Some amusing moments

1. Some players typically open with something like “anyone from XX here?” in their own language:

2. i got destroyed by an opponent with an amusing name.

3. Discussion of appropriate drinks for tank combat.

4. Inexplicable but amusing abuse from team mates.

5. i destroy two tanks with my KV-1 after two gin tonics.

6. Theological differences


1. i had cause to teach the same word twice this week – both times my students were describing unpleasant colleagues and said “I think it is Neid, what is that?” – and i, “envy”. If narcissism is the human condition, envy is like malaria in the Congo – far from a rarity, and one would not be surprised to find those it has utterly consumed.

It has probably been thus since Ugg came home from the hunt with a particularly splendid buffalo over his shoulder, and the berry-pickers bared their breasts, and Grug thought, “Ugg only get berries because Ugg get buffalo. Ugg only get buffalo because Ugg is bad. Grug kill Ugg and take buffalo and berry-pickers. Grug deserve it because Grug good Grug.” It was, i suppose, commonly understand as a human motivation when Genesis was composed:

But unto Cain and to his offering he had not respect. And Cain was very wroth, and his countenance fell. And the Lord said unto Cain, Why art thou wroth? and why is thy countenance fallen? If thou doest well, shalt thou not be accepted? and if thou doest not well, sin lieth at the door. And unto thee shall be his desire, and thou shalt rule over him. And Cain talked with Abel his brother: and it came to pass, when they were in the field, that Cain rose up against Abel his brother, and slew him. (Genesis 4.  5-8)

My guess is that in the past envy was actively discouraged, and so it was more of a perpetual, weak grumbling that it’s alright for some innit and so on, among the weak & malcontent. It was in Christendom a cardinal sin; Dante devotes a terrace to it in Purgatorio (Cantos 13 and 14):

They appeared to me to be covered with coarse hair-cloth and the one supported the other with his shoulder and all were supported by the bank. Just so the blind who are destitute take their place at pardons to beg for their needs and one sinks his head on another so that the people may be quickly moved to pity not only by the sound of their words but by their looks which plead no less; and as the sun does not profit the blind, so to the shades in the place I speak of heaven’s light denies its bounty, for an iron wire pierces all their eyelids and stitches them up, as is done to an untamed falcon when it will not be still.

Dante converses with one of the penitents, who relates:

Sapient I was not though I was called Sapia, and I rejoiced far more at others’ hurt than at my own good fortune. 

2. In social psychology terms, the envious are obsessed with their status in the hierarchy, and do so by considering those above them with anger and resentment. It would make no difference how high they rise – they would always envy those who have more (the Satanic impulse). It is an increasingly normal attitude today; so for example i accused Toddball of being a thief and he responded: “What the fuck man, there’s all these rich fucks and they got all this fucking money and fuck yeah I’m gonna take it, I’m fucking robbing from the fucking rich ‘cos they’re all fucking douchebags. I don’t steal from fucking people I know, or from mom and pop stores, I fucking steal from the rich, ‘cos they got too much and they don’t fucking deserve it.” He has, in the time i’ve known him, stolen:

i) A book that a colleague unguardedly left in her file in the McLingua teacher room.

ii) An expensive lighter from a drunk guy at a bar.

iii) A bicycle he found unattended outside a shop in Munich (he rode it around then threw it in the river when he was done).

iv) The Sour Elf’s Red Pill cup.

i’m sure there are many more examples. He steals anything he can find and doesn’t care who from. In his view, if anyone except him has anything, they deserve to lose it because they only got it by being fucking douchebags. Envy is like a persistent malady in his psyche, so when he’s feeling jolly it is little more than a background tinge; and when he’s drunk, high, or pissed off it dominates and drives him.

He is a lifelong Democrat and Leftist, with characteristic motivations; for example he used to hang out with California Jesus, till McLingua offered a contract to the latter: at that point, his view of CJ became coloured entirely by invidia and he refused to talk to him. A few years ago one of my groups gave me a bottle of Laphroaig, and he snarled, “What the fuck man, why these fucking Germans always buying you shit?” i know that if (extremely unlikely) i sold The Better Maker for a few thousand euros, he wouldn’t say “well you’ve spent hundreds of hours over the last 16 years writing and editing it so that’s only fair” – no, he would feel hard done by; he should have got that money; i took it from him, somehow.

In Toddball’s world the very worst thing you can be – worse than a child rapist or murderer – is rich.

He’s not a bad person by any means, it’s just that his natural tendency to envy has been encouraged by, for one thing, growing up in Democrat Chicago (his father worked in the public sector); but more importantly, being born in the latter half of the 20th Century.

Envy has been encouraged, given a political platform, weaponised against the West. Because there will always be some who have less than others, and always those susceptible to resentment due to their personal defects, the Left will always have a huge voting block – and the more they try to sweep low IQ groups into Europe, the more strife and hence envy and hatred they can engender. The adolescent sense – that the Man (e.g. parents, teachers) is oppressive & wicked – has become generalised to the population at large, and given rise to varieties of ghetto art, characterised by violent resentment, deliberate ugliness & primitive, bestial aggression – by an embrace of the cardinal sins.

Of course this cannot continue indefinitely.

3. i’ve rarely felt envy; the closest i’ve come is baffled self-pity that despite all my important bits of paper i’ve only ever done minimum wage work and can find nothing better. Years ago, i came to the conclusion that i simply don’t belong in this world and have nothing to offer anyone – that, after all, makes more sense than assuming the world is wrong and i’m right. i can’t envy e.g. a fellow English Lit grad from Durham who i met at an Alumni party in 2006 in Leeds – he got a 2:1, was utterly bland and unexceptional, and had effortlessly drifted into a job making more than twice my highest salary; he belonged in the world, i don’t. Envying him would be like envying the eagle because it can fly.

But then, perhaps nobody really belongs in this world. Earlier this week i got my JobCentre class to read parts of Notes Toward a Supreme Fiction aloud, for pronunciation:

From this the poem springs: that we live in a place
That is not our own and, much more, not ourselves
And hard it is in spite of blazoned days.

i only feel this alienation among people and their cities; perhaps i don’t belong among humans; perhaps i could envy unimaginably strange creatures, in some other, non-human world.

Brittany Pettibone was “detained” for 3 days by the British authorities for trying to conduct this interview with Tommy Robinson.

1. The hideous process of editing The Better Maker and Vocations continues. On average, i have re-read the latter three or four times a month, every month since about last autumn, and made about 30-50 changes upon each edit. It is unspeakably tedious & unrewarding work, especially given i doubt either will be read by anyone (most of my friends being incapable of reading books).

Only dogged, enraged persistence keeps me at it.

2. Two things i read today:

i) The Z Man

on the popularity of older music over the latest composition by some black millionaire shouting about how tough it is in the ghetto:

When I was a teen, your music said something about you because you felt a connection to the band. In the sterile transactional world of today, no one feels an attachment to anything, much less the latest pop group. There’s no sense of obligation to buy or  listen to their latest release. Supporting a type of music or a specific act is no longer a part of kid’s identity. The relationship is now as sterile as society.

That is the funny thing about pop culture in our Progressive paradise. It is a lot like the pop music of totalitarian paradises of the past. The Soviets manufactured their version of Western pop, but it was never popular. Just as we see at the Super Bowl, comrades can be forced marched to an arena and made to cheer, but no one really liked it. There’s a lot of that today, as every pop star has the exact same Progressive politics and uses their act to proselytize on behalf of the faith. That’s not a coincidence. It is by design.

The West does not have a competitor that embraces freedom and liberty, so the past has become the competition.


Pop music is not art, but like art it does hold a mirror up to society. In the heyday of pop music, the society it reflected was one that was optimistic and happy. Today, the society it reflects is the gray, featureless slurry of multiculturalism and the vinegar drinking scolds who impose it on us. It’s not that it is low quality or offensive. It’s that the music is a lot like the modern parking lot. It is row after row of dreary sameness. Like everything in this age, popular music has the soul of the machine that made it.

ii) Morgoth 

on Mel Gibson’s Apocalypto

The Mayan city is the void writ large, all around it lies destruction and desolation, the city is a spiritual nullity at war with its surroundings. It sucks all resources and peoples into its gaping maw and then spits them back out, bastardized and warped, poisoned and debased or dead. It’s tempting to be a bit cheeky here and suggest that this is Gibson getting an underhanded jab in at Hollywood, but you could also make the same criticism of London or New York or Paris or any other western metropolis. 

3. Re-reading The Better Maker for the six gorillionth time, i feel affection for the characters, am generally pleased with the technical execution, but also feel its almost total irrelevance. It is a book of its origin – the late 90s. i thought about rewriting it to reflect my sense of societal collapse and metaphysical catastrophe (and hopefully rebirth), but it wouldn’t be true to the basic core & world of the story. TBM and also 4.5 (my temp memoir, which comprises half of Vocations) are for the most part innocent of the coming storm – the storm we now inhabit. They are naive and already dated, will stand as little more than historical curios, after the storm.

4. It’s a great time to be alive, if like me you always felt at odds with the world. It is not merely that i am backwards-looking and despise almost every aspect of modernity, and would have been happier in the 1950s, or even in the 19th Century (i haven’t been to a dentist in 19 years and wear my glasses as little as possible, so efficient plumbing is really the only argument left for our rotten age); it isn’t possible to turn the clock back, and in any case it is secular democracy and belly-patting liberalism which has led us to civilisational collapse, so one would have to turn it back quite a way – perhaps even, as Varg would argue, a few millennia. But instead of seeing history as a linear progression from humanity and culture to the machine and degeneracy, i would see it rather as a conflicting weave of ascending and descending impulses and power groups.

i feel a curious optimism and exhilaration. It goes greatly against my nature to expect the future to be anything other than totally shit but in this case i feel things are coming to a head, and there are considerable forces – on a metaphysical level – mobilising behind the scenes for our good (or for mine, anyway).

5. While i do like some popular music (e.g. The National, Taylor Führerin Swift) i was jukeboxing Youtube and realised i don’t remember a really memorable guitar intro in the last 20 years. The 1990s had Metallica’s Enter Sandman, Nirvana’s Smells Like Teen Spirit, Manic Street Preachers’ Sleepflower, but at some point in the last 20 years the great guitar intro gave way to overproduced synth-fag. The last good intros i can think of are from the early 2000s, e.g. Yeah Yeah Yeah’s Maps or The White Stripes Seven Nation Army and neither really have the crashing impact of Enter Sandman, let alone the 60s/70s classics. Perhaps, after the storm, i will awake one bright moment and find the birds singing the Grandstand theme in the trees outside, and know that the old rotten order has been justly destroyed overnight and as i open the curtains and wonder to see sunlight again, Roger Scruton, Peter Hitchens, Survive the Jive, Millennial Woes, Oswald Moseley, Enoch Powell, Jonathan Bowden, Evelyn Waugh, Tolkien, and G.K. Chesterton will ride by in a kind of tweed-clad procession, playing the Grandstand theme

and quaffing fine ales and tea, and then Taylor Swift will emerge from my kitchen, where she had been hiding overnight for some reason, and present me with a superb gin tonic and say, “Behold Sir Elberry of the Order of Gin, you have triumphed over your adversaries, they have all been defeated and cast into Huddersfield a dark prison for all eternity to gnash their teeth” and then she will also sing the Grandstand theme, i will say “by Jove, that’s nice” and contemplate the new, glorious world.

Or maybe we will all die in the Race War.

1. i was playing World of Tanks the other day, as artillery. Through spotters i could see an enemy tank on the far side of the map and was trying to zero in on him for a kill; however, he kept zooming forwards and backwards, i presume to throw artillery off. i observed him for a while, wondering at his antics, then realised his evasion pattern was predictable and confined to a quite small area, so i timed my shot exactly for the centre of his pattern guessing i would at least damage him; and by chance it was a direct hit and he was destroyed. On the micro level he was unhittable by artillery (which takes a few seconds to traverse the map and hit, and about thirty seconds to reload); on the macro level it was, in Vader’s words:

On the rare occasions i talk politics with Leftists, i find they dismiss data with e.g. “aren’t you generalising?” or “well not everyone is like that” and so on. Of course they love to generalise, e.g. “all white men are evil” or “Western civilisation is nothing but a history of oppression” or “all men are rapists” but as soon as data is provided against their cause, it’s suddenly “oh well we mustn’t generalise.”

There are many phenomena, e.g. race, which only make sense on the macro, artillery level. Individually one intuits the patterns but there are always exceptions. i would say that Western civilisation was built on respect for the individual, the particular; and on the ability to abstract, to step back from the individual, from the local, and to consider the general.

2. Re-editing The Better Maker for the 60th or 70th or more time. i found another typo and was astounded and mildly wroth. How, i wondered, is it possible for such an obvious mistake to have slipped my gaze on over 60 previous edits? i wrote it entirely on computer, and have edited entirely on either computer or my Kindle; each edit is like skating over the surface of something, with a kind of semi-substantial fog between me and the thing itself. It is an oddly frustrating feeling: i cannot fully grasp that which i have myself written, which is no doubt why i spot different errors on each reading. For a long time i assumed it was because i’m stupid, but i wonder now if it is at least in part because i have written and read entirely on-screen. From an interview with Cormac McCarthy:

He bangs away in his stone house or in motels on an Olivetti manual. “It’s a messy business,” he says about his novel-building. “You wind up with shoe boxes of scrap paper.” He likes computers. “But not to write on.” 

3. i’m looking forward to McCarthy’s new novel, The Passenger, if it ever comes out. i find him a curious fellow: when i come across quotations from even great works like Blood Meridian – even ones i myself copied out – they seem hokey and absurd – to the point where i wonder if he is actually, well, shit. i found myself agreeing with many of the commentators on Vox Day’s blog.

While i have changed my mind about some literature, it’s mostly stuff i read in my late teens, early 20s; and more a modulation than outright revision, e.g. i found George Steiner and Hart Crane overwhelming in my early-20s, but on re-reading found them merely good. i was in my youth overcome & enchanted by their rhetoric – in Steiner’s case it is both the rhetoric of prose and the rhetoric of ideas – his ideas bearing a large, sometimes grotesque & usually striking quality.

Bonehead introduced me to McCarthy in my late 20s and the last time i read him was i think in Kiel (2009), where i found Blood Meridian in the library and read it for the second or third time. If anything, McCarthy improved on re-reading, and yet i find the excerpts i copied down laughably silly & overblown. So – was i wrong in the period 2002-2009?

i’m loathe to buy books i already own again, and i shrink from reading McCarthy on my Kindle (i’m currently reading Jan Morris’s superb Pax Britannica thereon and feel often frustrated, as if my mind cannot fully engage with the words unless they are on paper) and doubt i’ll be able to access my English library ever again, so will probably have to wait till the Race War before i can re-read McCarthy; however i recall someone saying that Emerson’s basic unit of sense was the sentence, which explained (to me) why i found his essays, even his paragraphs, an incomprehensible sequence of isolated sentences – as if an aphorist attempted to write an epic; perhaps McCarthy’s basic unit of sense is the book. That is, in his books he creates a world within which his peculiar style and worldview make perfect sense – but quote him and it seems nonsensical.

4. Much as i love my Kindle – an essential accessory for the grievously-travelling man – i quickly found it impossible to read poetry thereon; and in time i stopped using it to read philosophy or anything with a high level of prose. i can enjoy e.g. Michael Howard or Jan Morris or Evelyn Waugh on my Kindle, but always with a sense of inadequacy; perhaps it is akin to sex with a condom, while clad in latex, and listening to Mariah Carey, smeared in jam, with a dwarf in the corner, watching – yes it’s sex, but wouldn’t wheat fields be better?

Why? i would say that words, while products of the imagination & mind, are also physical. While reading Jan Morris, for example, i’ve noted my fingers tapping the rhythm of her prose on my fascist knee or man bag of death, and perhaps even when skim-reading we play the words through our bodies: how would we say this, how would these words be in the mouth, words like pebbles you suck from thirst. The Logos is both thought and word – it is where the non-physical, with all its (nearly unbounded) possibility and fluidity becomes concrete and of us. Humans, perhaps more than any other creature, are literally intersectional – we are where everything collides, the intellect and the physical, the sentient and the merely-there. On-screen is as minimally physical as possible; it leaves no real traces, it is intangible, without legitimate history, without provenance.

5. At present in the West i take an artillery perspective. The globalists have most of the power at present in Europe – in America, it seems the God Emperor and Q-branch are at work to take the power back, but here the demons and their hosts occupy the highest seats of government. On Friday, Martin Sellner and Brittany Pettibone were detained at Heathrow Airport. Sellner was apparently planning to talk about free speech at Speaker’s Corner; and Pettibone planned to interview Tommy Robinson. All three have been labelled Far Right; by my standards they are simply moderates, though i press F because they have stood up and taken the heat, even if for very wishy-washy opinions. They were detained for, it seems, two days and then permitted to return whence they came.

i wondered what the point of this is. Don’t the globalists realise patriots will gain strength and notoriety through persecution? Upon reflection, i believe it is an intimidation tactic: the elites are saying, We can lock you up, we can have you killed; comply with your racial extermination, the destruction of your culture, your people, or suffer.

On a small scale level it looks bad for the West. However, consider the case of Millennial Woes, everyone’s favourite vile Scot. He had i think about 10,000 subs when he was doxxed by the Left just over a year ago. He is now at 46,000. The globalists are dissuading the weak of heart from voicing an opinion; they merely think it. Those who speak up are serious men. They will never have a career now: the globalists will see to that; the globalists have as it were burnt their bridges for them, and left them no way out – except to fight. In pharmaceutical terms, the globalists are administering just enough of their antibiotics to breed a fashy superstrain. They would have done better to simply kill us all. Instead, they have created the conditions for their own destruction.

All in all, highly satisfying.

1. Just from glancing over the headlines of the New York Times and Washington Post, it is clear that something about the billionaire ex-Clinton-chum, ex-Democrat-donor Donald Trump is terrifying the elites. In truth i think it’s several things but another occurred to me recently: he showed that you can attain highest office in the world without big donors. Trump operated a skeleton crew and some of his own money; Clinton outspent him i think four to one and still lost.

For many decades, the globalists would simply buy both candidates. Trump showed that he doesn’t need shekels – not merely because he has his own, but because he understands social media and the paradigm shift. Not many people could do this but he has shown the way. i imagine, among the globalists, there is a panicked intimation that any independently-wealthy, famous, charismatic patriot could do the same; that candidates no longer need the shekels.

2. Good post by the Z Man:

[…] I write what I wish I could be reading.

Until just now, that’s not something I thought about much, but my bet is the really good writers stick to a style and focus on subjects they like reading. I’m a Faulkner fan, having read everything he wrote, and that’s what always struck me about him. He wrote with himself as the target audience. Hemingway wrote to impress people, but Faulkner wrote to entertain himself. In the fullness of time, Faulkner will be remembered as one of our greatest writers and Hemingway will be remembered as a boorish clown.

i disagree about Hemingway, who i’ve found either very good or very bad but either way not for everyone and somewhat of a self-caricature. i might say, at his worst (the horrifically “late” Across the River and into the Trees) he seems to be writing for an audience, as it were thrusting Papa forward for an invisible and indeterminate readership. At his best (his short stories, A Farewell to Arms, For Whom the Bell Tolls) i feel he was writing largely for himself.

i described Across the River as “late” because it feels recycled and stale, like Wordsworth’s later poetry or U2 for the last twenty years. Hemingway is, in a sense, a genre writer – by which i mean the style and topics are immediately clear, even if the “genre” is Hemingway. There are writers who wrote sparingly and changed style as they felt compelled (TS Eliot, Joyce); others who wrote at length but only published what they felt was worthwhile (Wittgenstein); but on the whole even the great writers write too much.

3. i hope to self-publish both of my current books (Vocations and The Better Maker) this year. Editing these has been largely joyless and wearying work. My life hasn’t worked out as i had planned or expected; everything i write has proven unpublishable and unreadably tedious to all & sundry, a rather depressing circumstance all told. However, i feel my lifelong rejection has been useful; if i am right, my writing – tedious as it seems to most – will one day find some readers, and this will in part be due to twenty years of obscurity. 14 years ago, when i finished the first draft of The Better Maker, i fantasized about a Martin Amis-style life of interviews and fine silk garments, swanning about with a diamond cane and sodomizing Russian supermodels at Cannes, or whatever Amis gets up to. However, like the bottled genie, in Bruno Bettelheim’s account, each rejection has made me more bitter and less interested in publicity; and i have experienced many many rejections. Where i once dreamt of fame and plaudits and vast wealth, i now dream of vengeance, elaborate and savage retribution, fascistic tweeds, and of course the Sturmstache.

4. Because most people have experienced several incarnations, they carry these “narratives” with them, each life a reworking of past attempts – some very different, some almost identical. Each life is a shifting fluid network of potential desire and manifestation; an editing process. One way to look at this constant accompaniment of past versions & possibilities – you act in a different play each weekend, with 20 or 30 others, and at times allow these fictive performances to bleed into each others; and into the present and real. Because of this interpenetration, even a failed life or relationship can suddenly “activate” in a subsequent incarnation; and these possibilities often present as uncanny intimations and dreams, as what might have been, what could be; rather pleasingly illustrated in the below video of Führerin Swift’s:

5. Each life is an editing process, rewriting that which is. And almost every life is largely influenced by others, and influences others; thus, a small number of decisive people can wreak enormous changes on their entire society.

i wrote last year:

Trump is opposed to a covert agenda, held by those with almost identical financial interests; and this agenda is the destruction of Western civilisation. He has attracted a clique, ranging from Mad Dog Mattis to Munchkin, who are either opposed to the destruction of the West, or were swayed by Trump, persuaded that their interests can be amply served without plunging the West into the hell of Islam.

That was before Q Anon. i believe Q is a group, possibly including Pence and Mattis, who have been working in secret, gathering the faithful. These are not trivial men. If i were in the camp of devils, i would not sleep well at night, knowing that Donald Trump, Mike Pence, and Mad Dog Mattis may be behind such utterances:

So might a child threaten a mail-clad knight with a bow of string and green willow! If the Dark Lord knows so much as you say, Mithrandir, will he not rather smile than fear, and with his little finger crush us like a fly that tries to sting him?’

‘No, he will try to trap the fly and take the sting,’ said Gandalf. ‘And there are names among us that are worth more than a thousand mail-clad knights apiece. No, he will not smile.’

‘Neither shall we,’ said Aragorn. ‘If this be jest, then it is too bitter for laughter. Nay, it is the last move in a great jeopardy, and for one side or the other it will bring the end of the game.’ 

i think both sides know there’s no backing down at this stage – it is kill or be killed.




A good start to the week.

1. i’m mildly ill after accidentally eschewing gin on Friday (had dinner with Toddball and drank so much wine & whisky i wasn’t in the mood for gin when i got home). My mind is clear but slightly off-kilter. Being ill is like waking up on another continent; enough is the same, or similar, to feel still oneself, in one’s own mind; but enough is different to engender confusion; one must constantly readjust, and with that comes a kind of bewildered clarity.

i thought of books written in illness, and the indefatigable physical wrecks of our literature: Proust, Dr Johnson, Samuel Beckett, Thomas Bernhard, Nietzsche; and the strength which is, it seems, only attained by overcoming weakness & pain.

2. On Friday Toddball invited me over for dinner, which turned out to be as usual an enormous banquet: wine, burritos, Schweinebauch, some kind of bread, and houmous. His little son Marlon was running around with power tools, trying to “fix” things as the grown-ups talked.

elberry [munching burrito]: Is this some kind of ethnic food?

Toddball: Hell yeah nukkah, you fucking ethnic minority you.

elberry: Nyom nom nom. You’re going to be an ethnic minority in your own country soon.

Toddball: Yeah I know. I’m gonna have to teach Marlon to crack some fucking skulls.

Later, he was moved to draw a picture of myself.

His commentary throughout: “Fuck. This doesn’t look anything like you nukkah. You got this weird-ass face. Your fucking lips man, they’re fucking gay lips you gay cocksucking ethnic minority. Fuck.”

3. South Africa seems well on its way to white genocide. The media & political reaction is instructive: just as the EU refused to accept Ukrainian refugees from a real war, but had an open door policy to all non-whites regardless of origin or criminality, so the South African whites are being left to their fate. i’m half-tempted to raise the topic with Jemima, an elderly black American colleague who hates whites; i imagine it so:

me: The South African Government are going to confiscate land from whites without compensation.

Jemima: Well, uh uh uh uh well you see uh uh uh uh elberry uh uh uh don’t you think this was never their land, I mean uh uh uh these people came to Africa and uh uh they took the land from the people there, the black people, so isn’t it only right that the Africans take it back?

me: Yeah i guess so. Though it is a bit worrying that Julius Malema said he wasn’t calling for the slaughter of the whites, yet.

Jemima: Well elberry, uh uh uh this isn’t the white man’s land, he doesn’t belong in Africa. My God, elberry uh uh uh if these people are going to go to Africa, they can’t start crying if they aren’t welcome.

me: Yeah, actually i think you’re right: people shouldn’t be allowed in a country which isn’t their ancestral home. Or they shouldn’t be allowed to vote or own property, and if they do anything bad they should be deported – even if they were born in the country.

Jemima: Exactly, these white people need to learn and stuff, and you know, Elberry, they can cry uh uh uh racist and uh uh uh murder and all this but they shouldn’t be in Africa.

me: Exactly. Imagine how wonderful it would be if the aliens had to go back to their ancestral lands, even if they’d been there for, i dunno, three hundred years. Especially if, for example, they were 13% of the population but committed about 50% of crime, they should clearly not be allowed in Wakanda.

Jemima: Exactly, these white people think they can take land from Africans and uh uh uh not face any uh consequences and stuff. And when they cry, oh my wife was raped and killed, or oh my house was burned down and my children were uh uh uh tortured to death and stuff, they uh well they have to accept the consequences, that uh uh uh they just shouldn’t be there.

And so on. My predictions for South Africa: white genocide accelerates; white liberals support destruction of their own people, hoping to be eaten last; South African economy collapses with no white people to do the work; famine; cannibalism; white liberals in Europe and America call for aid for the poor starving Africans; white liberals and all blacks blame the white South Africans and Donald Trump for everything. That is Wakanda, a haven of we wuzz kangz science and wisdom:

4. Jordan Peterson’s idea of the flood narrative: a people ignore reality and finally their civilisation is swept away. i sometimes think the West is indeed doomed; but i note many normies turning to the Alt-Lite/civic nationalism and perhaps 10% of those (the clearer of mind, the more radical & ardent) will turn to the Alt-Right/race realism. And it is the 10% who will determine the future. This remnant of the West is now beginning to act, to remember. As Q Anon wrote to the faithful on March 4, apropos the long defeat and destruction of the West:

You simply forgot how to PLAY.

1. Taught my only “child” student the other day, the 16-year-old son of globalist scum, let’s call him Ascanius. His parents want him to do grammar exercises and to write texts, naturally he doesn’t, and being as i am a man of goodwill to all i have elected to instead talk about World of Tanks and the Race War and things like that. Although his parents despair of him ever getting the right marks, he has a good head on his shoulders and said he’d be happy to have a simple job and live, if not a Varg Vikernes life, then at least a modest and satisfying one. While his parents wail about his grades i quietly tell him – When the great War comes, all of this will be meaningless.

2. He has little interest in a career but seems to know what makes him happy (playing basketball), which is more than i can say of myself at that age. i quite suddenly developed an idea of my perfect life when i was 20 and began to read Grown Up books: i wanted to be rich and to wear decadent clothing and live somewhere like Paris and read all day, and write great books. i’m now 42, broke as fuck, wear tweed, read about 2 – 4 hours a day on the trains, and write unreadable books and this almost unread blog; and as for Paris

– unimaginable in Munich, or at least i can’t believe it would go on and on without a massive police operation to clear the streets. So, in this instance reality has trumped youthful dreams.

3. Editing my awful Bildungsroman and Vocations (a third of the latter is 4.5, my temp memoir) i feel very distant from not merely my youth but even my self a decade ago. One change i only realised today – i rarely think now about my past, either this life or my others; it’s as if the desire to explore my past to understand my present has dissipated. A few years ago my present made little intuitive sense, and so i reached beyond (or back) for causation, explanation; in 2018 my present is just what it is and i no longer find it in need of justification or clarification.

4. i realised how little i think about my past (probably more than most, but less than i used to) when reading Michael O’Neill’s Gangs of Shadow; and this poem, ‘Until’:


You look down, far down, into the past

as though you sat on a balcony like

Amy Dorrit above the Grand Canal

and saw the water drain away like years


until ‘realities’ remained. At last

you will be able, at long last, to track

how things took shape and who you are, unpick all

fictions or versions until truth appears,


or till you sense that that can never happen.



You lean into the stairwell of old verses,

and glimpse at best a profile’s angled hurry.


Ears strained, you might just catch a medley

of jumbled voices.

                                  And then a door thuds shut

on the whole rickety structure. You have to let go


you tell yourself, holding the banister rail

so tightly that your knuckles whiten.

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