Thursday, 8 December 2016


You know how the game serves us. It has a definite social purpose. Nations are bankrupt, gone. No poverty, no sickness. Man has accomplished what he’d always craved. Corporate society was an inevitable destiny. The good life. A centuries’ old dream.

Rollerball (1975)

You’d better do as you’re told, Jonathan. That’s all I have to say.

Rollerball (1975)

In 1975 I went on a date to the cinema in the town in which I went to school. I went with a pretty Irish girl called Moira, taller than me and intent on getting as much kissing and petting in as possible during the time allowed. She chose the film we were to see, and she chose wrong.

Rollerball captured my attention from the opening sequence. Don’t watch the remake, which has been stuffed with now-obligatory minorities and favoured gender roles, but do see the original. There are black men in the original, yet it somehow doesn’t make the film reek of contemporary Hollywood identity politics.

The movie is an adaptation of a short story, Rollerball Murder, with the screenplay by the author William Harrison. James Caan plays the central character, Jonathan E, and I had forgotten that there is also a cameo for Sir Ralph Richardson, one of England’s finest actors.

The premise is simple. In the future – 2018, amusingly enough – there is no more war. There is only Rollerball. The game is violent and, for the era, high-tech. An oval, bevelled pitch, much like a truncated cycling velodrome, is used to propel a cannonball-like steel sphere which must be thrust into a magnetic goal. Motorcycles are used to give the roller-bladed offensive players momentum. Death is a regular occurrence. Jonathan E’s best friend, Moonpie, ends up in a coma.

In the opening game sequence, Jonathan E’s mighty Houston take on Madrid. Rollerball is a full-contact sport. Studded leather gloves are crunched into faces. Motorcycles are driven over prone bodies. Full drop-kicks to the face are deployed. A three-minute penalty might result from a particular act of savagery. Jonathan E is Houston captain, top-scorer and all-round Christiano Ronaldo without the full body waxing.

The impetus to the plot is that Jonathan E becomes bigger than the game itself, and thus writes himself out of the corporate script of the game’s overlords. They gradually alter the rules before arranging a final game in which there are no rules and no time limits, the obvious aim being to kill Jonathan. I won’t write a spoiler in case you haven’t see the movie, but there is no dialogue in the final few minutes, and the final scene, with the crowd chanting – complete with Truffautesque freeze-frame – is quite wonderful. The remake has got all the crappy rap-metal and racket you would expect. The Norman Jewison original begins with Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D Minor and was the first time I had heard Albinoni’s haunting Adagio in G Minor. Classical music in a film always speaks of low budget because classical music is free to use, and many movies have benefited from not having the latest crap ringing in the viewer’s ears but, instead, real, white music.

There is a brilliant scene in Rollerball  in which Jonathan E and his girlfriend discuss comfort versus freedom, and she says that ‘comfort is freedom’. Incidentally, the film was shot in England and Munich, and the scene looks to me very much as though it was shot in England’s beautiful New Forest.

Comfort is freedom. That could be the equation that dooms the West. Comfort actually breeds laziness and genetic retardation. Read The Bell Curve, and you will understand how a lack of comfort, the challenge of trying to bring ease to existence in cold climes, for example, is exactly what leads to cortical development, at least when extended over the universal time frame in which Darwinian evolution is played out. This is why the colder parts of the planet have seen the most technological innovation. The higher brain was forced to do more work, and thus developed at a greater rate and to a greater level.

Now, I’m always wary of symbolism. Just as Eastern philosophy was always too easy for hippies to like, so too symbolism gives Critical Studies students a big play-pen and toy-box with which to say this means that and that means this. That said, it is tempting to look at who today is becoming bigger than the game, who is our Jonathan E. There is a small genre of films whose protagonists outgrow the system which sustains them, and that growth becomes their hubris. Citizen Kane, Network, Apocalypse Now, Scarface; all these films feature figures hunted down by the system they tried to over-reach.

So if we were to look for our latter-day Jonathan E, we could do worse than look at Time magazine’s person of the year, Donald Trump. Certainly, the establishment has created a great game but, unlike Rollerball, it is malevolent while seeming benevolent.

Trump has already shown that he is bigger than the rigged game which was supposed to see Jeb Bush lose with dignity to Hillary Clinton. For this, the establishment is unlikely to forgive him. As Ann Coulter writes;

“On immigration, Trump will be furiously opposed by: Democrats, Republicans, the permanent bureaucracy, the Chamber of Commerce, George Soros, The Wall Street Journal — in fact, the entire media, except four webpages, six bloggers and five talk-radio hosts — and hundreds of taxpayer-funded immigrant grievance groups. And that’s just off the top of my head.”

Jonathan E begins to incur the wrath of the corporations when he tries ordering books only to find there aren’t really any left. A university in the USA – Virginia Tech, I think - just banned Huckleberry Finn and To Kill A Mockingbird over racist concerns. I know. To Kill A Mockingbird. The great anti-racism book. Is. Now. Racist. They will ban Uncle Tom’s Cabin soon because Harriet Beecher Stowe was white.

Then Jonathan starts asking questions about how corporate decisions are made. I see a lot of similarities with Trump, and I’m looking forward to his smashing his leather, studded glove into the heart of the Washington establishment before ramming home the steel ball into the goal represented by the hideous hit-mob Coulter has outlined above.

Rollerball is something of a modern parable. Don’t get bigger than the game, it says. Don’t ask questions, just play to the audience. It is the audience, in fact, that scares the corporations in the movie, their love of Jonathan. And, in what I promise is my last act of symbolism today, Jonathan E’s trusted right-hand man, Moonpie, is known as the old swooper, barrelling down the slope to kung-fu kick some hapless opponent. Trump’s help from the Alt-Right, perchance? From Breitbart? As mentioned, Moonpie ends up in a vegetative state. Watch out. Alt-Right outlets will be every bit as persecuted as Donald Trump. One of Trump's biggest challenges will be stopping Obama and Merkel's plan to take away the internet from those who don't use it in the approved way, people like me and you.

2017 will be an interesting year. The referee is now ready for the firing of the test ball…

Tuesday, 6 December 2016


Enjoy it while you can. It is later than you think.

A terrible signal.

Too weak to even recognise.

Talking Heads, The Overload

All of a sudden everything will stop and the magic will end.

Guillaume Faye, Convergence of Catastrophes

The Collapse. The Great Collapse. The Reckoning. The Downfall. All sounds a bit hokey and Hollywood, doesn’t it? What words do we have for what may very well be coming down the pike, as the north Americans say? We require something which would encapsulate the very real possibility of Guillaume Faye’s convergence of catastrophes. Would Faye lend us The Convergence, perhaps? The Great Convergence. I quite liked The Dysfunct for a while (my own, I think), but it came to seem like a dance song by Kraftwerk. The Ending? Oh, please. Next it will be The End of Days or The Day of Judgement. I’m happy to steal a title from David Byrne. The Overload, then.

Let us grant that it would be economic to begin with. In the same way that 9/11 was a plane crash in the technical sense, so too the coming overload might be described as a financial crisis, in the technical sense. The financial overlord of the EU has just intimated that he would like EU control of all member state budgets, so as to be able to funnel more money into the black hole of EU finances. This is an institution which famously has not had its accounts signed off by a bona fide international accountancy watchdog for the better part of two decades. What does this tell us? If the EU were a homeowner, the bailiffs would be inserting a steel-capped toe between the door and the jamb. It is all a matter of what you choose to believe, because we are famously ‘post-truth’ now, but I believe the overload is coming and, to paraphrase Faye, the magic will soon be gone. We are certainly no longer in Kansas, Toto.

Economists are astrologers without even the basic tools of astronomy. Even disagreements among them may be yet another example of the illusory opposition between a right and a left which nowhere exist but have become titular, house badges in a poorly run school. But what even the most weasel-like, agenda-driven Leftist, Keynesian economic guru cannot deny is that we are in the middle of the largest and riskiest fiscal experiment in the history of civilisation, if that is what we are still entitled to call ourselves.

National debt is by no means a new phenomenon. But it is always presented in such a way as to see as though it were an advantage to have it. I wrote a review of Dr. Lee Rotherham’s A Fate Worse Than Debt  here at The Commentator magazine, and had this to say;

What A Fate Worse than Debt reminds us is who our enemies are. Using the model of the banking system and its recent collapse as a starting-point, the book reveals that although bankers acted recklessly and in tune with their hyper-acquisitive natures, the fault line runs through politics and its corrupt modern practices. The real cause of the coming financial catastrophe is the political class. Tweedledum will take fiscal credit today for electoral advantage even if it means ruin tomorrow when, hopefully, Tweedledee will be in charge.”

Debt is staggering, both in Europe and the United States of America. I once spoke to a banker and asked him whether, effectively, it was possible to keep kicking the can down the road with debt, whether this self-supporting and counter-intuitive house of cards could keep standing as the wind got up. Absolutely, he said. He was also an aficionado of cocaine, so make of that what you will.

There is a curious feel to the West just now. With a ground note of decline and fall, hints of economic and social collapse, and overtones of Weimar, we watch the press and MSM desperately trying to divert our attention to the tawdry panem et circenses on offer in order that we avert our eyes from the twilight of the idle, the coming Götterdamerung. What forms might this potential Ragnarok take?

Firstly, social collapse. It is a strange month that passes without images of Molotov-cocktail and stone-throwing citizens of one or another disaffected country adorning print and screen. The BBC went predictably over the top about the so-called Arab Spring, and then what emerged from the mess was just the usual Islamic chaos and incoherence. Like all muddle-headed liberal-Leftists, the BBC will continue to cheer on the Muslim Brotherhood and their allies, bothered only slightly by the illiberal, anti-gay, anti-women, anti-freedom, nihilistic, death-cult beliefs of these de-evolutionists. For the UK's ‘state broadcaster’ - a sort of Pravda in Prada – cognitive dissonance means never having to say you’re sorry.

And the Meditteranean countries haven’t even really begun throwing rocks yet. Now that the Greeks, Spanish, Portugese and Italians – and soon the French – are beginning to realise that the years they have spent with their hairy arses in a bucket of public-sector cream will have to be paid for, they will not go gently into that good night. The Italian referendum has just ended the career of one of the more egregiously technocratic EU political appointments and, although Austria has doomed itself to Islamic invasion and a Green lunatic at the helm, we can expect more domino-tumbling in the months and years to come.

Elsewhere – in the UK, Germany and Sweden, for example – the deliberate importation of unassimilable populations into the heart of the yeomanry will soon have the effect the political elites desire; inter-ethnic and inter-cultural rioting. This will then enable them to ratchet up their totalitarian fantasies and turn them into reality. We told you that you were racist, and we were right, which is why you are now being watched. And still water-cannon and sound-cannon are being stockpiled. The UK government will never use chemical weapons on its populace, but it will use lawfare.

But if the ATMs dry up, as they have in India recently, there will be no pay for the police. What then? Successive governments have already forced police morale to a suicidally low point. Police in Sweden are leaving in droves. Some German police officers have dared to speak out about the deteriorating situation there. French police officers and support services have been on strike regularly, although that is not something you will know if you confine your news harvest to the BBC or CNN. Fake news is not only what is put out, it is also what is withheld.

In normal circumstances, I stifle a yawn in the presence of prophets of doom. Now I find I have become one. The overload is, I believe, very real, and it is coming soon to a society and economy near you.

Monday, 5 December 2016


In Patrick Keiller’s beautiful film Robinson in Space, a pub sign is shown hanging outside a hostelry in Gravesend, England. The film, a haunting sentimental journey intruded on by the ogres of modernity, shows the creaking, old-fashioned swinging sign outside a pub called The World’s End. The painting shows a Crusader ship, flying the famous red cross epaté, falling off the edge of the world. A Muslim cleric once demanded the withdrawal of the Hollywood film Gravity due to its depiction of the world as round, contrary to the cosmology (such as it is) of the Koran. While this may have been a simple exercise in promoting brand awareness – something else the Islamic world has adapted from the West as part of its ongoing cultural appropriation – it still reminds us that we may well be, all of us, drinking in The World’s End. The finely bedecked Crusader ship carrying the West’s intellectual and social cargo is indeed tipping over the edge of an unexpectedly truncated flat planet.

The planet is called tolerance, and its length and breadth are running out as the ship teeters on the brink. We do not tolerate Islam, of course. Our masters have informed us that we will accept Islam or face the consequences of social ostracism, loss of employment and even jail. Forced acceptance is not tolerance. The elites, however, are not stupid, and they are well aware that Islam is not a particularly pleasant experience for those on whom it is foisted. So it is that we have London’s Muslim mayor, Sadiq Khan, telling us that we would just have to get used to Islamic terrorism. He did this on a state-funded jolly to the USA to shill for Hillary Clinton, whose plan to import tens of thousands of Muslims has now been foiled.

And yet, at the same time, Muslims have been rather quiet of late, at least in terms of the terrorist spectaculars the Western elites’ increasingly authoritarian provisional wing - aka the police - constantly tell us to expect, despite their genius in averting these disasters. To be sure, Muslims are still sexually assaulting Europe’s women, just as American blacks are still handing out punishment beatings to ordinary white Americans, but there has been a distinct lack of bombings and mass shootings.

As I mentioned a few postcards ago, I find it hard to believe that Muslims could not strike when and where they want to strike. The police are far more interested in Tommy Robinson, Twitter and outreach than they are with shaking down potential killers.

As I mentioned, I am confident that I could organise an incident with a high kill rate, were I so minded. So for radical Muslims, embedded as they are within labyrinthine no-go areas – which the police deny exist – it should be a cake-walk. So why the distinct lack of Bataclans and Nices and even 9/11s? I have said before that I think the command structure for European Islamic terrorism goes right to the top of the elites. It is they who are using Islam to destabilise the West prior to the inevitable conflicts – long overdue – and resultant authoritarian clampdowns. There is no need to push things, and with a spate of recent elections and referenda, it might be expedient to keep it all quiet on the Western front.

It may be, of course, that Muslims themselves have accepted that they can play the long game of demographic replacement and creeping cultural Islamisation, in cahoots with political leaders as they are. They are metaphysically equipped not to require the Reconquista within their own lifetimes, as opposed to their godless hosts who must have everything now, for there is nothing hereafter. The treatment of dissident kufr compared with the treatment of Muslim criminality can leave no one in any doubt that Islamisation, at least sufficient to destabilise and allow for anarcho-tyranny – the constitution of Traumaville – is the game plan of the elites. It is increasingly rare to see refugees jailed for rape. Compare this with the Scottish couple jailed for 12 and 8 months for festooning a mosque with bacon. These sentences send out a very clear cultural semaphore.

The disparate voices of the political Right see many hidden reasons why the EU and America are treating Muslims as a protected species to be imported quicker than oranges. Primarily, they see a pre-fabricated voting bloc for the nominal Left. Islam seems to suit the Left. The ummah already marches in ideological lockstep, its Sunni-Shia sectarian differences notwithstanding. It is easily bribed with a range of social benefits and Americanised consumer baubles. It is easily bought off with revanchist illusions, as mosques replace churches on a politico-religious Monopoly board. There is only one problem with this argument; politically speaking, there is only the Left. If they are of the nominal Right, ‘opposition’ parties across the West are just as busy cosying up to the many-headed Islamic outreach groups as the incumbents. In terms of pragmatic politics, we are all Leftists now, and supposedly warring parties vie with one another over Muslims in the same way divorced parents try to spend more on the kids when it’s their weekend. Anyone who voted for Cameron in part-concern over the Islamisation of the UK must be busy looking up the dictionary definition of ‘Conservative’.

What of Muslims considered simply as a component of immigration? We are told ad nauseam by our governing class – who are, after all, the experts – that immigration is a Good Thing. But are Muslim immigrants considered separately a benefit? Benefit seems to be an apt word here, but not quite in its positive sense. A cursory glance over the internet suggests that Muslims cost the UK more than they produce – and that’s without policing and security costs – whereas Eastern Europeans produce or provide more value than they take from the state. Of course, some of that money may find its way back to Gdansk and Sofia, but there are indications that we should be focussing on importing Catholic workers far more than Islamic ones.

Unless Trump can single-handedly save the USA, and the ‘populism’ so hated by the elites and their catamites in the media, academia and the public sectors can steer Europe’s course astern, the ship of fools we are on is heading for the edge of the world. And our problem is just what it was for the ancients. We don’t know what’s out there.

Sunday, 4 December 2016


The smiling woman has no intrinsic worth

After almost four decades of work, I have come away from the experience with what I believe is the answer as to why the West is apparently in a death spiral; management. Not management per se, management in and of itself. Management is necessary, to a certain degree and after a certain fashion. My two favourite managers were both middle-aged women, one in NHS Information, and for whom I later worked briefly as a medical librarian, and the other in the large sub-editing department of a lifestyle magazine when I drifted into production journalism. They both succeeded and inspired their staff by what you might call an unwillingness to impede. They simply assessed each staff member’s capabilities – in a refreshingly non-formal way, and encouraged them to make use of those abilities for the team and the end product. But this is far from being standard management practice, as we shall see.

I have worked for the NHS in four different capacities, and it was one of these positions that first gave me the notion that it was a certain management style that was to blame for the fact that, as we are constantly being told by the guardians of Traumaville, this venerable institution is on the brink of collapse. While we are on the subject, a worthwhile task for a real journalist would be to expose the scandal of NHS diversity officers, but don’t expect the Left-wing Lügenpresse to be doing that any time soon. But I digress.

In 1990 I was faced with a quandary. Should I issue orders to begin the ground war in the Gulf or not? Just kidding. I was approaching the end of my funding to complete my Ph.D., and needed a job for a year, but not really any longer than that. One evening, in a bar at the UK's second largest hospital, I fell into conversation with a gentleman faced with a similar problem but from the other perspective.

The hospital, like all hospitals, had to have a constant supply of sterile supplies. As you are doubtless aware, you can’t wipe off a butter-knife and use it to whip out an appendix. From the needles used to sew up flesh wounds to the full silver tracheotomy pack, from the chiropodist’s nail-brush to super-sterile toilet bowls for HIV sufferers, everything used invasively or around an open-wounded or immune-compromised person cannot have a speck of anything on it.

The man needed a go-between both to order at a ward level and liaise with the Central Sterile Supplies Department at another hospital a few miles away. Once a system was in place, the job would just require a flunky who could unload a lorry and distribute boxes to wards and departments without getting a nosebleed. As mentioned, the man estimated that it would take about a year. Providence.

Day one, and I rolled in early and full of enthusiasm. I had carte blanche – or I thought then that I had - to establish a system to ensure the efficiency improved from the 45% mark at which I took over. By the time I left, a year later, it was 98% efficient, and management undoubtedly took the credit for this when I was no longer around to tell the truth. In fact, I succeeded despite management, not because of management.

I had a simple plan for the first day. I would visit every ward and unit and see whether there were any common problems I could prioritise. I didn’t have to wait long. By coincidence, I began my round in the Neo-Natal Unit and ended it in the Geriatric Ward. It felt like travelling through the entire life cycle. What the first day told me was that ward sisters and nurses had one common problem; the basic dressing pack.

The basic dressing pack is what it says it is. If you have ever gone to an A&E Department (ER in the States) with a bad cut or other wound, they will have used a basic dressing pack on you. It contained, then, needles, thread, absorbent pads, dressing, disinfectant and two balls of cotton wool. It was the latter that caused the problem.

Cotton wool is, as you know, made up of thousands of tiny strands of cotton, difficult to see and liable to separate. Cotton wool therefore has a tendency to ‘linting’ or leaving strands of itself behind which may not be easily visible. On the skin that isn’t a problem, but in an open wound which is then sutured, it will rot and can cause septicaemia. The sisters would have preferred Medigauze, which is not susceptible to linting.

These were pre-internet times, but I sat down with medical supplies catalogues and managed to find a basic dressing pack, with Medigauze, for less than the price of the current supplier. I wasted no time in cancelling the standing order and setting up a new one. Day one, and a palpable success. I didn’t have to wait long for the call.

These were also pre-mobile phone days, and the little pager I wore went off, displaying an internal number. I called it and found myself speaking to a man with one of those managerial titles you forget almost immediately because it doesn’t really mean anything. Could I come and see him?

After getting used to seeing nurses huddled in broom-cupboard-sized rooms as they handed over shifts, I was surprised to find this manager sitting regally in a spacious, sunlit, oak-lined office which could have doubled as a squash court. Our interview began, and I had the first of many lessons in the myth of management.

Apparently, I had changed the dressing pack supplier, he said smiling. Indeed I have, I said, producing the amended figures and projected annual saving. He gave me that look of simulated patience I have some to despise, the look they all give in the face of unscripted initiative. Was I aware, he asked, that I was supposed to consult the user group before making this type of change? Ha! I had him. I shot back that I had already consulted the user group, naively assuming that a group of people using the item in question was a user group. It was not. He meant the User Group, comprised as it was of more managers and cyphers who never came into contact with sick or injured people, but earned a good deal more than those who did. Right, I said. I’ll give them a call. I was then informed that a proposal would have to be put to the meeting of the User Group. The next was scheduled for a month hence.

My order remained unchanged on this occasion. The man who had hired me was senior to this buffoon in his giant office, and over-ruled him. But this was just the beginning of my many, many fights with senior management throughout a number of industries and capacities. I have learned that management exists largely to impede initiative, to take part in time-wasting exercises often disguised as ‘training’, to force those below them to duplicate their work needlessly in the writing of reports, to provide mis- dis- and non-information to those trying to work ‘below’ them, and otherwise to justify their existence and generous salary and pension by creating work for others to do. This toxic compound is particularly egregious in the public sector, but can also be found in the private sector, as we shall see when I get to property management, a breathtaking scam almost entirely supported by useless layers of incompetent and irrelevant management. This is the first in an occasional series to criticism of management. I hope it will help those unfortunate enough to have to put up with and work under this pestilence.

Finally, I’ll look at how corporate and public sector management is a microcosm of government, and how deliberate mismanagement operates at both levels and is entirely intentional.

In the meantime, should you be unfortunate to work under a line manager, team leader or other dim-witted appellation, do resist the impulse to kill them. I only just succeeded.

Saturday, 3 December 2016


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

I well remember May 2nd, 1997. I remember walking across London Bridge with tears in my eyes. I remember having the – rather witty, I felt – thought that ‘I did not know debt had undone so many’ as I saw the passing faces of the crushed Londoners walking by me. It’s a reference to T S Eliot, as you may or may not know. But things were about to change. I knew this in my almost bursting heart.

Tony Blair’s Labour Party had been elected to government, you see, crushing the ‘Conservatives’ – they were and are no such thing – so convincingly that Blair himself had been warning his own party against what he called ‘triumphalism’ in the days leading up to this historic electoral triumph. I knew in my heart, as I crossed the famous bridge that day, that things were going to change. And I was right. They did change.

Blair beat John Major, the stuffed shirt who had been craned into place once even the notoriously dim Tory Party realized that Margaret Thatcher’s brand – for this is what politicians are – had become too toxic. Major is a curious creature. Apparently as home-spun a Tory as you could want, he fascinates me for two phrases, or soundbites, as we must now call them in these thick and dim-witted times.

Twenty years ago, Major described an Englishman thus;

Step on my foot and I will apologise. Step on my foot twice and I will apologise. Step on my foot a third time and I will knock you down.

Those were the days, my friend. Two decades later, Major could be found describing the dangers of referenda as allowing ‘the tyranny of the majority’. Democracy, the greatest white invention among myriad competitors, has become ‘the tyranny of the majority’. How times change.

But what of the man Peter Hitchens deftly calls ‘the Blair creature’? Anyone who has read the seminal book by Peter Oborne, The Triumph of the Political Class, will know what a repulsive human being he is, and how equally disgusting and venal is his repulsive wife. Oborne has never been sued for that book and, given that Blair is a lawyer, that means Oborne is impeccably correct.

But being a shit in politics is like lacking a foreskin in a synagogue. It’s not really news. What of Blair now? He knows he can’t really return to front-line politics. The British people may be politically illiterate – as was I on that teary day in 1997 – but they know a cunt when they see one. But like his soulmate George Soros, Blair has come to realise that the puppeteer has more influence over events than the puppet.

Blair, who recently received £220,000 for a twenty-minute speech, has just gifted a very great deal of money for a new ‘institute’. If you see the word ‘institute’, incidentally, reach for your revolver. Blair claims that his institute is not a platform for a political return, but that it will offer ‘thought leadership’. And I’m sure that is what he desires.

I always admired Blair’s slippery use of the English language. Politicians today often use the phrase ‘what I would say’. This is a Blairite linguistic construction, and its subtle cunning lies in the fact that it is a conditional. What it implies is unsaid. For example, ‘What I would say, but won’t.’ Or, ‘What I would say, but would not mean’. It shows the slippery tactics of the lawyer. Blair also famously claimed that his priority as Prime Minister would be ‘Education, education, education’. And so it was. He did not lie. It’s just that, like my own naïve self on that walk across London Bridge, people assumed he meant that education would be the benefactor of a Labour government. Instead, although most children will not now know their times tables – so fuddy-duddy and conservative, don’t you know – they will know that racism - meaning white criticism of non-whites – is the worst of all possible evils.

And so when Blair says of his new enterprise – and it will make him money despite being theoretically non-profit – that “I care about my country and the world my children and grandchildren will grow up in; and want to play at least a small part in contributing to the debate about the future of both,” he means it.

Again, typical Blair. He tells no lies. His children and grandchildren will grow up in a world of privilege and material comfort, far removed from the rotting playground he helped to create. Of course he cares about that. That is why he has amassed a blush-making amount of money to protect his spawn.  And he does want to contribute to the debate on, say, whether or not ordinary white people want their lives infected by blacks and Muslims. He wants to contribute by closing that debate down. Here is Blair on politics, in the context of his new toy;

“This new populism may differ in some respects between left and right — the left anti-business, the right anti-immigrant — but in others, what is remarkable is the convergence between them, especially around isolationism and protectionism, in what is an essentially closed-minded approach to globalisation and its benefits and to international engagement.”

This is pure sophistry, and Blair well knows that. Western whites are not anti-immigration. We are anti-Muslim and deleterious black immigration. We built this, and we do not want the gene pool dirtied.

White civilisation is about to kick back, and that is what spurs Blair and his Bilderberg and Davos cronies to take action. Blair’s new institute is, apparently, making an enemy of populism. Very well. Bring it on. We will not give up the fight in the way that Blair’s baby boomer generation did. Along with the Western elites and their financial enablers such as Soros, Blair would like to see the death of the white man. But we are going to prove hard to kill.

Friday, 2 December 2016


The French philosopher René Descartes was a worried man. His concern was that his memory resembled a sheet of paper which was constantly being written over with his experiences, with facts and events. Realising that it is in the nature of paper eventually to become filled with writing, he avoided wherever possible being told extraneous facts for fear that insufficient room would remain in his mind for things of importance to this polymath. Thus, he hoped to avoid the fate of Homer. Homer Simpson, that is. The yellow father of three noted the same phenomenon, cheerfully asking of wife Marge whether she remembered ‘that time I learnt how to make tequila and forgot how to drive’.

With Cartesian concern on my mind (as it were), I now refuse to use Google to retrieve a half-remembered fact. I am too likely to be distracted and, in addition, I wish to keep my memory as supple as is possible for a middle-aged man, and not reliant on modern prosthetics. So it is that I can remember only the sketchiest detail of a BBC Radio 4 Today programme interview which took place some years ago.

One of Today’s presenters was talking to a religious spokesman of undoubtedly dusky hue who had been caught saying something culturally - or rather multiculturally - contentious in a conversation he erroneously believed had gone unrecorded. His repeated defence was the (post-) modern default excuse; his words had been taken out of context. As the interview progressed – very respectfully, as is the way when white BBC staff talk to coloured people not white conservatives - it became clear that the unfortunate man believed that ‘taken out of context’ was equivalent to ‘repeated without my permission’. His confusion was increasingly apparent to the listener and to the interviewer, who declined to point out the error, fearing perhaps for community relations. The loose-tongued interviewee – a religious man, as noted – and his fear of decontextualisation, bring us to another philosopher, himself the son of a religious man.

In 1888, shortly before his complete mental collapse, Lutheran pastor’s son Friedrich Nietzsche wrote a book criticising Christianity, and by extension all religion. The short work was not published until 1895, by which time Nietzsche had been insane for six years, but it would go on to become something akin to the ‘dynamite’ Nietzsche believed and wished his work to be. Nietzsche, for demonstrable reasons, is a writer often quoted out of context, but this book is more cohesive than his others, with their intentional lack of systematising, and has much to say to the West of today, embroiled as it is in a problem which could be described as religious. The book was Der Antikrist.

Like much of Nietzsche, The Antichrist (or The Antichristian; the German signifies both) is worth reading through quickly and returning to at leisure. Familiar Nietzschean themes are present and correct: The Christian as homme de ressentiment; Christianity as the religion of pity (which Nietzsche despised); the Church’s enervation both of pragmatic Rome and of a culturally vibrant Europe. Nietzsche also targets the psychology of Christianity as morbid, with ‘sombre and disquieting ideas… in the foreground.’ Men of the Christian kind, he writes, ‘have a vital interest in making mankind sick.’ Religion in itself, he writes, is the enemy of life and thought; ‘Theological blood is the ruin of philosophy.’

Nowadays, of course, books critical of religion per se tend to avoid one religion in particular. Richard Dawkins’ The God Delusion is a good example. Indeed, Nietzsche has more to say about Buddhism (of which he broadly approves) than Islam, but the few mentions of ‘Mohammedans’ in The Antichrist repay inspection, even if read out of context.

Nietzsche’s work is easy to take out of context because, with the aphoristic style of much of his work, there is often no context. Look at the booklet of ‘Nietzsche’s sayings’ that Hitler had issued to his frontline troops. Nietzsche’s criticisms of the Teutonic ‘blond beast’ and his ridicule of the ‘beerish’ Germans were not included.

The aphorism is an art form; think of the miniaturism of La Rochefoucauld, Blake or Montaigne. There is something of the East about the form. But Nietzsche’s aphorisms were not, or not only, a stylistic nicety. The appalling myopia the philosopher suffered (along with a range of digestive disorders) forced him to write with his nose practically touching the paper. With every line he wrote threatening to bring on crippling migraine, much of his writing is correspondingly gnomic, pithy, aimed to inflict its wound locally. Even given this aphoristic style, however, it is still possible to quote Nietzsche out of context. Most people recognise ‘that which does not kill me makes me stronger’, from The Twilight of the Idols (and revisited in Ecce Homo), but not necessarily its parenthesised coda; ‘from the military school of life’.

In The Antichrist, Nietzsche finds in Islam an ally in his destruction of Christianity, which he blames for destroying Moorish culture. Continuing his familiar mantra of disgust with Christian leaders, Nietzsche writes of them that;

“Nature neglected – perhaps forgot – to give them even the most modest endowment of respectable, of upright, of cleanly instincts… Between ourselves, they are not even men… If Islam despises Christianity, it has a thousandfold right to do so: Islam at least assumes that it is dealing with men… (Ellipses in original; Italics added).

Nietzsche often described his writing as ‘fish hooks’ and here he has landed, as we shall see, a monster.

Here in the West, liberal, progressivist, and often feminist cheerleaders for Islam conveniently forget that it is a religion which does not exactly show the male character in its best light when it comes to the supposedly enlightened West, while at the same time the Koran extols what were, at one time, considered to be the manly virtues of strength, courage and ruthlessness. Now, the supposed advances in male and female parity of opportunity made in the West are not exactly all the rage in Arabic countries although, when it suits them, feminists will defend the cultural rights of institutionalised misogyny against perceived ethnocentricism. But what of those male traits which, while not necessarily a feminist’s cup of tea, are now gaining ground – literally, in the case of Islamic State - in the real world? Islam at least assumes that it is dealing with men…

Bravery, for example, is traditionally viewed as a manly virtue, its opposite as unmanly. It is also a jihadist trait. This is a conundrum Socrates would have enjoyed. Mark Steyn criticises George W. Bush for describing the 9/11 attacks as ‘cowardly’. As Steyn notes, standing in a cockpit with your chest bared while the plane you are in screams into a building may be indicative of many things, but cowardice is not one of them. A touch of realism concerning Islam would be of much use to the modern social justice warrior. Defend Islam, if you will, but be aware that whatever concerns the modern jihadi has, stereotypical gender pronouns and transsexual toilets are unlikely to figure prominently. In a feminised and emasculated Europe, our leaders’ declamations of jihadist acts are sounding increasingly fey.

Take ex-UK Prime Minister David Cameron’s appraisal of the killers of aid worker David Haines; “They are not Muslims, they are monsters”. Nietzsche, famously, has advice for he who would fight monsters; to beware that he does not himself become a monster. But by putting that aphorism in context by completing it, we may glimpse the utter vacuity of the Western, neutered response both to ISIS and to Islam; If you gaze too long into the abyss, the abyss also gazes into you. The West’s response to ISIS – or whatever acronym their brand people and our media have come up with this week – has truly been abysmal.

If we take The Antichrist as representative of Nietzsche’s singular moral system, it is difficult to imagine a more Nietzschean religion than Islam, at least as practised by the dedicated butchers of Islamic State. If the principles of cultural relativism are rigorously applied, we can’t say that the desert decapitators are bad men. They have simply exercised their cultural prerogative and, with Milton’s Satan, declaimed ‘Evil be thou my good’. Nietzsche’s view of the good life in The Antichrist is unequivocal;

“What is good? Whatever augments the feeling of power, the will to power, power itself.”

Nietzsche’s will to power is much misunderstood, usually by cultural pundits who have read no Schopenhauer, but even in its comedic, Marvel-comic version, the ‘superman’ (Übermensch is more like ‘overman’ in English) is not a title we would associate with the likes of Mr. Cameron and his political gauleiter class. To a new generation of apprentice jihadists, however, ISIS more than fits the bill. It is said that Mafia gangsters in Italy are adopting the look of jihadists. Not the religion, you understand, but that most modern preoccupation, the image.

Television helps, of course, and by extension YouTube and the other associated media. Iconic small-screen prestige is yet another Western habit Islamists have adopted, along with training shoes, rap music, and the ability to fly planes into skyscrapers. Perhaps they have put into context Andy Warhol’s famous assertion that ‘in the future everyone will be famous for 15 minutes’ by supplementing it with Warhol’s later pronouncement – in A to B and Back Again – that ‘in 15 minutes, everyone will be famous’.

The family of one ISIS hostage paraded on TV screens in a gruesome version of reality TV asked, in an appeal, that their relative be treated as a man of peace. Unfortunately, their wish was not granted. Islamic State are not men of peace. That is the whole point of their existence. They know, however, how to deal with those who are. Much has been made of Osama bin Laden’s own aphoristic pronouncement that when people see a strong horse and a weak horse they will prefer the strong horse. Although a witless race-track platitude is hardly oratory, the late Mr bin Laden had a point. And for Islamists, just as for Nietzsche, history is about winners and losers, and about wars and warriors.

There is always a tiresome laziness about talk of writers ‘coming back into vogue’ but, with Nietzsche, his relevance was never ours to decide, was never an airport bookstore lifestyle choice. The myopic German, with his military bearing, his fake Polish lineage, and his impeccable manners, is a Cassandra for our crippled epoch. Islamic State assume the West knows it is dealing with men. The West is not sure what that means any more. When we view an ISIS video, we are forced, for context, to recall the title of Nietzsche’s slim volume of autobiography; Ecce Homo. Behold the man.

The West is at war; that is our context. Nietzsche may have had little to say explicitly about Islam, but implicitly he tells us much about this cultish, mannish ideology. From Human, All Too Human:

For the time being, we know of no other means to imbue exhausted peoples, as strongly and surely as every great war does, with that raw energy of the battleground, that deep impersonal hatred, that murderous cold-bloodedness with a good conscience, that communal, organised ardour in destroying the enemy, that proud indifference to great losses, to one’s own existence and to that of one’s friends, that muted, earthquake-like convulsion of the soul.”

Wednesday, 30 November 2016


God knows I’m good.
David Bowie, track from Space Oddity

Some years ago, starved of the company of women and forgetful of the potential and possibly deleterious consequences of acting on that hunger, I took to the online dating sites. I had a few adventures, met some nice women and some horrors, and generally learned one of the lessons of the modern world; virtue signalling. Psychologists call it the ‘self-serving bias’, and it is amazing how much human utterance reduces to the formula; I am good. It’s like Freud’s primal sentence passed through the meat grinder of the 60s Me generation. Now that virtue signalling has become best practice for the Pansy Left, however – what we might call the Be Like Me or Else generation – it is worth examining the anatomy of virtue signalling.
One of the ladies advertising herself on one of the sites had the usual list of her virtues. It was the bog-standard inventory of her goodness and kindness, but it was the very first auto-description that caught my eye. Gentle reader, this beazel described herself, before all other attributes as;
That’s right. The first thing this young lady would have you know about herself is that she reads the chattering classes’ anti-White newspaper of choice. She was white, although I have had a few black girlfriends. See what I did there? Virtue signalling. I was telling you I’m not a racist. I didn’t get in touch. She would have been unlikely to harmonise in love’s sweet melody with a cove who has Mein Kampf on his Kindle.
It is to speak, then, of virtue signalling that I have gathered you here today and, without further fanfare, we will examine some of the necessities for the successful virtue signaller.
Be Left wing. Shouldn’t really have to tell you this, but this is a beginner’s guide and there are still some of you who seem to believe that anyone who has a grudging respect for Nigel Farage, or thinks black chaps can be a bit surly sometimes, or likes to sneak a peek at Peter Hitchens’s column in The Mail on Sunday can be an acceptable human being and not literally Hitler. Don’t fall at the first!
Know your enemy! Take care out there, signallers! Don’t just signal away without checking your target. You might think you hate homophobia, but what if it’s black men doing the queer-hating? You see? Getting ethnocentric is a schoolperson error. Nothing is bad in and of itself. It depends entirely on the colour or religion of the person doing it. Black men on death row in Texas? Racism, pure and simple. Blacks playing the knockout game in Detroit? Slavery! Your enemy is white, heterosexual men, signallers! Tattoo that on your arm. And remember, virtue signallers; white men only! White women get a pass because they were busy being oppressed when white men built the fascist state we are trapped in. So white women, even straight ones, are not the enemy. Unless they’re Tory scum.
Wear a lot of badges and T-shirts. Nothing says you are on the right side of history quite like spelling it out at the bus stop every morning on the way to that job of yours. Colour your hair and have facial piercings if possible, although some fascists employers might try to oppress you for this. But the hair and piercings force people to look at you, and this leads them on to read your I am the 99% shirt.  But take care! A This is what a feminist looks like T-shirt may seem innocent and good, but what if you are visiting somewhere which may be predominantly Muslim? Like London, or France? Caution, virtue signallers! Free Palestine buttons and stickers are always a good fallback if in doubt.
Social media. Don’t let up on Facebook, Twitter and other approved platforms not run by the fash, where you might get up the wrong end of the playground due to words of three syllables and above being used. Re-Tweet and re-post on Facebook everything you can, provided it helps the cause. If you are not sure, let Mummy help you. If Daddy is there, or might be there at some time in the foreseeable future, ask him. Or ask ‘other Mummy’.
Avoid real people. Real people don’t really understand virtue signalling as they have been oppressed by white elites and think that goodness is shown by what you do and achieve rather than what you say and claim and repeat. Virtue signalling should be done mostly to other virtue signallers and, of course, the fascists and racists. Again, take care with Muslims, black people, lesbians, queers, bisexuals, transgenders, otherkin and all the many, many other approved identities. If you praise one group too much, you may offend another. Spread the happiness and absolute correctness of your position around.
Marches and demos. As many as you can, people! If it means taking time off from your degree in Queer Studies, or Women’s Studies, or Grievance Studies, or Fat Recognition Studies, no matter. As you know, any degree with the word ‘Studies’ at the end guarantees that you won’t actually have to study. You can take the afternoon – or the year – off, and no one will notice. You’ll still get that degree and you’ll still get that community organiser’s post, or that Saturday job at Tesco Local.
Police others. Actually, we call it guiding or helping or instructing or correcting others now, because the police are both racist and fascist. Really accomplished virtue signalling means scoring points off other people by pointing out their wrongness. There are people who still go on about ‘free speech’, which always means the ‘freedom’ to oppress other races and gender identifications. They are the ones who really need your signals. Never forget; we are right because they are wrong!
Okay, virtue signallers! You are ready to go! Get on that keyboard, get to that meeting agreeing on a no-platform for the woman speaker who has converted from Islam to Christianity – Yuk! – get on that march demanding free education so your Slavery Studies degree doesn’t get you into debt with the criminal banksters, and go, go, go! You. Are. Ready.
Now fuck off.