the morning. It is the rainy season here, and the rain usually starts at around lunchtime, so outdoor events revolve around that. I particularly like the parade music here. Teams of drummers are accompanied by young people playing the lyra - although I think it differs from the instrument Apollo gave to Orpheus and with which that most beautiful of musicians charmed even the beasts – and which is a sort of upright xylophone. The overall effect is both haunting and jaunty, an odd combination but very lovely. A young lady was happy for me to take a photo, and here is a lyra.

The Ticos (Costa Ricans) are unashamedly patriotic, exhibiting the natural and genuine love of country that stern-faced harridans across the EU are desperate to censor. Just witness Angela Merkel’s lemon-sucking face whenever she sees a display of the German flag. A common greeting here is pura vida, the pure or good life, and Ticos love their country. I am an immigrant, and careful to be respectful of the ways of the locals. Disappointingly, I find I am not classed as a gringo – you have to be from the USA to qualify – but merely an Inglés. The bushiness of my moustache and the general swarthiness I have always had, however, does mean that I am often taken for a Mexican, at least before I open my mouth. If I got a sombrero, a poncho and a bullet belt and tagged on to a mariachi band with my bass ukulele, no one would suspect a thing.
What is love of country? George Orwell and Peter Hitchens are both excellent writers when it comes to summing up England, but things are moving fast, away from the comfortable place the English used to inhabit, towards a harsh and onerous future in which Leftist Progressives will expunge any last trace of Englishness along with freedom of speech and fun of any sort. I have failed to trace the quote, but a good friend, both to me and this blog, once told me that J G Ballard said that, eventually, everywhere would look like a suburb of Bonn. While the sentiment is astute, I fear the geography is not. A lot of London looks like a suburb of Beirut now, and not just because of the demographics. My abiding memory of London is rubbish littering the streets. The Costa Rican town I am in, despite being third world, feels cared for and cherished. The pavements may be works in progress – there are no nauseating hipsters walking along texting and expecting you to walk round them, as in London – but they are free of trash.
I can’t honestly say I know Costa Rica. The town I am in is relatively prosperous. It would be like claiming to know England because you spent nine months in Tunbridge Wells, or you have got the measure of the USA because of your stay in New Hampton. But there are certain aspects of life here that I cannot fail to find attractive. The way fathers spend time with their children, who are themselves impeccable little angels and hardly ever prone to the fits and spasms of European and North American brats. The first thing I noticed at Frankfurt airport on my last journey back to Blighty was unruly fucking kids, their parents utterly incapable of caring less. I looked at one woman for a long time, my stare intended to convey the fact that many of us were irritated by the screaming antics of her bitch’s bastards. I got that look. The one that says; there is nothing you can do. These are not human beings but untouchables, gods. A girl at a party once asked me why I never had children. I gave my standard reply. I never needed them. Not never wanted. Never needed. The nippers here are also absolutely unafraid of adults, although I did see a notice in charming English at San José airport warning would-be predators off child sexual tourism. The incidence of rape is high here, too, although Europe is catching up nicely thanks to the good offices of Socialists who think a bit of rape is just acceptable collateral damage for destroying the White ethny. In England, children are taught at an early age that all strange men are rapist perverts. Here, little ones are always saying hello and wanting to cuddle my two hounds. It’s refreshing.
I have much work to do before I can become a resident here, but I will do my utmost to stay. You see, in the end, I have come to despise England. Roger Scruton calls hatred of one’s own country oikophobia, from the Greek. Online essayist Takuan Seiyo calls it mea culpism. Guillaume Faye coined the phrase – I believe – ethno-masochism. I never thought it would happen to me. But enough of this gloom; Happy Independence Day!
 


Thursday, 15 September 2016

SOMETHING IS ROTTEN IN THE FOURTH ESTATE: WHY YOU SHOULD STOP BUYING NEWSPAPERS




The Germans invented gunpowder – all credit to them! But they made up for it; they invented the press.

Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil


Lügenpresse

A German word translated as ‘lying press’


On New Year’s Day 2012 I made a New Year’s resolution, that popular and soon-broken ritual the English so enjoy. I resolved not to buy a newspaper for a full year. Now, approaching five years later, I have broken that resolution twice, both times as souvenirs of sporting events. The rest of the ‘paper I threw away on both occasions. Anything likely to be of interest to me will appear in one or other of the weblogs I frequent, even those that appear behind the paywall of the London Times, a paywall which does not appear to be making any money, incidentally.
It’s no industry secret that British newspapers are losing money. I don’t know, but I imagine that The Sun and The Daily Mail are still solvent and happily in the black. Maybe The Express too, now that it has taken over the job The Daily Mail had of providing opinion against the grain. But The Telegraph seems to have fired everyone except the tea-lady – sorry, tea-person – The Independent is floundering, and The Guardian only fended off its inevitable demise by relying on money from the sale of Autotrader. A wonderful moment in publishing, when a newspaper which preaches endlessly about the evils of carbon emission supports itself financially from the cash obtained by selling the print agora of petrol-heads everywhere.
Naturally, in this digital age, the newspaper barons realised that they must switch to the new medium and relocate their stall in a new marketplace. Apparently, this has been a staggering failure, not least because newspapers now – and I am still confining my enquiries to the UK, knowing nothing of the press in other Western countries – are not fearless enquirers speaking truth to power, they are the provisional wing of that very same power, courtiers and catamites, bought and paid for by the world’s big power brokers. But there are other reasons that the British press is having a hard time of it now that they have left the comfortable, oak-lined inns and taverns of Fleet Street and gone to slug it out in the spit-and-sawdust saloon bars of the internet.
I think this reduces not to the medium, Marshall McLuhan notwithstanding, but to the message, and the message coming from the mainstream media (MSM), is, as you might expect, economical with the truth. Everything is coming up roses in the rose garden, if you believe the probity of the press concerning themselves. But there is a new dissidence, and it is not coming from the MSM although it concerns the MSM itself. The MSM has contravened the first rule of both journalism and politics; don’t become the story. But this revelation has not come from within the hallowed confines of the village, but from the barbarians outside the gate. There is meta-media now, which there never was before the internet. I once saw a fantastic photograph of photographers at a press conference. There were dozens of them, a forest of enormous zoom lenses, all taking photographs of a politician whose ugly mug had already infested the front pages of the ‘papers far too often. There were dozens of them. The cost of all this is, incidentally, bundled up in the astronomical price you will pay in the UK for a newspaper now, particularly a Sunday edition, which more or less needs a small travel suitcase just to get it home from the shop or down the pub.
So what role does the MSM play that can help it survive? I worked in journalism, although strictly on the production side and primarily for lifestyle trash, for some years, and met many journalists at the sharp end. They were all white, incidentally, but most of them read The Guardian, an avowedly anti-White newspaper now. But they did all agree on one thing; we need the press. Citizen journalists, impassioned bloggers and political chat rooms were never going to go out and harvest the actual news. The non-indentured op-ed artists of the internet could only ever feed from a host body. Then that changed.
It did not change because of the internet in and of itself, but because of the shift in attention effected by unlicensed writers who could create their own audience without the grail of advertising which is what keeps all British print journalism alive. When I worked for one of the biggest media companies in Britain – I have sub-edited more crap than is fair for one lifetime – the journalists were, of course, high caste. But it was the ad sales boys and girls further up the tower who were the godlings of the whole enterprise, because if that money to promote crap doesn’t keep rolling in, there won’t be a next issue to put to bed. Bloggers don’t care about advertising. Some of them attract it, but they attract it because people read their writing, and advertising watches the audience figures like a heron watches fish.
The change was, curiously, spotted by one of the most malevolent human beings ever to tarnish the gilded emblem of journalism; Alastair Campbell. Campbell, for non-Brits, was Tony Blair’s media fixer. He was, by all accounts, a bully of man. An ex-alcoholic – the very worst type of alcoholic – Campbell was the man responsible for the so-called ‘sexed-up dossier’ which took the West to its pointless and disgusting war in Iraq. Now, he garners favour by whining about his alcoholism as was, and his mental illness, of which he thinks he is a victim. An awful lot of people, many of them celebrities, confound clinical depression with a bad hangover.
Campbell it was, however, who made the point that most journalism nowadays is op-ed. Now, I had always mistakenly believed that ‘op-ed’ stood for ‘opinionated editorial‘. It does not. It stands for ‘opposite the editorial page’. It is, in effect, opinion about opinion, meta-opinion. I think my version is better. But opinionated editorial is what has taken over from reporting. If there were still the fearless reporter sharp-elbowing his way into crime scenes – and the whole of the UK is now a crime scene and ought really to be taped off with that rather fetching wasp-liveried tape – has long gone. That’s how Rotherham happened, and a thousand other cover-ups effected by the sin of omission which is modern journalism. Oh, there are courageous journalists abroad. That vile human being Erdogan has just banged up a whole load of them. Iran, China, North Korea. British journalists wouldn’t be having any long lunches if they plied their trade in any of those happy-go-lucky holiday spots. No, there is syndicated event news now, mimeographed across the several British newspapers. Everything else, at least outside of the sport, motoring, property, celebrity, arts, money and fashion sections of the modern ‘paper, is what someone thinks about what has happened.
And this is where the internet triumphs. You see, the Leftist-liberal Progressive media in the UK – aka the media in the UK – has been hoist by its own petard. One of the shibboleths of the millennial generation now coming into journalism, such as it is, is that any one person’s opinion is just as valid as anyone else’s. The internet proves this, but not to the satisfaction of the modern journalists.
Journalists hate the internet. Anyone can reference anything. Anyone can gain access to facts. Worst of all, anyone can express their opinion in print without being a special, trained journalist. Weblogs are far more entertaining and better written than newspaper journalism, and it is starting to show. I once met a sub-editor at a magazine Christmas party. He had subbed Polly Toynbee's 'writing'. What was it like, I asked. He looked at me and said mildly, Crap. It was crap.
Stop buying newspapers. Just don't do it anymore. If enough people give up this pathetic habit, you will starve the beast. I hate that self-satisfied, smug look some people have when they are reading a newspaper, as if they are keeping up with events and the rest of us are not. The free 'papers are the worst. The London Evening Standard always makes you feel ripped off when you've read it. And it's free.
Come on, take the challenge. There are books, you know, and plenty of them. You will learn more of life from Dickens, Conrad or Shakespeare than you will from Giles Coren.