Tuesday, 18 October 2016


Many years ago I was at university. It was before special snowflakes, safe spaces and triggering, before micro-aggressions, white privilege and Mickey Mouse degrees in subjects which don’t exist. I did a lot of acting, and during the miners’ strike I took part in a benefit review for Thatcher’s downtrodden. Of course, we didn’t know in those far-off days that Harold Wilson closed more mines than Thatcher, but she was Satan. The BBC said so and so did all your friends.

The theatre group organising the event had got themselves a real prize; a genuine miner. He was from a Kent colliery and not only was he going to attend, he was going to perform. On the day, he strapped on an acoustic guitar and played a couple of songs. I think he played Woodie Guthrie’s This Land is Your Land and some other protest song. The students looked on in awe. Imagine! A genuine member of the oppressed working class is performing for us! Then things started to go wrong for the student body.

The miner finished his competent renditions and started telling jokes. You would have expected humour tilted at the Tories and Margaret Thatcher, but you would have been disappointed. This chap’s gags were more in the Bernard Manning line (American viewers will have to look up Manning on YouTube, and I recommend it). Mothers-in-law, ethnic minorities, women, this guy nailed them all. I thought it was hilarious, not just the jokes themselves, but their effect on the reverent students. They began to shift and squirm in their seats. Muttering was heard. Finally, some walked out. The miner, you see, the real person in the room, the one with callouses and coal dust under his skin like poorly inked tattoos, had not kept to the script.

We now fast-forward some 25 years. I am now working as a live-in caretaker at a block of flats next to Westminster Cathedral, as you might expect for a Doctor of Philosophy. The block was almost a century old, with an unreliable lead pipe plumbing system which never would behave itself. Three doors away was a blue plaque announcing that Winston Churchill and his beloved Clemmie had lived there right up until 1939, when events elsewhere persuaded Winston to move house. I saw Gordon Brown come out of there once on the morning he was due to appear on television denouncing those who had used his child for some news angle, the hypocritical bastard. I watched him and he watched me, becoming increasingly skittish until he summoned a security guard and pointed me out. The guard got on his mobile and I waved to them both with a cheery grin before going back inside. But I digress.

Due to its proximity to Victoria train and coach stations, the end of the street in which this block nestled was now home to several Romanian men. They would drink and cavort, cavort and drink, leer at women, stare aggressively at men, defecate, urinate and sleep wherever it so pleased them. It was a charming precursor of the multicultural enrichment which is now beginning to accelerate in London. They were, not to put too fine a point on it, a fucking nuisance. More than once, I saw them ogling the small children playing in the school playground opposite their carnival of unpleasantness.

Now, there happened to live in one of the flats a woman I particularly despised. She was one of those bourgeois Lefties. Plenty of money and a ‘Free Palestine’ badge. Having had our Romanian friends mentioned to me a couple of times by concerned single women who felt threatened, I asked her – board member that she was – whether there was anything that could be done about the problem. She scolded me. It was not, she had me know, the fault of these poor refugees that they were homeless. If the Tory government had a heart they would have homes and jobs. Yeah, one of those.

Six weeks later, she approached me and asked if I would be prepared to make a statement to the police. Certainly, I said. Concerning what? It transpired that she was on her way to the cop shop to make an ‘impact statement’ concerning the Carpathian cavorters. They had started to affect her life adversely, you see, and the Left are only happy with immigrant dysfunction when it takes place nowhere near them. Another Leftie pulled up short by reality, stupid bitch.

Last year I was in Amsterdam for a few days, never having been and wanting very much to see van Gogh’s paintings in situ. One evening, I was drinking bourbon in a pleasant little bar when I struck up conversation with a young barmaid. She was about twenty, and you can curb any salacious thoughts that might be squirming in the mired sewers of your filthy imaginations. I’m too old for all that shit. At one point, the conversation drifted towards the political, and it is always instructive to see the tabula rasa of the millennial mind when it comes to matters political. I mentioned that I found Geert Wilders and his treatment by the Dutch establishment to be very interesting. Boy, had I pulled the trigger.

The smile vanished from her face. She looked at me as though my face were covered with open, running sores. Did I know, she enquired, that I was literally evil? She went on in this vein until I drank up and left. I was going to remind this self-important and witless little cunt that she was in the service industry and I was the customer, but what was the point? I merely hoped that her job would soon go to a cheaper Eritrean. I have to admit I also hoped she was raped in half by Arabs.

And thus the Left. Everything is fine in Looking-Glass Land until reality walks through the saloon bar doors looking for a fight. If you wish to understand the modern Leftist, imagine a spoiled, brattish child whose nose has been put out of joint and decides to hate Daddy even if it means ruining the holiday for the whole family. I simply will not and would not have Leftist acquaintances. I despise them and the onerous world they are creating. I hope their children, if they have any, suffer hard and suffer long.

Monday, 17 October 2016


They’ve all gone to look for America
Simon and Garfunkel, America

America is waiting.

David Byrne and Brian Eno, My Life in the Bush of Ghosts

Virginia reminded me of Munich. Not architecturally, of course – although there is a fine Bavarian-style inn on the banks of the Shenandoah River – and there are no men sporting lederhosen or apprentice Valkyries in dirndl. It was a more personal reminiscence. And not, in its consequence, a particularly happy one.

In May of 2015 myself and two long-standing colleagues well versed in the fine art of enjoying ourselves in liquor and fine conversation made the trip to Munich from Paris by train. Train travel in Europe is, at the time of writing, still a pleasure, and one is spared the deliberately imposed inconvenience of air travel security brought to us by our Mohammedan friends, in league with governmental enablers.

Munich was a pleasure to behold. One of our party was something of a dab hand with German history, and I forewent the guided tour for an early morning stroll with him explaining the history of the city, the bombings and the beginnings. And the endings. We walked past Hitler’s local, and I remarked that I was surprised to see that it hadn’t been renamed The Sturm und Drang. Hitler came up a lot in our bierkeller conversations – during which we referred to Hitler as ‘yer man’ to avoid complications with the surrounding tables - not because we are neo-Nazis, but because we were in Munich and are three intelligent men interested in how Europe came to the pretty pass in which it finds itself. So much for history. Let us turn to the present.

A year later I saw photographs of Munich. The light, spacious and clean station next to our hotel was a carpet of detritus and improvised bedding. The streets ran with hooded, scowling Arabs. I read that this year’s Oktoberfest attendance was down by half. This is now, like Paris, a city under occupation. Munich was occupied before, of course, but at that time the Germans had put up a fight. This is not so today. It is as though, in some terrible Freudian equation of repression and guilt, the Germans – or at least their leaders – had decided to reverse Hitler’s dream of lebensraum  - room to live – and reduce their living space, ceding to an invading force none in Europe dare name, lest their livelihood be forfeit. And so to America.

As we made our way up country from Virginia to Carolina, I was struck by the beauty of the countryside. Of course, it has been disfigured by American consumerism (See the excellent book The Geography of Nowhere by xxxx xxxx), but the trees were on the cusp of changing colour, and pumpkins strewed every porch of the beautiful clapperboard houses and their occasional witchy turrets. As a car passenger, I found it as bewitching as travelling by train over the Rocky Mountains. The towns were clean, light, and non-intrusive in terms of the many tourist shops that thrive there. There was surprisingly little of trademark American vulgarity either in the townscape or the people. Of course, seeing Virginia and claiming to know America is akin to seeing Tunbridge Wells and claiming to know England, but the scene provided me with much food for thought, food served in the larger portions you would expect in the USA.

In three weeks America goes to the polls in what is arguably its most important presidential election. I absolutely vowed to avoid politics as if it were the very devil during my stay, and it was rare vow that I kept. But I did observe.

The first eye-opener was the unrelenting, egregious media bias in favour of Clinton, dialectically achieved by a non-stop barrage of invective against Trump. Being an Englishman, I am of course used to BBC bias, which is subtle, pompous and rather polite, although becoming increasingly shrill when dusky women such as Yasmin Alibhai-Brown or Diane Abbott appear, which they frequently do. I note, in passing, that Abbott is Shadow Home Secretary. Christ on a pogo-stick.

American televisual media bias in on another plane, another planet, entirely. Where the BBC have a succession of scolds, nags and martinets denouncing, say, Nigel Farage, American rolling news and opinion has a parade of screaming schoolgirls clutching their pearls and virtue-signalling as though it were an Olympic sport and they were hoping to make 2020. Hillary Clinton was barely mentioned, unless to include her in the chorus of denunciation unleashed by Donald Trump’s use of the word ‘pussy’. To paraphrase the famous saying, there is nothing so ridiculous as the American press in one of their periodic fits of morality. The Clinton emails, Benghazi, rapey Bill and enabler Hill, the state of the economy under the Democrats, Saudi Arabia, Soros and Black Lives Matter: all relegated to the bench as the spotlight played on two Trumpian phonemes.

Something my partner said to one of her family I am forced to blushingly admit; I know more about American politics than most Americans. The people I met were intelligent and reasonably well-off, and they knew nothing. Their opinions easily reduced to a type of college football cheerleading: Yaaaay! Booooo! One of the oft-repeated quips was the idea of Trump with his finger on the nuclear button. This implies that Clinton is more trustworthy and less likely to unleash Armageddon. Golly. I would rather have a WWF wrestler who had spent some time in Rampton or Broadmoor in charge of the delivery systems of Ragnarok than Clinton.

The other great, lumbering woolly mammoth in the room was, of course, immigration. Now, the codification concerning immigration in the West is as engraved on people’s minds as the Lord’s Prayer or the Constitution; Large-scale immigration, particularly of Muslims, is so self-evidently a Good Thing that to oppose it is a symptom of the gravest psychosis, namely fascism. Trump has breached this protocol in two main ways. He has proposed a wall on the USA’s Mexican border, much like the one Mexico itself has on its border with Guatemala, and he has suggested a moratorium on Muslim immigration until such time as order can be restored. He knows that many people know that a country that can put a man on the moon and then, forty-some years later and with all the concomitant advances in technology, can’t protect its own borders is pulling a fast one. Clinton has already pledged a million more Syrian loveable rogues if or when she wins. She says it if as if that act of treason were some great good in and of itself, like a sunny day or a cure for cancer.

I am very aware of small vignettes in my life, symbolic experiences which seem to hold in themselves deep significance. In the pleasant town of Harrisonburg, VA, I was struck by many things. The almost uncanny cleanliness of the streets and absence of garbage strewn about, as per the UK, and all without a street cleaner in sight. In London, you can’t move for street cleaners chatting happily on their mobile telephones while pushing a desultory broom around, and the streets still look like shit.

More than anything, I enjoyed the amiable air that drifted among the people. People smiled at one another, even at strangers like me. It was a bit different to, say, Southall in London. When people say, ‘Good day, y’all’ there is an air of sincerity about it, and the service industry actually gives service industriously, unlike the sullen and nose-ringed barkeeps of London, who say but don’t mean ‘enjoy’ when they give you your chemical pint. And then, just as I was revelling in this ocean of white goodwill, we turned a corner. There were four adults and two children. The man was in his thirties and immediately scowled at me when I looked at the family. The three women were around his age, doubtless his wife and her two sisters. They were swaddled in heavy clothing entirely inappropriate for the unseasonably warm October weather. They all had the unmistakably toothy look of Somalians. I was informed later that day, by a friendly engineer, that there were plenty more scheduled to arrive as soon as was convenient and they had a space in their diaries.

Now, obviously this a racist observation, but racism, eventually, cannot be avoided, like death and taxes. Another gentleman informed me that, if things took a, shall we say, European turn in terms of migrant unrest, there were a lot of good old boys in the hills who would turn off the TV, leash the hounds, and lock and load. This is Civil War country – I visited Antietam battlefield and was sold a book in a second-hand store which was highly recommended by the knowledgeable owner – and I couldn’t help thinking, as I watched a Confederate flag flutter from a porch stave, that the USA as a whole may well be civil war country before too many moons have come and gone.

Saturday, 1 October 2016


When they kick at your front door

How you gonna come?
With your hands on your head
Or on the trigger of your gun?

The Clash, Guns of Brixton

Come with me on an imaginative journey into the past. We are going back a mere five years. There is no need to be concerned that your attire might give you away. My presupposition is this. Instead of your current career path, you have just earned a large advance for writing a televisual drama for the BBC. In the series, scheduled to run for an initial season of 13 weeks, Britain is under siege by terrorists. These antagonists will not, of course, be Muslims. Do you remember Spooks? I never saw five minutes of it, not being a TV user, but apparently it ran for several series featuring an acceptably multi-ethnic task force of intrepid agents beating various terrorist threats with the efficiency of Batman and Robin. The antagonists were never Muslim. Welcome to the BBC. I’m surprise they called it Spooks, incidentally. Have they not read Philip Roth’s The Human Stain, and seen into what kind of trouble that word can get you?

So, in your series, the enemy will be white Right-wingers, or Jews, or football hooligans, or Brexiteers, or white Right-wingers, or climate change deniers, or the Salvation Army's provisional wing, or people who want grammar schools back, or friends of Nigel Farage, or Scientologists (except they wouldn’t dare attack the Scienos) or white Right-wingers - have all struck simultaneously, and have taken by surprise the armed forces, occupied as they are by brave and just foreign wars and by compulsory diversity training, as well as a refresher course in LGBTQ with reference to trigger warnings cause by mention of guns or bullets, or anything shaped a bit like a penis. Your initial problem is not that of plot, continuity or characterisation. It is making sure that Lenny Henry has at least three parts, and his friends and family have almost all the rest. Except for the roles of policemen, obviously, unless they are good policemen.

A striking visual image leaps from your meisterwerk. It’s so good it makes the cover of all the TV listings magazines in the country, as well as The Compulsory Diversity Times. It is of several armed, white policemen – and don’t forget that policemen are bad, because they shoot unarmed, and probably even one-armed, black men who are being bothersome enough to resist arrest, and so they must be white – guarding Canterbury Cathedral, home of The Archbishop of Cunterbury. My mistake. Typo. Canterbury. And the home of God, obviously, since it’s his house and I imagine he lets a room to the Archbishop. Tippermost-toppermost ratings are your reward. It’s a hit!

Armed policemen guarding the iconic home of world-wide Anglicanism. What an image! Thing is, it’s not from some crappy TV drama starring Benedict Cumberbatch and some black tosser. It’s from the news.

This is the way we live now. Or, at the very least, the way people in the UK live.

I remember seeing CIA-type dudes with Ray-Bans and walkie-talkies outside an American school in an affluent part of London in 2009. I remember seeing some heavy-duty lumps patrolling outside a synagogue in St. John’s Wood in 2010. But armed – heavily armed – filth outside Canterbury Cathedral? Whatever would Chaucer have thought?

Now, the lion’s share of the work done by government and their media catamites these days consisting of shouting at the citizenry; Step away from the dots! Do not attempt to join the dots! But if dots there are to be joined, then join those dots we must. Not a sentence I leapt out of bed this morning expecting to write, I must say, but there we are. Let us turn to the diminutive and yet extraordinarily politically privileged Mr. Sadiq Khan, Mayor of London.

Of course, it was axiomatic even within my lifetime that being a white, Oxbridge-educated, Debrett’s endorsed chap who could tie his own bow tie and would never befriend a man who wore one with a secreted elasticated band, was a compound sine qua non for entry into the political class. Those days are gone. The fellow who would have been serving drinks at an Oxford University graduation ball in 1981 has more chance of a political career now that the chinless wonders he was serving. So it is with Khan, who now holds all the political top trump cards.

Khan has refused to extend the contract of the present top cop in old London Tahn, a Mr. Bernard Hogan-Howe. Now he is, as you would expect, a diversity-obsessed booby, but it is interesting that he has managed to keep London relatively free of Muslim attacks on the kufr. Not any more. To quote Wild Billy Childish, You’re out the band, sunshine.

One of the reasons Hogan-Howe is out of a job, one of my top men in London informs me, is that Khan is upset by the presence of heavily-armed policemen patrolling the streets. He is upset, of course, for one reason and one reason only. He is concerned that white British people – those that are still left in what the Romans called Londinium, but which was not the Roman capital of choice – will associate the presence of heavily armed paramilitary-style coppers with terrorism, and terrorism with ISIS, and ISIS with Islam, despite all the correctional training the media have been carrying out. This could ultimately be mildly damaging to Brand Islam, and up with this Mr. Khan will not put.

Khan is in a very interesting position. He is obviously going to be the first British Muslim Prime Minister, just as David Cameron wished, but the time-frame of the mayorship could interfere with that eventuality. Of course, for the next four years he will be filling London with his co-religionists – he has announced as much to cheers from the press gallery – and his second term will be assured for that very reason. But when does he time his tilt for Number 10 Downing Street? It’s a tricky one.

If you are a white, kufr, non-Leftie Londoner, I would just run. This is not going to be your decade. If you haven’t read Michel Houellebecq’s Submission – reviewed by me at New English Review here and here on this blog – then read it. It is going to become as prophetic as Orwell’s 1984 – my review here – or Jean Raspail’s Camp of the Saints – my review here.

Armed guards outside Canterbury cathedral is very now, and will soon be a thing of the past. There will be no need for such troubling symbolism when that building is Canterbury Mosque, inshallah.

Thursday, 29 September 2016


Only ten minutes to midnight? Really?

Jeremy Corbyn is unelectable. Not my view, but that of the UK media, and therefore to be mistrusted and questioned at every opportunity. Momentous political events have had a habit of taking place recently, and the media have been blind-sided more than once. Trump, Brexit and the rise of the political Right across Europe were not part of the media narrative, and yet they all happened. Who can say whether UKIP might not split the ‘Tory’ vote at the next election and part the Red Sea for Corbyn’s Labour Party? It would be good for UKIP, and might help to finish Chairman May’s party once and for all, consigning them to share history’s dustbin with the Whigs. The British are given neither to fascism or the hard Left, but the British people have been so divided for the purposes of elections that whatever ‘they’ want doesn’t matter very much anymore.

That said, the Labour Party could not beat the ‘Conservative’ Party at the last election, even with the monumentally stupid career politician David Cameron standing at the helm with his trousers on his head. But then, they had Ed Miliband in charge, possibly the one person in England aside from Paul Gascoigne who could not have beaten Cameron. It’s enough to make any self-respecting conspiracy theorist think there was dirty work at the crossroads…

What if Corbyn doesn’t want to win? What if Labour don’t want to win? After all, the next election could well be the poisoned chalice. The economy is going to collapse at some point, and who wants to be running for the last chair when The Red Flag stops playing? Also, Corbyn is not stupid, and must know that happily announcing that there will be more open-door immigration under a Labour government will not endear him to many voters. The Labour Party couldn’t care less about the white working class nowadays, of course. As with Marx and Engels, they finally became tired of people who would not sing the Internationale when they were told. But those people might still vote, particularly if things take a wolfish turn towards a harsh reality. Whites may be a minority in some cities, but not in the country as a whole.

There is nothing wrong with controlled immigration in and of itself. The problem is with Muslim immigration, and here Corbyn might be being crafty on two fronts. Bringing in even more of the ummah will begin to shore up the Muslim vote. Also, Corbyn is allowing just enough undenounced anti-Semitism to simmer in his party to guarantee Muslim approval. In the same way that you could guarantee the male teenage voting bloc by promising free beer and girls, criticise the Jews and you’ve got the Mohammedan vote in the bag. Sadiq Khan is making no secret of his intention to make of London Kabul-on-Thames. White flight will inevitably accelerate, and the browning of London will be irreversible.

There is one supreme irony here. The UK lacks a genuine Conservative Party, and this is part of Corbyn’s problem. The ‘Tories’ are already doing everything any Socialist worth his Little Red Book would be doing. Mass, uncontrolled immigration? Check. High taxes! You got it. Clamping down on freedom of speech? We’re right on it. Diversity quotas? Nigga, please! Rampant and wasteful public sector? Step right this way…

Whither Conservatives? The Pansy Left (© George Orwell) have been so desperate for genuine Tebbit-style Tories they have tried to pretend the current lot are the Nasty Party. Hilarious. The Loony Tunes marching against austerity would march against your mum if she started sporting a Thatcher hairdo. Once again, on my count; These people are not Conservatives. They are Socialists.

Muslims, on the other hand, could not be more in line with classical Conservatism. Hyper-religious, almost comically strict in terms of crime and punishment, family oriented and, well, conservative. Granted, they want to conserve the values of the 7th century, but conservative they none the less are.

Another anomaly. The Shadow Chancellor, John McDonnell, has just been rumbled saying in 2013 that he was a Marxist. Well, sure. And Liberace played for the other team. No shock there. But he also stated that he had been waiting years for the 2008 economic crash because it finally proved the fault lines within capitalism predicted by Marx. A capitalist system run on greed, exploitation and profiteering would be bound to fail eventually, according to Das Kapital. We merely note in passing that, to go back to Adam Smith, we have nothing resembling capitalism in the modern West. The Wealth of Nations does not mention greed, exploitation and profiteering. But this is a detail. For Marxists, anyone who works in a bank has cloven hoofs, horns and a tail.

But was that crash a singularity? Possibly not. The problem with drawn-out events such as financial collapses is that they don’t play the game in terms of the media cycle. In order for the media to retain flagging interest in the decline and fall of the west, it is therefore necessary to start sub-dividing certain occurrences into bite-sized pieces. It may be that the so-called crash of 2008 was the start of a process now coming to fruition. I believe it is. Remember all the talk of a ‘double dip recession’? If you lose control of your car on a dangerous bend, slew across the road and collide with a wall, there are several different stages to the accident. But you don’t talk about a ‘double dip’ car crash. You still totaled your car.

Again, who wants to be the British Prime Minister when nurses and diversity officers don’t get paid at the end of the month? Possibly not Mr. Corbyn. I think, if the economy is still scrabbling to keep its head above water when or if a new Labour government is formed, that it would be for the best. The ‘Tories’ are trying their best to ruin the country but, if you want something doing properly, let the experts handle it. Owen Jones, Seumas Milne and Diane Abbott in government, anyone? It will make a lot of folk reach for that brochure outlining the delights of a holiday in Venezuala.

Wednesday, 28 September 2016


It’s their way to detain.

It’s their way to disgrace.

Their knee in your balls

And their fist in your face.

Oh, and long live the state

By whomever it’s made.

Sir, I didn’t see nothing.

I was just getting home late.

Leonard Cohen, A Singer Must Die

It is a comforting thought, in these divided and divisive times, that there is something on which the political elites, Black Lives Matter, the SJW and NGO hard Left, and the Alt. Right might agree. It is open season on white people. That there is a concerted effort from the top down to eradicate Whitey can no longer be doubted by any but agenda-driven shills, outriders and water-carriers for the new masters of the universe. Good luck with it. We may be on the ropes, but we have not yet hit the canvas.

Of course, identitarian politics is the current on which the Progressivist ship is borne, and you are encouraged to be proud of your ethnicity. Unless, of course, that ethnicity is Caucasian, in which case I should be quiet about it unless you want to end up in a prison wing with those not of your race and more than a little inimical to what they see as your privilege. ‘White privilege’ is a little like putting in a long week at work and then calling your pay ‘wage privilege’. I was always baffled by the idea, for example, of being proud of being black. But then, I am white trash, brought up to believe that one can be proud of achievements but not of congenital roulette-ball placement. I am proud of my Ph. D., for example, because I earned it. I am not proud of my brown eyes, because I did not.

We are gathered here today to look at a German magazine called, in translation, Baby & Parenting. Aaah! I know. Little critters. About the last magazine in which you would expect to find the sort of anti-White, ethno-masochistic, mea-culpist, oikophobic piss which infests so many of today’s Leftist lifestyle trash publishing. Think again, Jack.

The magazine in question has published a feature warning German mothers against certain nefarious strands in the weave of their society. Are these people Muslim rapists or ISIS infiltrators intent on killing and maiming? Are they Maghrebians with room-temperature IQs who understand what social security benefit means? Are they psychopathological social justice workers and students who believe that the duskier the European population the better? Gentle reader, they are not.

The piece in question was featured in Breitbart – and, curiously, the Google translate function normally so happy to hop in and annoy you with every other page does not function for this particular sapphire of the journalist’s art in these rather totalitarian times. I will merely note the following:

1.     The line-drawing picture fronting the feature (above) shows clearly not the sort of short-haired, blond man you might expect to be warned against when it comes to your bog-standard neo-Nazi. Instead, we see the women-folk. The final insult. You get called a Nazi and it’s not even you. It’s your fucking wife.

2.     Here are the signs that a family might be ‘Right-wing’. They might be: Inconspicuous, cheerful, nice, dedicated, blond, cute, engaged, very obedient, quiet, well behaved.

Imagine you live in Baltimore, or Malmo, or Croydon, or Moelenbeek, or Paris, and you were offered neighbours like that. You would beg them to move in. But Nazis are like that. Devious. The most amusing part of the feature is when the German Mutti  is warned to report any loose talk at the school gates, as these ideas – ideas that are never mentioned but are of course any mention of any doubt concerning any immigration whatsoever – might spread across the playground. When they say ‘playground’, are they referring to an actual patch of asphalt, or the sandpit which now passes for adult political discourse?

The organization from which these instructions emanated is founded and run by an ex-Stasi operative, and a woman to boot. Thank heaven she alerted me, and millions of unsuspecting Germans. How was I to know that, on a visit to Munich last year, every blonde Hausfrau  I passed was on her way home, a key in her locket which would open that room in the house, wherein two flames burn always, flanking as they do a stern and moustachioed face?

Tuesday, 27 September 2016


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 passĂ© 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



 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.'[