Wednesday, 18 October 2017

STATIONS OF THE CROSS: THE SEMIOTIC CRUSADE AGAINST CHRISTIANITY



Santorini's famous blue-domed church,
                                        complete with Islamophobic crosses





Joy Division, Wilderness



Jesus died for somebody’s sins but not mine.

Patti Smith, Gloria







The Greek island of Santorini is one of the most breathtakingly beautiful places I have ever visited. Croydon, lurking on the fringe of south London in England like a mange-covered pimp, and very near which I grew up – or at least got bigger - is absolutely not. Loughborough, a pleasant enough town in what was the heartland of Great Britain’s industrial revolution, I can’t speak for, my one excursion to the town having been to its university – famous for the prowess of the sportsmen and women it produces – to see the popular beat combo New Order in the 1980s.

How are these disparate places linked? Listen. Shhh. Do you hear the adhan, the cry of the muezzin, the Islamic call to prayer, drifting on the breeze...

Santorini has much to commend it. A volcanic island, the sand on its beaches is a shade of grey so deep it is almost black. I visited one of its famous abandoned villages, Agrilia, and I don’t believe I have been anywhere more frightening in my life. Here is an example of the abandoned dwellings.
I walked through the entire village. The only places that scared me more were the tor at Glastonbury and the ruined castle at Berkhampstead. Oh, and a very old abandoned empty psychiatric hospital somewhere in Surrey. I don’t scare easily but, in Agrilia, there was no one else present. Except there was. Let us move on.

Santorini’s famous blue-domed temples are quite something to see. There is a fierce clarity of sunlight in Greece – Nietzsche comments on it in The Birth of Tragedy from the Spirit of Music – that seems to make everything more vivaciously alive than elsewhere. I honestly think this is what accounts for the vivacity of colour used there in public spaces. It is similar here in Costa Rica. But let us, like Jesus, return to the temple.

I had no idea until this week that the supermarket chain Lidl was German. I visited a Lidl store once, and once only, in London. It resembled a yard sale, or car-boot sale for you Brits, in Albania, and is the only supermarket in which I felt I might be beaten up or mugged.

Lidl has used, in its promotional literature, photographs of Santorini’s beautiful blue-domed mosques. They have photoshopped them but not, for Nietzschean reasons I have already outlined, to improve the colour. No. They have removed the crosses from the roof of each dome so as to avoid offence to you-know-who. Tinkering with reality to improve it. Old Traumavillians will recall that I have mentioned the Socialist penchant for tinkering. If I have to explain to you why Lidl have removed the offending crosses from the photographs, and the potential offence to an as-yet-unnamed religion they are seeking to avoid, report directly to the Principal’s office. She will hit you round the head with the clue bat.

So, the beautiful blue-domed temples of Santorini have had their denominational iconic crosses scrubbed out by a business based in the country who gifted us Auschwitz and lampshades made from people. So far, so post-modern. Let us continue the Greek connection.

Croydon, and I apologise to a good friend of mine who lives there, is a shithole. In fact, to call it a shithole is an insult to self-respecting shitholes everywhere. It is one of those places no one visits unless there is absolutely no other choice. It is a transport hub into central London, and its station – which looks like a post-modern architect teamed up with an amphetamine-riddled spider and then forgot to complete the ‘building’ they were contracted to build – is essential for commuters. The first port of call for an arriving migrant, at least one who intends to go down the legal route of immigration to the UK, and hasn’t just hopped out of a truck full of parts for coffee machines in Kent, is called Luna House, and is situated opposite the station in Croydon. It has long been my belief that this is a type of test for our swarthy arrivistes, those people the elites have imported and bred like shoats the better to enrich our failed culture, the principle being that if you can handle Croydon without fleeing in terror back to the arse-end of war-torn Somalia, or whichever failed Islamic state – pardon the tautology – you came from, then you can take anything Britain can throw at you.

As mentioned, I have had fun and frolics, junketing and jollity in Croydon, and I mean no disrespect to its inhabitants but, to quote Michael Caine in Get Carter, stroll on. For our purposes here, it is necessary simply to point out that Croydon is the home of Nestlé, the chocolate giant. I mean, they sell a lot of chocolate. There is not a giant called Nestlé living in Croydon or, if there is, it has not been brought to my attention.

Nestlé have recently taken a minor commercial decision. Curiously, it involves the same temples mentioned above in connection with Lidl, and the decision is exactly the same. Nestlé’s brand of Greek yoghurt featured a stylistic rendering of the same temple, and has removed the crosses in exactly the same way as Lidl. ‘Yoghurt’, incidentally – which north Americans pronounce ‘Yo-ghurt’, with the ‘Yo’ pronounced as in the name of the toy ‘Yo-yo – is one of eight Turkish words to have entered the English language. You may think this information extraneous but, when it wins you a bar quiz, you’ll thank me.

But to return to our theme. Our final port of call, as noted, is Loughborough, where, until recently, a lady named Tina Gayle had a market stall in what is apparently a thriving local emporium. Here is a report, from Breitbart London, about the lady’s summary dismissal from the market in which she had previously sold rare books and a range of paraphernalia;

A local council in the United Kingdom has banned a rare bookseller from having a stall in Loughborough Market after someone complained that novelty mugs she had for sale could be “offensive to Muslims”.

The mugs, sold by 56-year-old stallholder Tina Gayle, featured Knights Templar iconography and their Latin motto, which is based on the words of Psalm 115:1 — “Not unto us, O Lord, not unto us, but unto thy name give glory, for thy mercy, and for thy truth’s sake.”’

In passing, I have long thought I might offer my services as a sub-editor to Breitbart. Can you see what is wrong with describing someone as ‘a rare bookseller’? But I am straying from our path.

Semiotics is the study of signs and sign systems. Roland Barthes is a good place to start but, given that he was knocked down and killed by a laundry truck, maybe the attention he paid to signs was insufficient. As the young folk say, whatever.

The point I am making is that this war against the cross is a semiotic one. Muslims might be offended by seeing the cross, therefore the sign of the cross must be done away with. Of course, no Muslim was ever offended by any such thing, and this is because it is not possible to be offended, and this is because offence doesn’t exist. Saying ‘I am offended’ is much like saying ‘I’ve just got back from Narnia’. The sentence is sound, but it has no ultimate referent.

But Muslims understand the gradual power of pretending to be offended, and the useful idiots who run the country – the UK, that is, not my country here in Costa Rica – are pleased to help them have their bullying way because those same idiots hate Christians.

The cross. I’m going to buy one on a dinky little chain. Next time I’m in England, I’ll make sure it is prominent. Here, taxi drivers and old women cross themselves when they drive past the Catholic church. I like that. Personally, I don’t cross myself. There’s no point. God knows who I am and he knows I would be pretending. It also doesn’t matter to him what I do. He has no interest in me. Not yet, anyway.
When I was young and rebellious, I once completed and signed a social security application and, in the section marked ‘Religion’, I wrote ‘none’. A pinch-faced martinet who smelled like my grandmother’s house looked at it, clucked, struck through the word ‘none’ and wrote ‘C of E’. Church of England. Today, that would happen in reverse.

Theodore Dalrymple – real name Dr. Anthony Daniels -  is, in my opinion, the greatest essayist currently writing in English. Discussing Communism in one of his pieces, he makes the point that the lies told by the political elites are not intended to deceive, but to humiliate. When you are told by Theresa May – a woman whose torn skin would surely reveal wires and solid-state electronics – that the latest attack by Muslims has nothing to do with Islam, she is not expecting you to believe it. Quite the opposite. She is telling you what is permissible and impermissible for you to think. This visual tinkering with photography serves a similar purpose. The removal of crosses from churches and market-stall paraphernalia is intended to state, on behalf of both the elites and the Mussulmen, that they are the masters now. Fight back. Let us see crosses everywhere, let the bloom like flowers, like some vast cemetery, which is what the West is rapidly becoming.

Saturday, 14 October 2017

THAT JOKE ISN’T FUNNY ANY MORE: HOW BRITAIN HAS BECOME SOVIETISED


Never mind Muslim rape gangs, sir
What was that Tweet all about?




Soon, we will be needing all our jails for political prisoners.

Anthony Burgess, A Clockwork Orange



I’ve seen this happen in other people’s lives.

Now it’s happening in mine.

Morrissey, That Joke isn’t Funny Anymore





In 2016, the British police arrested approximately nine people a day for ‘online hate speech’. Of course, craven Socialist lickspittles that the modern police are in the Disunited Kingdom, they did not volunteer this shocking statistic themselves. Instead, The Times of London indulged in some genuine investigative journalism and obtained the figures via a Freedom of Information request. The figure is likely to be higher, as 13 constabularies failed to provide any data, and a further two volunteered data which was unusable.

It is difficult to say exactly when my home country became the Soviet Union 2.0. I recall devouring the works of, and a biography of, Alexander Solzhenitsyn some seven or eight years ago, and being appalled at the central thematic of rigorous Soviet policing of speech and, by extension, thought. I didn’t realise that, within a decade, Britain would be doing the same thing.

And it is not simply hate speech. Wiltshire Constabulary, a few months ago on Twitter, issued a Tweet stating that anyone ‘spewing hate speech’ from ‘behind a computer screen’ would be feeling the full force of the law. They also wrote that ‘your’ going to be arrested should you do such a thing. Of course, hordes of Twitter users ridiculed the ignorance of a police force that could not spell. I took a slightly different tack, directly messaging Wiltshire’s finest to point out that no one was likely to be spewing hate, or indeed anything else, from ‘behind’ a computer screen, it being generally approved practice to sit in front of said screen. Then the chilling thing happened.

Wiltshire police announced their intention of going after the people who ridiculed them. Any of you who are familiar with Milan Kundera’s 1967 novel The Joke – which concerns a man sent to the gulag for making a witticism about Stalin on a postcard – will also be acquainted with the escalating tension Kundera conjures in that book as things become increasingly serious for the jocular dissident. Now, if you are unfortunate enough to be reading this on Albion’s shores, the plot of The Joke is coming to a police station near you.

This state fascism is not, of course, confined to blighted Blighty. To give just one example from hundreds across Europe, a German man called, I believe, Sturzenberger or similar, was recently handed a six-month suspended prison sentence for a Facebook post showing this photograph.


The photo is not doctored, and shows a meeting during World War 2 between a high-ranking Nazi officer and the Grand Mufti of Islam, J’lem Haj Amin al-Husseini. The Mufti was offered leadership of Palestine, just as soon as Hitler’s National  Socialists were done slaughtering all the Jews there. And so the posting of a photograph showing an actual historical event leads to a deferred custodial sentence. Of course, with the introduction of Islam, and returning to the UK, the motives of the British police become a little more sharply focused.

For it not simply ‘hate speech’ – an absurdly undefined term – which is being hunted down, but hate speech towards favoured minorities, a list at the head of which Muslims replaced blacks some time ago. There are countless examples of social media comments aimed at white men, and these will doubtless remain uninvestigated. But let us examine, as we always must in these treacherous times, the Islamic angle.

Creeping shariah compliancy is now so blatant in the UK it scarcely needs introduction. In the case of online speech, however, a brief reading of the 2003 Communications Act, section 127, will repay inspection.

The act makes it illegal to ‘cause annoyance, inconvenience or needless anxiety’ to an individual or individuals. This fantastically vague set of criteria only begins to make sense when we pay attention to libel and slander, and their respective legal definitions in both the dar al-harb and the dar al-Islam, the kufr house of war and the Muslim world.

British law clearly defines slander as a demonstrably untrue statement concerning someone or something – a legal entity such as a company, for example – made in such a way as to damage the reputation of the plaintiff. Once we move to the Islamic definition, however, things become clearer with reference to the Communications Act of 2003.

In shariah law, the word for slander is ghiba. It means to say anything at all about a person that that person does not like. Let us note two points.

Firstly, this exchange of objectivity – represented by British slander laws – for subjectivity – represented by Islamic law – is entirely in keeping with a concomitant epistemology common to the British and European political Left.

Secondly, the Islamic definition of slander is mandated by no less a figure than Mohammed himself. From the Koran or, if you work for the BBC, the Holy Koran;

‘Do you know what slander is? It is to mention of your brother that which he would dislike.” Someone asked, “What if he is as I say?” And he replied, “If he is as you say, you have slandered him, and if not, you have calumniated him”.’ (Emphasis mine).

This verse is unlikely to be abrogated any time soon, abrogation being the Islamic refinement of Koranic verses to better suit whatever it is that Mohammedans want this week.

A qualifiable legal definition used by a civilised country versus a vague and subjective confection used by savages. Which do you think is winning? I refer you back to section 127 of the 2003 Communications Act.

On a related subject, if you live in the UK, your Home Secretary is a creature called Amber Rudd. Although hr name sounds like a colour an artist might use, she is no oil painting, either on the outside or, like Dorian Gray, on the inside. The only positive thing that can be said about Rudd is that she is not her opposite number on the Labour benches, the stupid, disgusting, racist, innumerate swamp creature Diane Abbott.

Rudd has just announced that she intends to introduce a law which will potentially carry a 15-year prison sentence. The offence will be to read certain websites. The offending websites come under three categories, two of which are precisely defined, the third of which is as vague as section 127 of the 2003 Communications Act. They are as follows:

·        Jihadist content

·        Bomb-making instructions

·        Far-Right propaganda

Just digest that. Let it sink in. What is ‘far-Right propaganda’? The Daily Stormer? Gates of Vienna? Pamela Geller? Breitbart? Escape from Traumaville? I suspect that offending websites will not be settled upon until the state has decided which dissident individual it wishes to imprison…

I am almost certainly under investigation by the Metropolitan police for online hate speech. My Twitter account was suspended months ago, and yet I can’t access it to delete it. This always means that Twitter have handed the account to the police. I have to admit that I did push it a bit. The last Tweet I wrote was to some Leftist gonk, and read as follows;

You know those suicidal thoughts you have? Act on them.

How was I to know that the fucker was clinically depressed? I don’t read Twitter profiles. What I have read, however, is the legal constitution of Costa Rica, in one of whose myriad rain forests I am writing this.

Costa Rica offers asylum to individuals who face potential incarceration in their home countries for their political beliefs. Now, I have excellent grounds to believe that this website is monitored by the Metropolitan police, not least because they know that I have had contact with Stephen Yaxley-Lennon, more popularly known as Tommy Robinson, possible Britain’s most famous political prisoner. It isn’t difficult to track me down. I don’t write, and never have written, under a pseudonym, for the simple reason that I am not a coward. I’ve been sacked, or fired, more than once for my online activity. But I will not be frightened by the state. You don’t faze me.

And so, if there is a pig reading this, I have a simple message for you; Bring it, cunt.

You might make a Solzhenitsyn of me yet.

No joke.

Friday, 13 October 2017

THE RETURN OF THE NATIVE







Glad Day, or The Dance of Albion, by William Blake




“Well,” he said, “I’m back”.



Last line of The Lord of the Rings



I’m back.

I’m back.

As a matter of fact.

As a matter of fact

I’m back.



Gary Glitter, Leader of the Gang





After the unscheduled meeting between my computer and a quantity of rain water, and the resultant necessary repairs by one of the local IT gurus, I am back on the block, as the young people say.

And how wonderful the momentous events have been which have taken place in my absence. The world when I left it, virtually speaking, was a divided and riven place, managed by malevolent and quasi-autistic technocrats and peopled by populations increasingly coming under the yoke of soft totalitarianism. Western Europe was the scene of unprecedented population movement as the elites sought to redistribute wealth not, as it were, by allowing the mountain to come to Mohammed, but by facilitating that gentleman’s journey to the mountain. In the UK, free speech was all but gone, a lame duck Prime Minister was doing her utmost to fudge the exit from the EU she does not want, and the media were ideologically corrupt propagandists for the globalist, anti-white, politically correct diversity fetishists.

In the USA, Antifa and Black Lives Matter were steadily gaining power and malevolence, aided and abetted by the very police they claim to hate, and the democratically elected President was simply not being allowed to run his country, a country he seems to love, in bold contrast to his craven mulatto predecessor.

But, while I was away in solid-state exile, it all changed.

Oh, hang on.

Wrong website.

It’s got far, far worse.

The decline and fall of the West 2.0 is far from over, far from being arrested, and has in fact accelerated even in the last month. I have long said that something wicked this way comes, that a world-changing event or set of events – Faye’s convergence of catastrophes – is coming, as Yankees say, down the pike.

You, of course, have a measure of consolation in that I am back to explain things for you. I commend your sheer grit in dealing with my absence, and apologise for any inconvenience.










Friday, 22 September 2017

MACHINERIES OF JOY? NEVER MIX YOUR METAPHORS…


Your government, yesterday. You are pictured
held in the gentleman's right hand.





This time is out of joint.

Shakespeare, Hamlet



Welcome to the machine.

Pink Floyd





There is a definite scent of decadence in the air, don’t you feel? A sense of end times, a whiff of Weimar, a rotting Roman ambience, but of Rome at the end, over-extended and tired, sleazy and rotten with a type of imperial syphilis. What route led the West to its current moral malaise, its vulgarity and sleaze, and the celebration of those ‘qualities’?

Decadence is nowadays defined as decay and cultural erosion, a falling away of standards or norms, and for the worse. But it is also the privative of ‘cadence’, a musical term. A closing series of notes, or an inflection of the voice, ‘cadence’ denotes something definite; harmony.

Without waxing rhapsodical, harmony does not simply apply to music. Look at its mathematical expression in Pythagoras, via Plato. There is a sense of rightness, ratio, proportion and a mutual reliance between component elements that expresses, or partly expresses, the idea of harmony. Rightness, proportion, mutual reliance. Not, any of them, words which might be appropriately used concerning the state of the planet as it rolls around its orbit today.

Harmony, as expressed in the ancient world, is also mathematics, and this is where the problems begin. I have long said that the hubristic fault line running through Socialism is not, or not only, naivety, emotiveness or rootless anger and class war. Rather, it is the belief that life as lived by the mass of people is an equation, or a power drill, or a piece of solid state electronics, or a robot, or – and this is the most recent ruling metaphor – a computer. That is, the problems of society – any society – can be remedied by a species of engineering. Tinker with human beings as they exist en masse, and all things shall be well.

The phrase ‘social engineering’ is, of course, familiar to all. But it does not spring from nowhere. One of the key insights observed by the much-maligned, late French philosopher Jacques Derrida is that ruling metaphors, metaphors which come to dictate structures and systems and even history, bring their own structure and system of operation along with them. The guiding metaphor is, if you like, bound by the limits of its conceptual operation, and thus bound to affect that which it itself affects in a certain and structurally pre-determined way.

The guiding metaphor of the Left has long been the machine. The Left is historically obsessed with the notion that man can be perfected, can be made or re-made, created and maintainable as an engine. Look at the Soviet program to build the perfect citizen, look at Stalin – whose name, a nickname, means ‘man of steel’ – and even at Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. Shelley’s maiden name was Godwin, and she was the daughter of William Godwin, one of the earliest and most fervent Socialists and obsessed with the perfectibility of man. In her daughter’s novel, a scientist actually creates a man from scratch.

And it is this slavish adherence to a perfectible model of man, guided and directed by the machine metaphor, which explains the Left’s rooted antipathy to the notion that it is genetic make-up that largely schools personality and action rather than environment. Environment can be engineered. It requires vast sums of money to do so – which keeps the necessity for high taxation a Socialist shibboleth – and it can be utilised to show the beneficence, or apparent beneficence, of the Left.

Genetics cannot – yet – be engineered in a mass social context. The denial of genetic facticity is the prime mover of the Socialist belief in egalitarianism. DNA is an apparatus closed to the tinkerers of the Left. Only society is an accessible machine.

How does this come to explain the vulgarity, the sheer sleazy decadence of the modern West? I suspect it is because genetic differences are censored and muted, disallowed as irrelevant when placed against the myth of egalitarianism. If a genetic meritocracy is banned, and people are allowed by direct governmental and ideological tampering to act as they wish, all the king’s horses and all the king’s men will not be able to put society together again. Go against nature, and she will come looking for you.

Ancient Greek society flourished because of an innate sense of place. The Greeks, of course, knew nothing of DNA – although Parmenides was prescient about genetics – but they knew that nature had provided not only the raw material of reality, but also a natural order to be followed.

The modern West, run as it is by the Left, has completed its great march against this natural order, and deviation is all that can follow. This is why civilization – such as it is – is hyper-sexualised, why vulgarity is worshipped as art, why inferior cultures have been allowed to impose their values – such as they are – on superior cultures. The alternative to the machine metaphor is the organic, and organic societies, those which follow nature’s innate order, are preferable to the machinistic engineering the Left demands.

The West will never again be civilized in my lifetime. We are in a period of reverse social evolution. Enlightenment reason, faulty as it may be (see John Ralston Saul’s Voltaire’s Bastards on this) has been dethroned by emotivism and a sense of radical subjective entitlement. This replacement, coupled with the deliberate dismantling of worthwhile educational curricula and method, leads to a generation of children in adult bodies, children who know nothing of cultural value, dignity, humility, pride and shame, and comportment.
1936
2017


Don’t trust the tinkerers, the engineers, the bricoleurs, the regulators and calibrators and technocrats. Trust to organic structures, and strive to live your life away from the machine metaphor. You will be surprised how much Keatsian beauty and truth lie behind and beneath the gleaming chrome of the Socialist lie.

Wednesday, 20 September 2017

YELPING AT THE FLAG: INDEPENDENCE DAY IN COSTA RICA


Three colours. Red, white and blue





It’s Independence Day

All over town.



Bruce Springsteen, Independence Day





Winds of the world give answer!

They are whimpering to and fro.

And what should they know of England

Who only England know?

The poor little street-bred people

That vapour and fume and brag,

They are lifting their heads in the stillness

To yelp at the English flag!



Rudyard Kipling, The English Flag





On September 15, 1821, after the final Spanish defeat in the Mexican War of Independence, Guatemala declared the whole of Central America independent. So it was that Costa Rica – officially The Republic of Costa Rica – threw off the imperial Spanish shackles it had worn since the 16th century without a shot being fired or a sword drawn.

El día de la independencia is a very special day here in Costa Rica, and the small town by the Pacific in which I have washed up is famed for its annual parade. So it was that at 9am on Friday last I made my way from my shack in the rain forest to watch proceedings down in the streets.

The whole place was decked in flags. I had been watching the preparations all week, noting flags billowing from cars and motorbikes, national dress for little girls prominent in the clothes-shop displays, and massed drumming coming from the school, which is twinned with a school in South Korea. The South Korean flag, with its I Ching hexagrams and Yin and Yang centerpiece, flies proudly on the roof beside the red, white and blue of the simple, banded Costa Rican flag.

Red, white and blue. As an Englishman, the coincidence was not lost on me. You do still see mass flag-wavings in England, although they are at state-approved functions such as the Queen’s birthday and often employ a degree of cynicism. Politicians, or rather their advisers, steeped in public relations and its attendant chicanery, believe that it’s okay to let the plebs wave that bloody rag once in a while because, you know, it keeps us in with the Mail readers, much as we despise them. Tony Blair’s PR people, also known as his colleagues, made sure every kiddie had a little Union Flag – it’s only called the Union Jack when flown at sea - the day he was elected British Prime Minister for the first time. Optics, I believe they call it, in some circles.

The flags that flew here were state-supported, alright, but in a very different way. They were supported by the state because the state loves its own country. Never before had I felt so keenly the sheer, nihilistic hatred that the British elites have for the notion of sovereignty, nationhood, country, flag and people. Never before had I felt so sharply the sheer hatred that British politicians have, not for Great Britain, but for England.

The Costa Rican flag itself was adopted in 1906, after a few predecessors which looked a lot like Argentina’s famous sky-blue-and-white flag. Costa Rica’s inaugural First Lady, Pacífica Fernández Oreamuno, designed the current flag in 1848, and based its design on the French tricolor.

Costa Rica’s revolution was rather more bloodless than that of France, but the revolutionary impulse lives in the colours and banding. The current Costa Rican flag, officially, has been adapted to include the country’s coat of arms. This is genuinely ironic - in that it says one thing and means another - as Costa Rica, since 1948, has had no standing army. Think of all the diversity training and gender awareness seminars that has saved the country.

The coat of arms features, instead of martial symbolism, the three local volcanoes and seven stars to represent the seven provinces of Costa Rica, as well as a ship. Costa Rica’s east coast was said to have been one of Columbus’ first ports of call on his first voyage to the Americas. Costa Rica would be the kind of country that would celebrate that idea while, in the USA, angry students are looking to tear down Columbus’s statue. Third world versus first. I know where I stand.

On Friday, I stood in the street and watched the parade pass before me.

And I had never seen so many flags. The parade was seemingly endless. Many of the groups and musicians who passed were children, some very small, decked out in their national colours. An acquaintance had told me that it was amusing to see the adults trying to corral the little ones as they wandered off hither and thither. Thus, it amused me to see the rope boundaries with which the adults kept the toddlers from dispersing. I saw the toothy, skinny little girl who so loves my dogs and always stops to pet them. She was in a majorette uniform and playing an instrument that looked like a cross between a Brazilian guera and a cheese-grater.

After an hour or so watching the parade, I became acutely aware of something. I was crying. Now, I am a bit of a big girl’s blouse, I will be the first to admit, and will cry at the drop of a hat. I finished a biography of a favourite poet once while on a train and made a spectacle of myself when I reached his inevitable death. On the other hand, I cried at Wembley when Arsenal were pick-pocketed 2-3 by Luton Town in the 1988 League Cup final, at which I was present, the year after The Gunners had beaten Liverpool in the ‘Charlie Nicholas’ final. I was at that too, crying with joy.

But this was different. Why, I wondered as I quickly donned dark glasses, was I starting to blub now? I’m not Costa Rican. It was a day of great joy and dancing, smiles on all faces, children and carnival. And there I was acting like a great big, moustachioed baby. Then I got it.

Thousands of people waving their red, white and blue national flag while marching slowly through the streets. Martial drumming. National costume. An outpouring of joy and happiness surrounding the celebration of the creation of a sovereign nation.

In Britain, these people would be called fascists.

Thousands of people marching through a Surrey town – which is a decent comparison with the town I am in - some in uniform, banging drums, decked in the colours of their nation and waving flags as far as the eye could see. Every single head in the editorial offices of The Guardian, The BBC, and The Independent would simultaneously explode. Yasmin Alibhai-Brown, James O’Brien, Giles Coren, Polly Toynbee, Madeleine Bunting and the rest of the prat pack would vomit thousands of words stating that Britain had gone back to Oswald Mosley, that Islamophobia had come to Surrey – a very white area, you know – that white supremacy had reared its ugly head.

The sadness that I felt was born of the joy I could see around me at the very notion that Costa Rica was and is a sovereign state, with borders and national costume and indigenous people and a love of flag and country.

Then I noticed something else.

Again, transposing this parade to England, and our fictional – and they will remain fictional – Union Flag-waving, uniformed, fervently nationalistic little drummer boys, there would have been hundreds and hundreds of police officers present. That would not, in actual fact, be because of any threat posed by the marchers themselves. It would have been due to the fact that one side of the street would have been ranked with jeering, spitting, screaming Muslims holding up placards which, had they been wielded by British nationalists, mutatis mutandis, would have led to imprisonment, and the other side by wild-eyed Antifa hurling abuse, as well as bottles of urine and packets of faeces, as has been recent practice at these events in Europe and the USA. Arrests would have been made, but disproportionately of those sporting anti-Muslim T-shirts rather than Antifa or violent SJWs.

As I say, police numbers would have been in the hundreds, many of them looking intimidating, like something from a dystopian science fiction comic-strip. As I walked around the patchwork labyrinth of the town, trying to send-guess where the procession would appear next, watching the puppet devils and witches and skeletons, ordinary people in extraordinary papier mâché heads, listening to the chiming xylophonics of the pretty lyra, I counted the police officers I saw in half an hour.

I saw five.

Then I understood.

The reason I wish to stay here is that I now hate my own country, hate what it has let itself become. Here, the Costa Rican people love Costa Rica, and that is the end of the argument. They would just laugh at people such as Owen Jones, Deborah Orr, Lily Allen, J K Rowling, Bob Geldof, Jon Snow, and all the other varied puppets who are paid to hate England.

I have moved from a country which loathes and despises itself to a country which celebrates and enjoys itself. I have moved from a country in which all Muslims have to shout is ‘Jump!’ and the government – of any party – whimpers, ‘How high?’, to one in which 0.01% of the country is Muslim – none here, it pleases me to note – and, when they ask for a mosque or some consideration concerning halal, are politely but firmly told to go away. I have moved from a country in which the historical flag is being slowly banned to one where it is worn openly and as a badge of pride and honour.

So, don’t cry for me, Costa Rica. But you made me shed a tear.

Friday, 15 September 2017

PART AND PARCEL: ANOTHER DAY IN TRAUMAVILLE

Damn! I had to miss diversity training for this


The most frightening image from the Parsons Green tube bombing, for me, is the one above. I suspect a lot of policemen love the opportunity to strut around in their Judge Dredd outfits, bellowing orders at terrified passengers, as they did in pubs during the London Bridge Muslim attack, which Diane Abbott referred to as an ‘incident’. I also suspect that the copper pictured above is not thinking politically correct thoughts although, to ensure his continued employment, he must give voice to them, probably on a daily basis.
The elites love terrorism, of course, which is one of the several reasons they adore Islam. Unstable personalities fed at the teat of an insane book about an insane man, fed from arsehole to beak with grievances, and then let loose on what used to be England. Traumaville relies on fear, its very being given structure by the secret thought every commuter has that she might end her tube journey dead or severely injured because of people invited into an already overfull city by malevolent politicians for whom the amygdala – the seat of conscience – is just something that happened to other people.
Islam’s man on the inside in London, mayor Sadiq Khan, has issued the usual mewling statement. Interestingly, he mentions ‘an evil and cowardly individual’. How does he know the bomber acted alone? I am convinced Khan is part of the chain of command which enables Islamic terrorism in London. He should watch his words. He also famously called terrorism ‘part and parcel’ of living in a major city. Sure. Like Budapest or Warsaw or San José or Tokyo, where there are no Muslims and thus no threat of terrorism.
And now the usual round of warnings will begin. They will not, however, be warnings against Islamisation or terrorism as such, but warnings against Islamophobia. The Guardian will run some feature by someone with an exotic-sounding name saying, essentially, don’t let’s be beastly to the Muslims. Brand Islam is protected by the British government, and the governments of a Europe Britain will never be allowed to leave, far more strongly than those imperialist, patriarchal, fuddy-duddy old notions such as Enlightenment rationality, freedom of expression, national identity and other fading embers.
As the British government endeavours to build a country at war with itself – slavishly copying the USA as ever – and stokes the flames of what should already be a civil war, one wonders what it is all for. Do the British despise themselves over empire in the same way that Germans have a self-loathing because of the Holocaust? It certainly seems that way.
Whatever the reason, the result is Traumaville, where everyone should be afraid but not too afraid, and if the pub becomes a bit too risky and makes you too nervous, there is always staying in with Netflix and the telly and video games and oriental cuisine from the supermarket.
Welcome to Traumaville. Be not too afraid.

Sunday, 10 September 2017

BLACK AND WHITE, UNITE AND FIGHT! PREFERABLY WITH ONE ANOTHER




 But I thought you said we were all equal



Racism. If you live in the Anglophone world, you will be keenly aware that there is no greater evil. The racist used to be – in a world where lexical definition once existed unmolested – a person who believed that there were differences between races which served to differentiate them in a way other than skin colour and physical characteristics. There was a time when, if told you that you were about to meet a Swede, a Nigerian, and a Tibetan, you would have been allowed to assume that this trio would probably exhibit different personality types.

Nowadays, a curious thing has taken place. You are no longer legitimately permitted to make the assumption of our ingenu. It still exists, of course. Our three chums above will still be very different. Tibet is not Sweden and Sweden is not Nigeria. Do shout out if reality becomes too troublesome for you. But it is not the reality which interests the Leftist anti-racist. She is far more interested in the expression of that reality, and the strict censorship and policing of that reality.

Of course different nationalities, different races, have different traits, natures and abilities. It is one of the few things, in my modest opinion, that make many people in any way interesting. Although the elites would like it if all humans were identikit clones, believing the same things and enjoying the same things and failing to think in exactly the same way, but there is stalwart reality which, as Philip K Dick reminds us, is that stratum of the world which does not go away just because you stop believing in it.

But ‘racism’ has fallen foul of the reallocation of semantic meaning which has become such a virus this century. It no longer means the recognition that Ashkenazi Jews have the highest mean IQ in the world. It no longer means the fact that black men run faster than white men because of the narrowness of their pelvic girdles and the concomitantly greater efficiency of lines of force. It no longer means that the country that evolutionary biologists and geneticists investigate when they want an example of the purest DNA on the planet is Iceland. No. It means that someone white voiced doubts about immigration, or objected to the behaviour of urban blacks, or stated that perhaps the Confederate South in the USA can keep its monuments because morality changes over time and the ethical standards of the present day may not legitimately be applied to the past.

Of course, ‘racism’ is in danger of being superceded as the ultimate sin by ‘white supremacy’, as the real target of the post-modern Left comes into focus between the cross-hairs. But it will have had a sensational run. Here is a short list of the features of contemporary racism:

·        Only whites can be racist. As the Left irritably reiterates, as though explaining the properties of a triangle for the twentieth time to a particularly stupid student, blacks lack power, and only those with power can be racist. They neglect to tackle the fact that, as the USA undergoes increasing and steady Detroitisation, blacks are gaining a great deal of power. Will they soon be allowed to be racists too, or is racism like a golf club in the Hamptons?

·        All whites are racist. This is, of course, the Biblical doctrine of original sin, re-branded and colour-coded so that it can be easily located in the morality dime-store in which the Leftist shops.

·        Many things, objects, gestures, events and so on, are racist. Milk, the ‘okay’ sign made by circling the thumb and index finger, hurricanes, Christmas, sombreros (if worn by white people); the list is already a long one, and ‘Liberals’ – another word which has changed markedly in meaning – are always looking to add more.

·        Racism is not confined to white adults, but can begin in the cradle. There have already been incidents in the UK of very young children being interviewed by the police for making racist remarks in the playground. The playground.

·        A charge of racism is now a rather dangerous thing, if you have any aspirations to earning a living, particularly in the public sector. Years ago, I used to scoff at the ubiquitous phrase ‘for fear of being called racist’ which appeared in so many stories featuring authorities too sheepish to act on ethnic crime. Now, a public accusation of racism in Europe will remain with you like a swarm of bees. And should you refuse to allow your child to go on a visit to a mosque, their name will forever be tainted with the odour of racism.

And the reason this quasi-religious inquisition has been allowed to coalesce, as I have consistently pointed out, is that while the Left run the West de facto, and base their success largely on a demonisation of any white person foolish enough to be critical of non-whites, they are utterly uninterested in non-whites per se. The Left uses blacks to impose ideology every bit as much as slave owners – who still exist in the moneyed and largely Arabic-owned enclaves of London such as Kensington and Chelsea every much as they did in the plantations of Louisiana – to do their job for them. Then, it was picking cotton. Now, it is enabling Orwellian thought control and a fascistic conformity.

Finally, this witch-finding has been instrumental in creating the dissident and Alt. Right. If a group of people are called ‘racist’ long and unanswerably enough, one can hardly be surprise if they accept the appellation and begin being racist together. Of course, there are blowhards such as Andrew Anglin, of the currently unavailable Daily Stormer, whose constant use of ‘kikes’, ‘niggers’, ‘shitskins’, and a whole colourful lexicon makes one weary. But a lot of other people – myself included - became interested in such topics as comparative IQ, race-norming, affirmative action and so on partly because the Left seemed so determined to place a cordon sanitaire around those topics.

As a guiding principle, the more the Left screams and cries and accuses concerning one of its various -isms and -phobias, the more likely investigation into those areas is to yield fruit to the patient observer. And now, if you will excuse me, I have some racism to attend to.