Wednesday, 25 April 2018


This woman had the nerve to call me 'sweetie'

Touched by your presence

Sitting outside the apartment the other day, I realised what a pleasant existence it is here compared with London. I am reasonably poor here, as opposed to the relative fortune I was earning in London, but the difference in not to be measured in shekels, my boys.
It was a relatively cool day, which meant that it was just very hot. But there was a pleasant breeze as I moved backwards and forwards, book in hand, in my rocking chair. Yes, there comes a time in his life when a man relaxes in a rocking chair. I would like to invent one for musicians called a rocking and rolling chair. Another time, perhaps.
Well, a Tico had arrived with a long aluminium pole bearing a sharp hooked blade on the end. They usually use them for taking down the African palm oil in the plantations, but this was to take down the coconuts which were starting to threaten those round and about. Did you know that 200 people every year around this great, vast, spinning globe of ours die from being conked on the noggin by falling coconuts? You do now. Sadly, these are a rubbish type of coconut, a bit like having a burger in a Wimpy bar, and the water – usually so nutritious – is not worth drinking. Anyway, where was I?
Ah, yes. My book. As Old Traumavillians will be only too aware, I am the proud owner of a philosophy PhD, and still delve into the subject when I have a spare moment during which I am not smothered in beautiful women or dodging coconuts. Also, of late, I have been boning up on history, and have recently polished off two blockbusters, one on the Third Reich, the other on the American Civil War. With both volumes, laughs were hard to come by, I must say, and I do seek out a little light to balance the shade, from time to time.
I was given a pile of music books a while back, and I elected to calm down with a biography of Debbie Harry. I always loved Blondie, mainly for Parallel Lines, for me a near-perfect pop album.
The book is not bad, but I expected my enthusiasm to wane after the Blondie period. Far from it. Deborah Harry by Cathay Che becomes a more interesting read as Harry’s life and career progress. The interview with Harry’s long-term partner and Blondie guitarist Chris Stein – who Harry nursed back to health when he suffered from a rare skin condition – is also a treat. I never saw Blondie, but that does not stop me having a Debbie Harry story. Oh no.
It’s around 1990. My flatmate, who works at a music magazine, calls me and asks if I want to see Debbie Harry’s new band at a London venue called Break for the Border. He can get me on the guest list. Why, certainly, I said. I had to get a move on, though. This was a last-minute deal. I high-tailed it up to the Charing Cross Road and thought I might just make the first number.
I more or less ran into the venue, not realising that I had taken the wrong entrance and was actually under the main stage. Being a total duffer when it comes to sense of direction, instead of the obvious right I should have taken, I went left, and stupidly took a racing line. If there had been someone coming the other way, I would have run into them. There was someone coming the other way. I ran into them.
I did that thing you do when you literally run into someone. I placed a hand on either arm of the lady I had bumped into and apologised. Resplendent in leopard-print pants and a fabulous blouse, the lady seemed unfazed by my antics. I looked into her eyes and all I could think to say was,
You’re Debbie Harry’.
She coolly replied,
Yes I am, sweetie. And I’m late.’
And with that particular smile from the world’s most famous Cupid’s bow, she made her way to the stage. I legged it back out, found the correct entrance, confirmed that my name was on the guest list, and got into the auditorium just as Ms. Harry hit the stage – with a rejuvenated Chris Stein – to rip through an excellent set of classics and new material.
So, what you have to force yourself to accept is this.
I have held Debbie Harry in my arms.


Old man river

Well, it has finally reached 50. Like I did a long while ago. Enoch Powell’s so-called ‘Rivers of blood’ speech has probably had more words written about it than Thucydides’ funeral oration for Pericles. Powell edited the works of Thucydides for the Oxford University Press, incidentally. The youngest professor of Greek in the British Empire, Powell used to take down his House of Commons notes in Ancient Greek, in which he was fluent, as he was in several other languages including Urdu. Diane Abbott probably uses crayon for her notes and does them in pictures. This is where we have got to.
I am not going to bother to point out why Powell’s ‘rivers of blood’ speech is mis-named, or why Powell was right, or why he was the greatest Prime Minister Britain never had. All I will say is this. My brother once met Sir Edward Heath, the man responsible for Powell being dismissed from his post. My brother is wonderful, but I regret that he neglected to address the Rt. Hon. Mr. Heath as he should have been addressed.
George Cornell was a London gangster who died in a London pub called The Blind Beggar – where I have drunk many times – when he was shot in the head by Ronnie Kray. Kray had taken offence to being referred to as what my brother really ought to have called Heath;
You fat poof’.

An influential, intelligent black woman. Wrong type, sadly

Black mischief

Now, this could be a false flag operation, and I am taking care not to be fooled. Rapper Kanye West has endorsed Candace Owens, a feisty black girl with an IQ – I would imagine – at least two standard deviations above the musically appalling West. This has driven some of his herd into predictable boo-hoo mode, in much the same way that Morrissey fans have been tearing out their pubic hair over his comments from last week. Owens really is worth watching – more than you can say for West, who has always looked just that little bit retarded to me – and I have written about her in previous postcards. She is also known as ‘Red pill black’. Once again, it is house nigger time. Black people are, of course, magic negroes, but only if they talk right. Owens is a classical conservative, much like myself, who criticises the black ‘community’ - you know, the one that shoots each other – for living in the past and not the future. A past, she adds, through which they did not themselves live. A chorus of disapproval has been her reward. You can be black, but y’all behave, you hear me? And talk right, dammit. Blacks today have swapped actual plantations for ideological ones.

The Frenchman it's okay to like

Thanks for the memories, Arsène
Finally, Arsène Wenger, manager of my team, Arsenal FC, has announced that he will leave the club. Almost 22 years in the job, and the longest-serving manager in the British Premier League, he won three league titles, seven FA Cups, got the team to the Champions League final, and provided me, quite frankly, with more pleasure than most Frenchmen ever have. Before being knocked out of this year’s FA Cup by Nottingham Forest, Arsenal had won that trophy three years out of four. I saw those respective finals on the goggle-box in London, Munich and Costa Rica. The FA Cup has been belittled in recent years, because FIFA now promotes the European Champions League, the FA Cup being seen as too nationalistic, but it is still more exciting than poofs in blouses and footballs with stars on them.
The players who played under Wenger are legendary. Wright, Bergkamp, Pires, Vieira, Petit, Henry; the list is a long one.
Wenger was an unpromising player, although I deem a photograph of his manager at Strasbourg, Gilbert Gress, essential at this point. Now that all soccer managers look like accountants, I feel it is worth pointing out that it is cooler to look like the bass player in a Velvet Underground Tribute band formed by ex-members of Baader Meinhof.

So, farewell then, Mr. Wenger. How rare it is that famous people in these times give me genuine pleasure. The Europa Cup would be a nice retirement present.

Oh, Canada. What the fuck were you thinking?

The dangers of narcissism

Toronto has perhaps seen the version of Islam that the European press has been trying to suppress. Hmm, an etymological link there, I feel. Anyone not taking Chlorpromazine three times a day, wearing a rubber hat, and resident in a psychiatric hospital can see what Trudeau is. He is a show pony enjoying the limelight. He likes going on his trips, wearing a new hat every day like Mr. Benn, and showing Muslims what a great guy he is. I am still waiting for what his explanation of this week’s vehicular jihad in Toronto will be, to find out if it turns out to be another Muslim attack. Trudeau is the man, let us recall, who stated that ‘if you kill your enemies, they win.’ I hope the charming gentleman from Toronto who I recently played in a band with here – an excellent keyboard player – and his wonderful daughter are not among the dead, injured, or affected.

Monday, 23 April 2018


Hello, publisher? Joseph Conrad here.
I have this novel called The Nigger of the Narcissus...
Hello? Hello?

Ask of each thing, what is it in itself? What is its nature?
Marcus Aurelius, Meditation

Oh, there’s more to life than books, you know.
But not much more.

There are, I suppose, the great questions of every age. Scientists, philosophers, statesmen, historians will all have grappled with the burning questions of their respective day. What, then, is the paramount query with which we ought to be grappling in 2018? I know what I would an answer to that.
What do the Left want?
I don’t mean the tawdry shopping list of superficial grievances which becomes longer and more surreal by the week, the autistic inventory of transgender toilets, black reparations, gender pronouns, online policing, recognition of Islamophobia, recognition of white racism, the much-desired imposition of Islam on Europe, homosexuality, safe spaces, gun control in the USA, banning of free speech and its practitioners, mandatory hatred of men, mass immigration, impeachment of Trump and all the other whining and infantile demands the Left chant for under their placards. These abstractions are like binary code used by computer programmers to create the image or text you see on your screen. It enables, but does not fully explain. What, ultimately, is that image?
What do the Left want?
The answer is simple, and has two symbiotic elements; power and control.
Power and control are like two sides of a piece of paper, recto and verso. One could not exist without the other nor the other without the one. To have power over another is to control what she can or cannot do, and to control what another can or cannot do is to have power over them. They are not synonymous but, like a nut and bolt, essentially linked and each useless without the other. But, for our purposes, these powerful siblings conjure up misleading images.
Power. Control. Our imaginations come alive with jackboots kicking open doors, plantation bullwhips, clench-fisted dictators on podiums, panopticons and airstrikes and sun-kings.
But anyone who has ever been to a management training meeting, or walked the streets of the poorer quarters of a Western city, or watched a BBC drama, or crossed an international border, or claimed welfare, benefits or social security, or any one of a thousand routine experiences that seem innocuous enough, already knows about power and control.
One of the defining features of contemporary Western governments is their unshakeable belief in the malleability of their citizens, and one of the saddest aspects of this belief is that they are, for the most part, right. Advertising is the dark heart of this cultural manipulation, and no company would spend the insane amount of money they do promoting the crap they sell if they did not believe unswervingly that their money was well spent. Social media is the latest battleground, and Zuckerberg and his ilk believe – not without reason – that to promote the Leftist ideology and censor and remove the dissident opposition is the best way to produce what their globalist puppet-masters want. Now, as with any war, a new front has opened up, and a new battleground is appearing through the gunsmoke.
If you are readers of novels, you are in for a very rude awakening, because the incursions made by the cultural Marxist enemy has finally reached your redoubt, which you had held firm since Lady Chatterley got her knickers off.
The usual form with an aspiring novelist is that he or she prepares their manuscript and sends it off to a publishing house. In London, these are almost always staffed by women and those women usually have double-barrelled names. They will pass your manuscript on to a ‘reader’, who will decide whether it is what that particular publishing house deems any good. This filtration system has several levels and, if your book gets through them, you too could be the next J K Rowling, should you wish to be a Leftist twat.
But now there is a new requirement. Not only does your novel have to be exciting, well crafted, full of believable characters and all the other classic necessities for a good read. It now has to be perused by something called a ‘sensitivity reader’. Let’s have a look at what these people do.
Writing in the Margins is a small-time organisation which helps aspiring writers get published. The provision of ‘sensitivity readers’ is one of the services they offer. Their website contains a useful description of exactly what a sensitivity readers does;

A sensitivity reader reads through a manuscript for issues of representation and bias on the page. The goal of a sensitivity reader isn’t to edit a manuscript clarity and logic [sic], although that may be an additional service offered. A sensitivity reader reviews a manuscript for internalised bias and negatively charged language. A sensitivity reader is there to help make sure you do not make a mistake, but they are also NOT a guarantee against making a mistake.’

Read it again, because it is the language of the future of literature. ‘Internalised bias’, ‘negatively charged language’, ‘issues of representation’, ‘help make sure you do not make a mistake’. So much is unspoken, but nowadays it does not need to be spoken because we have learned to read more than novels. We have learned to read the Left.
A sensitivity reader will be looking for unsympathetic representations of non-whites. That’s it. Trailing behind will be inappropriately heroic women characters, a lack of queers, no transgender toilets mentioned in the hotel scene. Let’s go a little further into Writing in the Margins’ specification. Their summing-up of the role of the sensitivity reader is as follows;

Sensitivity readers can help you identify problematic language and internalised bias on the page when writing outside of your experiences. This is not a guarantee that others will not have issues with your work. But it is a way to attempt to catch and correct high level issues prior to submission or publication.’

Problematic language.’ ‘Internalised bias.’ ‘Writing outside of your experiences.’ ‘Issues with your work’. ‘High level issues’. An interesting technique of the Left is never to name the target of their concerns, but to use a cross between management-speak and Neuro-Linguistic Programming to leave you in no doubt as to what it is. I love ‘writing outside of your experiences’. That is, you know, sort of what fiction writers do. Otherwise it’s called a diary. What they mean, of course, is whites writing black characters into their novels.
So what is it? What do the Left want, in the world of fiction? Let’s look at a case study. This is from The New York Times in December 2017;

Late last year, the novelist Keira Drake announced that her publisher was giving away copies of her upcoming young adult novel, “The Continent,” a fantasy set in a world where two nations have been at war for centuries. “It’s raining books!” she wrote.
Her enthusiasm was quickly punctured. Online reviews poured in, and they were brutal. Readers pounced on what they saw as racially charged language in the descriptions of the warring tribes and blasted it as “racist trash,” “retrograde” and “offensive.” Ms. Drake and her publisher, Harlequin Teen, apologized and delayed the book’s publication.
In the year since, “The Continent” has changed drastically. Harlequin hired two sensitivity readers, who vetted the narrative for harmful stereotypes and suggested changes. Ms. Drake spent six months rewriting the book, discarding descriptions like her characterization of one tribe as having reddish-brown skin and painted faces. The new version is due out in March.’

Now we can see clearly. In the future, every novel will have been vetted for racial quotas, negative stereotypes, inappropriate language, racial insensitivity and all the other colours in the kiddie’s paintbox the Left use to control thought.
Of course, the publishing industry is shooting itself in the bollocks on this one. When every novel written is a bland paste made from magic negroes, wide-eyed and wonderful Pakistani girls, brave people in wheelchairs, transgender folk fighting society’s iniquities, Muslims weeping over Islamophobia, and the evil whites who cause all of this – because that is the corollary to the promoted victim identities – people will stop reading them.
This is all good, partly because Joanna Smith-Thompson, and all the other popsies who run British publishing, will have to look for proper jobs, and they won’t be able to get them. Also, it is highlighting the importance of self-publishing. I met a charming English girl here in Costa Rica last year who had self-published a teenage science-fantasy novel which had done quite well. She told me – although I have not confirmed this – that something like 60% of the UK bestseller list is comprised of self-published books.
Now, these are non-fiction, but Tommy Robinson’s Enemy of the State and Raheem Kassam’s Enoch was Right both stormed up the best-seller charts, despite a media blackout. Thus, the media is mattering less and less, and independent voices more and more.
Sensitivity readers are not going to control the thoughts of intelligent people. All they will do is turn people away from conventional publishing. Read ‘em and weep.

Sunday, 22 April 2018


Hello, can we come in?
Wait, where are you all going?

Now, it’s a known fact that racism comes in two forms: that practiced by whites – heinous and inexcusable, whatever its motives – and that practiced by blacks – quite justified, whatever its excesses, since it’s merely the expression of a righteous revenge, and it’s up to whites to be patient and understanding.

Jean Raspail, Camp of the Saints

The largest demographic shift in history has now settled into a tiresome rhythm, tiresome, that is, for the casual observer. For those directly affected by the mass importation of radical Islam – and Islam is radical - ‘tiresome’ is an insultingly bland way to describe this dramatised, real-life version of Jean Raspail’s Camp of the Saints. Demographic shift, however, is not a one-way street in modern Europe.
For some time now, Germans have been moving to Hungary. ‘White flight’ is a well-known phenomenon within countries where white people leave urban enclaves as a direct result of black people moving in. They have every right to do this, but of course are labelled ‘racist’ by the moral arbitrators who have hijacked culture and politics. On a larger scale, however, it may be that the retirement that working Europeans have spent their lives saving and preparing pensions for may not be spent in their countries of origin.
What will European countries look like in 100 years’ time? Given that the world is still rolling through the heavens, and hasn’t been blown up by Arabs, Jews , Yanks or Russians, I suspect it will have settled into de facto white secession. As I said the other day in an email to a friend, I don’t really want to paint myself into the corner of white supremacy. I am deeply suspicious of the Richard Spencer types. Also, I have attended too many English football matches, and seen the crowds of white apes gesturing and gibbering, to believe that ‘the white race’ is some coherent concept to be encouraged and urged to dominate. This is ironic and hypocritical, really, as I also believe that it will be football fans who may be the shock troops if a civil war does come to England.
However, the only blacks and Muslims white people are prepared to befriend and live in close quarters to are the ones who behave like normal, polite, mannered, relatively reserved white people. Unfortunately, these are also a species in decline.
In my lifetime, and in my culture, limited as it was to the south of England and the suburbs of London, I have seen people in the main go from self-respecting, quiet, polite, thoughtful folk to a pack of tattooed, aggressive, noisy, fat oafs who seem unable to walk the streets without eating starchy snacks and drinking chemical-laced soft drinks whose sole purpose seems to be to infuriate them even further. The last time I walked London’s streets, I saw little joy. It is pleasant here in Costa Rica to stroll down to a bar or a soccer match. The people you pass say hello or pura vida, and there is simply none of the miasma of latent aggression that lingers over London Town like a bad smell.
So, people who can’t take it any more will be upping sticks for a number of reasons. Islam, blacks, the white underclass, all of these are unpleasant to be around and will cause white flight on a micro and macro scale. Perhaps this is just nature doing its famous balancing act. In the same way that the jungle is a perfectly equilibriate eco-system in which other animals avoid the scorpion, the fer de lance and the boa constrictor, so too Europe may become a cultural eco-system in which some creatures avoid other natural predators and venomous menaces.
Unfortunately for those who want to improve their lives and protect their families, this is not what the elites desire. Such is their eagerness to inflict the results of their plans on the white middle class as it exists across Europe and the USA that every attempt at white flight will be met with elite resistance. You could see this with Obama’s Affordable Housing Act, under which it was made easier for blacks to move into affluent areas whites had moved to precisely to live far away from black culture.
All of this, of course, is the grossest racism in the eyes of the elites and their media elves. In their bizarre and resentful worldview, whites have to pay for the perceived sins of the past by living cheek by jowl with the disenfranchised in the present. But racism is nearing the end of its useful life for this malevolent class. The very use of the word is beginning to resemble the guy with the gun in the movies who has fired every round and whose gun is now uselessly clicking away.
And so Europe is re-aligning itself. Coming in, adherents to a violent quasi-religious ideology whose idea of integration is that the host people conform to the tenets of Islam. Going out, quite possibly, those with the money to move to the dissident countries of the V4 who defy Brussels by refusing to allow Islam within their borders. Now, these people will bring with them positive social capital even as negative social capital flows into Europe. 90% of immigrants to Austria are unemployed. Also, the nations of Western Europe lose their talent and capability in a manner analogous to the ‘brain-drain’ of the 1970s, in which British talent emigrated to the USA.
And so the elites' plan may backfire, as their ruinous immigration strategy creates strong, healthy and white countries to the East, while creating Islamised and ghettoised hellholes to the West. (Never forget that Islam is not monolithic. Its various sects hate one another just as much as they hate the Jew and the kufr.) Then, if those countries ally themselves with Russia, the EU will have created a power bloc of potentially vast capability, intelligence and reach. And so, the EU may have tied the traditional hangman’s 13 loops into the rope with which it will hang itself.

Saturday, 21 April 2018


Possibly not the Nicaraguan Tourist Board's photo of choice

Gabba gabba, we accept you, one of us

Following what appears to be my lifetime ban from Twitter, I started an account at Gab. This platform prides itself on maintaining free speech, and I don’t believe anything short of child pornography would get you into any kind of trouble there. There are far more nutters there – I have been accused of being Jewish and had my very own, first death threat – but I realised something. I’m a nutter too. That’s why I’m not on Twitter anymore. I think the straw that fucked the camel’s back on Twitter was when I told some Leftist twat to act on his suicidal thoughts. I hadn’t read his profile, how was I to know he was a manic depressive? I suppose if I was a Leftist twat I would be manic depressive too. Twitter, as everyone knows, is purging anyone politically to the right of Tony Benn, and will soon be like going to a party with all the wankers from your class at school. And Lily Allen.

Girls on film

My musical week, along with my regular gigs, has revolved around a lo-fi album I am currently recording. The various online platforms make it wonderfully possible to promote your music as well as your writing, and I am scarcely looking for fame and fortune. If 10 people listen to it and three like it, that will do for me. In search of inspiration, I find it is the gals who have come up with the goods. After reading Viv Albertine’s brilliant autobiography, I have listened to The Slits a lot. This is Spend, Spend, Spend.
As mentioned in a previous postcard, Patti Smith has always played a big part in my musical life, and I rediscovered the lush and creepy Dancing Barefoot
My latest discovery is Larkin Poe, who I think are sisters, and are possibly from Florida. I know, there is nothing to compare with journalistic accuracy. Anyway, they cover blues songs, and this is Black Betty
Thanks, gals. As for the rest of you, when my album is ready – and it really is lo-fi, recorded partly in my apartment and partly in the jungle – you will be among the first to know. I have just commissioned artwork from my favourite living artist. It will be titled Paradise Avenue, after the Avenue del Paraiso, the only actual street name in my town.

Night of the long knives

Expect Dr. Martin Griffiths, a trauma surgeon at Bart’s Hospital in London, to be nobbled by the British deep state before too many moons have come and gone. He has been talking candidly – which is what you never do in Britain - about the state of the British capital’s knife crime epidemic, calling the daily procession of punctured youths ‘the new normal’. He says,
Every day an ambulance rolls up with a kid who has been stabbed. That can’t be right. We’re not at war.’
Up to a point, sir. London may not be at war, but it is caught up in a war. At some stage, even the Socialists who run London will have to realise, or admit that they have known all along, that the knife problem – along with the gun problem, much of the drug problem, and a good deal of the rape problem – is actually a black problem. Instead of being coddled and patronised, young black men need to be hit so fucking hard their ears ring and their noses bleed. All the time we have to listen to the gormless mantra of ‘racist racist racist’, more blacks will die, despite the expert attention of heroes like Dr. Griffiths.

A riot of my own

As documented in previous episodes, I spent an enjoyable week in Managua, the capital of Nicaragua. I fully intend to go back to this poor and magical country, on a recce to see if there is a music scene there which might provide bread, beer and a tin roof over my head. However, all is not well. Anti-government protests have left 10 people dead and are spreading from Managua. Changes to the social security system are being blamed, but there is widespread dissatisfaction with what is an obviously corrupt government. Transparency International, as I have mentioned before, is a body tracking international governmental corruption. For context, and the index includes 176 countries, Denmark is the world’s least corrupt country, with Somalia propping up the league table. The UK lies tenth, tying with Germany and Luxembourg, the US is at number 18, and my own dear little Costa Rica ties with Spain – ironically – at 41. Nicaragua hangs its head in shame at 145. I’m still going back, though. There is the early flicker of a flame in the heart that indicates a coming love affair with Nicaragua. I just hope they haven’t trashed Tacos Charros, my favourite restaurant.

Friday, 20 April 2018


Poetry in motion? No, positive affirmation

Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world.

Percy Bysshe Shelley, A Defence of Poetry

The dismantling of white British culture is picking up pace quicker than a Southall Pakistani racing away from faulty traffic lights in a stolen car in an attempt to impress some white sluts. The long march through the institutions continues, and the latest station of the crass is poetry.
British poetry has always been a great love of mine, and one which I have disgracefully neglected in recent years. The great Lord Byron, Yeats and his Irish mythology, poor doomed Shelley, ex-medical student Keats with his spot of blood on the kerchief that told him he would die of tuberculosis, the dryness of Larkin, Owen and Sassoon – who I once played in a drama called Not About Heroes – Milton, Tennyson – whose Lady of Shalott is the first poem I ever read - the haunted work of T. S. Eliot, Blake and his visions of angels. Poetry is everything television is not.
Now, as you would expect, there is something called a Young People’s Laureate for London. Equally predictable is the fact that she is a Somalian-heritage Muslim woman called Momtaza Mehri. At least for what remains of my lifetime, poets receiving money or patronage from the state are never again going to have names like John Betjeman or W. H. Auden. Nor will they be white.
She is in the news as it transpires that she has written in the past of Britain’s ‘unbridled Islamophobia’ and ‘established racism’. You have a point, darling. I tend to be afraid of people who want to run me over or blow me up, and I don’t particularly enjoy standing at bus stops with blacks. But that’s just me. Fair play to you, poppet.
Mehri’s poetry is utter shite, as you would also expect if you are a keen observer of how Britain is mutating and de-evolving. Here is an example of her poesie;

Can this bitch stop calling us like we’re friends
Like she knows us like that
Like we love her back
Pop each bone like gum
Even my bones are blushing
Memes as coping mechanism
As dramatic irony
As in I have more faith in a green muppet than most politicians
Mercy as a clinical approach
When the time comes
I want the luxury of thermostat soup and the rotation of visitors
Not the sudden
The sodden
What renders language redundant
What cannot be written
By which the hand that feeds it
Some days
Afrofuturism feels like an oxymoron.

Fucking hell. Where do you even start? I bet Diane Abbott loves it. There is only one problem with Ms. Mehri’s poetry, and it has little to do with assonance or dithyramb, pentameter or alliteration. The problem is that it isn’t poetry, it’s a pre-menstrual text message. Good poetry lifts the soul and allows the spirit to clamber onto the shoulders of giants and see a new horizon from a higher vantage point. This is just old saucepan fat, uppity nig-nog fuckery, a stagnant puddle beneath a leaking urinal. It is utterly fucking useless, joyless, and talentless, and I bet it pays well.
At my old university, Sussex, there has been a competition since the 1960s known as the Robin Lee Poetry Prize. Robin was a student at Sussex in the sixties, and tragically took his own life, as a surprising amount of university students do. As Robin dabbled in poetry, his bereaved mother set up the competition, which was open – rather fairly, I thought - to students but not faculty. I know this because I won it in 1981. I wish I could print the poem, but I believe the only copy is in my mother’s attic 7,000 miles away from where I am seated. Gabriel Josipovici, noted Kafka scholar, called it ‘a real poem’. One day I will find it and print it here. It is better than the emissions of the pudgy poet laureate printed above, and you can tattoo that on your arm. So, in a small way, I know what I am talking about.
There. My late father used to say that if you’ve got a trumpet, blow it, because no one else is going to blow it for you.
Mehri’s work is not poetry, it is propaganda. It is Marxist graffiti on a toilet wall in which Gramsci has just had a shit – I should leave that for a few minutes if I were you. Poetry should never speak but ought to allude, should lead the reader to a place once glimpsed but never fully seen. Poetry should leave you, after you have read it, with a sense that the world has taken on a subtle new dimension, shown a new and fallen leaf, lit up a dark space in the forest. From T. S. Eliot’s Little Gidding;

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.

That does not feel as Ms. Mehri’s poetry feels, like a third wank of the morning in a nylon-sheeted bedsit.
You see, real poetry concerns itself with beautifying the world by entwining words with one another, like spent lovers laying in a cornfield. It is not just some Paki with a grudge and an iPhone. They can try to fuck up my culture as much as they wish, but I am still going to have it in my inside pocket, just like Shelley kept a volume of Keats in his, even while he was drowning. Momtaza Mehri will be invited to all sorts of chippy multicultural galas by goblin-wallah Sadiq Khan, but no white person in any pub in England will ever read a word of the dribbling diarrhea she calls poetry. It is not enough to wrap your mum’s tablecloth around your head and whine about racism. You must wield the pen and live a life.

Thursday, 19 April 2018


The boy with the thorn in his side

Bengali in platforms…

Oh, shelve your Western plans

And understand

That life is hard enough

When you belong here.

Morrissey, Bengali in Platforms

The Smiths were what we British used to call a Marmite band. Like that tangy, savoury spread tailor-made for toast, you either love them or you hate them. Like Marmite, I loved them and still do. Manchester produced some of my favourite rock and pop groups. Happy Mondays I was indifferent about, and I always thought The Stone Roses were over-rated shitehawks, but The Smiths, The Fall, and Joy Division/New Order have brightened my days.
Morrissey, even since The Smiths disbanded and he went solo, commands an almost religious reverence from his fans, although among some of the faithful this may be about to change. You see, he is no longer singing from the accepted and acceptable song-sheet.
In an interview for his website, Stephen Patrick Morrissey has expressed the following views:
  • Brexit, of which he appears to be in favour, will not be allowed to happen despite a democratic mandate. Seeing what has just happened in the House of Lords, he seems prophetic.
  • Hitler was Left-wing.
  • The British Labour and Conservative parties are essentially identical, particularly in that they do not object to any aspect, however disgusting, of Islamic culture.
  • The practice of halal meat preparation is ‘evil’. (It bears pointing out that Morrissey is a long-time vegetarian).
  • The new political party For Britain, headed by Anne Marie Waters and predictably vilified as far Right-wing by the media, is a viable alternative to traditional politics.
  • Muslim Mayor of London Sadiq Khan is unable to talk properly.
  • My personal favourite, Labour Shadow Home Secretary Diane Abbott would not even be employed by British supermarket chain Tesco.
Well, now. The most refreshing aspect of this fusillade is that you can count the pop stars – and The Smiths were huge for a few years, with a string of UK hits – who would dare to put their heads above the parapet like this, even if they believed secretly in what Morrissey is saying, on the fingers of one finger.
The most irritating aspect of this interview as far as the Vichy British press is concerned is that Morrissey is obviously articulate and intelligent. He is not Katy Perry or some rap goblin or a gormless Puck from a boy band. I am, if I say so myself, something of a connoisseur of English poetry, and Morrissey has given me so much pleasure over the years with the imagery, wit and charm of his lyrics, I am prepared to label him a latter-day Byron or Keats. Another list, this time lyrics from the great man himself:

  • There’s more to life than books, you know, but not much more. (Handsome Devil)
  • I’ve seen this happen in other people’s lives, now it’s happening in mine. (That Joke isn’t Funny Anymore)
  • If you’re so very entertaining, then why do you sleep alone at night? (I Know it’s Over)
  • As Anthony said to Cleopatra as he opened a crate of ale, oh I say. Some girls are bigger than others. (Some Girls are Bigger than Others)
  • So I broke into the palace with a sponge and a rusty spanner. She said, I know you and you cannot sing. I said, that’s nothing, you should hear me play pianner. (The Queen is Dead)

I could go on all day, but some of you may not like Marmite.
It cannot be said that Morrissey is not without Leftist leanings. He famously wrote the song from his debut album, Margaret on the Guillotine, about Margaret Thatcher and concerning which my mother was not best pleased. She didn’t like Thatcher, she’s just called Margaret.
But Morrissey is, as the press tiredly say, no stranger to controversy. He marked his card many years ago by proclaiming that ‘All reggae music is vile’, wrote a song criticising disco music – both of these occurred when blacks were at the front of the victim queue, before Muslims pushed in – and once played a gig against a backdrop of – gasp! - the British Union Jack.
But now, according to my London correspondent, Twitter is seeing a bushfire of rage from ex-fans of our man Mozza. I am permanently banned from Twitter, and cannot verify, but I have no reason to doubt that, in terms of social media, it’s Strangeways, here we come for the Mancunian crooner. Apparently, Smiths fans are now claiming to have loved Johnny Marr – the wonderful guitarist from The Smiths – all along. Marr is an extraordinary guitarist whose jangling choral melodies gave Morrissey the space and light to make The Smiths what they were. Politically, however, he’s just another intellectual spastic virtue-signalling from his ivory tower.
One of the most depressing aspects of modern political culture is the constant stream of autistic political commentary from pop stars, actors, fashion designers, sportsmen and just about anyone else who has been given a helping hand – as well as a fortune – by the largesse of the white west. In a manner reminiscent of the Communist blacklist of the McCarthy era, anyone failing to make the correct statements on, say, Trump, Brexit, immigration, Islam, blacks, women, transgender toilets – yes, Springsteen, you cunt, I am talking to you – or whatever fad is on the cover of Vogue magazine this month is facing career wilderness. The fine north American actor James Woods – who I will always think of as hustler Lester Diamond in Scorsese’s magnificent film Casino – is now unemployable in Hollywood for stating his political beliefs, which swim upstream from 99.9% of the rest of Tinseltown. Compare his stance to the star of that film, Robert De Niro, who has to be one of the biggest wankers in Hollywood. He wants Trump arrested. Fucking hell.
So Morrissey’s comments are more than welcome, and we can only hope that it encourages other scaredy-cat pop stars to admit what they really believe, and soon. How soon is now?

Wednesday, 18 April 2018


Good morning, sir. Could I just check
your passport and opinions, please?

Britain is doing what Trump promised to do but they are succeeding where the President of the USA is failing miserably. Trump promised to build a wall to keep out undesirables. He more or less ran on that ticket, as it was something tangible that voters could grasp. As yet, no wall. Britain, on the other hand, is constructing a wall so sound that those it does not desire to enter its territory have no chance of scaling it. But it is not a wall of bricks, mortar, barbed wire or any other building material. It is made from something far more dangerous; ideology.
And this is not a wall designed to keep out Muslims, as Trump’s so-far mythical wall was designed to keep out illegal Hispanics. Instead, this is a rampart whose sole purpose is to repel those who oppose Islam. After the banning of Sellner, Pettibone, Southern and Bachmann, the latest failure to scale the perimeter fence that the British have built around brand Islam is a man called Abel Bodi.
Mr. Bodi is the leader of the Hungarian Identitarian movement, which explains why alarm bells rang out at both Home Office and the UK Border Force. While returning jihadi fighters and their several wives are able to swan into Britain and take a taxi to the benefit office, a political activist critical of them is not. Hungary, of course, has incurred the wrath of the EU – which the UK will never be permitted to leave – by virtue of the fact that they recently held free and fair elections won by Viktor Órban, a man who will not tolerate Islamic immigration into his beloved country. And the Identitarian movement goes against every aspect of mass immigration and miscegenation the EU has worked so hard to enable. This is why Bodi was unable to scale the perimeter fence that now surrounds the UK.
Bodi’s interview with the UK Border Force is here and when I say that it makes chilling reading I don’t believe I am exaggerating. Britain is no longer tolerating freedom of speech insofar as its exercise in any way criticises or satirises Islam. Muslims are the secret masters now. It is being made absolutely clear that those people from outside Britain who speak or write about Islam will not be allowed entry into that increasingly Sovietised country.
An entirely spurious set of equations has been constructed by British authorities. Opposition to Islamisation is bad. Opposition to Islamisation is equivalent to far-Right affiliation. Far Right affiliation is bad. If you oppose Islam, you are effectively a ‘wrecker’ in the Soviet sense. This is also happening to British citizens inside the country, who are routinely silenced and imprisoned for voicing negative opinions about Mohammedanism. The systematic rape of young children is routinely ignored as being tantamount to criticism of Islam. Do people realise just how close to midnight it is? I do not believe the majority of them do.
They tore down the Berlin Wall. Britain's Islamic wall may not be as easy to destroy.