1. In Journey to Ixtlan, Don Juan advises Castaneda to become inaccessible, to cease to be available to his old friends. Being a misanthrope and an Anglo-Indian fascist to boot, i have never had to work hard at solitude. Don Juan argues that we are drawn into a common narrative by our acquaintances & friends, their tale of us, and to change we need to free ourselves of their limiting vision. In my case, i began to change sometime last year, when i learnt how to switch off my “internal dialogue”after re-reading Castaneda. The internal dialogue, as much as our social circles, constantly reaffirms our personal narrative – our story of ourselves, and of the world – and blocks out what one could call divine or sorcerous realities.

i occasionally have prescient dreams or visions or what have you – always of trivial things, e.g. a dream that i’m walking to the s-bahn and a woman trips over and drops her phone, and then exactly this happens the next morning – in the same place, the same woman, dressed exactly as in the dream, me in the same position watching. These were always quite rare occurrences but have become more frequent of late. These coincide with my growing alienation from all my colleagues.

2. i now teach about 5 hours a week at McLingua’s Arbeitsamt (Job Centre) building, a piss-stained dump in an industrial suburb. Unfortunately, i am more or less forced to interact with my colleagues, a depressing bunch of mediocrities. i like one of them – a benign Mexican-American called Doug the Greaser, one of these 1950s throwbacks who never swears, seems permanently cheerful and has, as far as i can tell, not a single malicious bone in his jolly Mexican body. The rest are largely harmless but regard me with evident distaste and suspicion, e.g.:

Andy (a Brit): I had like this really weird student, a doctor.

me: Oh, you mean Gunther? Tuesday evening?

Andy: Yeah, he’s like really weird. He’s so like arrogant.

me: I liked him. He’s interesting.

Everyone stares at me.

Andy: He’s like a hunter. I’m not a vegetarian but that’s like really weird. I mean, a hunter. Come on. That’s just weird.

me [gathering my papers and about to leave the teacher room]: Well, i’m not a hunter but i can understand hunting. It’s as old as Man. Haven’t you ever felt the urge to kill?

An uncomfortable silence as i leave. Or:

California Jesus: Man, I had this fucked up Jap, I hate Jap students. They all lame.

me: I had this Japanese radiologist in 2011, his only hobbies were sleeping and eating.

California Jesus: Oh man, that douchebag, yeah I remember him. He be fucked up and lame.

me: What was his name…Akira Kubokai?

CJ: How the fuck do you remember that? I only remember because he was my first student in Munich. What are you, fucking autistic or something? [everyone stares at me with open contempt].

These are my colleagues – exemplars of the lesser man. In some ways it is like being back in school, where the slightest difference arouses derision and hostility, the only admissible skills being beer-drinking-capacity and sports. Having an unusually good memory or a book is grounds for a stoning. Most of them are thieves (bicycles most of all, but they will steal anything they can, and boast of it later), and they all vote for Bernie Sanders and despise any kind of traditionalism, except of course Oktoberfest.

3. i never had much in common with my fellow “teachers”, only occasionally socialising with Toddball and The Cop. Toddball has somehow regressed and become increasingly juvenile since his first child was born in 2013, and when i realised his back-stabbing malicious gossip had come to include me i ceased to tell him anything i wouldn’t want repeated (with his own twist) before people like California Jesus. But since switching off the internal dialogue the coldness between me and the others has become at times open hostility – on their side; i merely regard them as typical human beings. i haven’t changed my demeanour, but i think they sense the other realities at work, somehow – with their acute sense for difference, for abstention from the common reality (beer, sport, drugs, socialism, stealing). i take their hostility as a mark of Cain, in Hesse’s sense, a badge of achievement. A symbolic anecdote – i was walking down Kaufingerstraße in Munich, taking in the crowds (lots of military-age Muslim migrants prowling around in gangs) when someone tried to punch me in the chest, my right arm arched up and his hand bounced off the back of my wrist, and i somehow connected with his upper arm, apparently with some force for i then found myself wheeling to face Toddball. He was rubbing his arm and looking somewhat startled to find his punch-elberry-hard-in-the-chest jape had failed. i apologised, saying i hadn’t seen him, and i made a joke about Muslim rapists etc., and we parted.

Later, i realised i had used the opening move of the yang cheng-fu style to repel his attack. i was totally relaxed, my breathing didn’t even change, and my arm was almost floppy as it sprang up to parry the fist. It is typical Toddball – he is the kind of beery man’s man American who likes to get people in headlocks, punch friends hard and claim it’s a joke, to assert his playground superiority. i’ve never spontaneously used ycf before, though i’ve heard of others – people who learnt some tai chi form for health alone – spontaneously using part of the form in self-defence. i wouldn’t want to bet “health tai chi” would work against a trained boxer or skilled street fighter or gang of Muslims (which is why i also carry a tactical pen and pepper spray and a knife), but against belligerent Homer Simpsons, it seems to do well enough – not bad, since i never really trained tai chi seriously, and haven’t done it daily in a decade. In this case, i feel that my state at the time (with my internal dialogue switched off) enabled an adequate response.

Naturally, a week later i was in the teacher room and Toddball had to tell the others his version: “I was walking down the street, saw Elberry and waved to say hi and he screamed ‘hai!!!’ and attacked me like some fucking ninja, screaming about Muslims. He’s fucking paranoid.” i just shrugged, but later told this to The Cop, who snorted: “You should have broken his nose.”

4. There are many ways of frame your own personal narrative, for my colleagues it is generally “I am a beer-drinking American, I vote for Bernie Sanders because I am on the side of the good guys, I steal anything I can find, I’m cool and haven’t read a book in my life”. For my students it seems to be “I am hard-working and will leave lots of money for my one child when I finally die in the middle of a powerpoint presentation.” For me, everything is suborned to power – one could call it magical power but even that is incidental. There isn’t much to obviously distinguish the higher from the lesser man, it is more an instinct, a taste. Even politics is, i would say, of little significance, though i haven’t yet encountered a Leftist who was other than a mediocrity, a champagne socialist, an embittered freak, or just a fat loser.

5. i had to buy a wristwatch – well, wanted to – since i was sick of digging my fob watch out, and feel a reluctance to rely on mobile phones for the time. i bought a Seiko 5 after watching a great video on the Urban Gentry channel.


It’s the first wristwatch i’ve bought in my life, and the first i’ve worn in over 20 years. i like it and have been wondering, why i prefer it to my old Nokia phone – the latter is so small it’s easy enough to use for time. It is a matter of taste; but then taste is of more importance than ideology or belief. Time is absolutely central to human existence & consciousness, but since it is not tangible like space, it exercises a subtler, and if you like magical influence. Just as inches don’t really exist – not in the way a table or a hand exist – so seconds and minutes are not exactly real, but are a convenience that has become a determining condition. i thought about surviving with my Cold War Molnija pocket watch, which sometimes just stops running until given a good shake, but since i travel so much i really need to know the time to the minute. What, then, is the problem with my old Nokia? – nothing, except that i don’t like time to be electronically-delivered. A matter of taste, again. With the centrally human affairs, such as time, old-fash(ist) is best. i could learn to repair my Seiko, but i wouldn’t have a chance if the Nokia broke – thus, i am at the mercy of the latter, it is not truly part of a human life, anymore than is this computer i use now.

No need for ideology – taste is guide enough, reasoning and theory can come later. i can, in my spirit, reach into the Molnija or the Seiko, and hence they are tools, partaking of my mind & life, and i of their construction. i have never felt the slightest affection or partnership with a computer or mobile phone, and indeed generally find them recalcitrant and perverse, and their fans comparably cartoonish and absurd.

6. i haven’t voted in my life, but am nonetheless regarded as a right-wing nutjob because i wouldn’t support someone like Bernie Sanders. Partly, because he just looks like a choleric old Communist who would happily send millions to the gulag (whereas Trump looks like a choleric male Thatcherite Capitalist who etc.), but mostly because i feel the welfare system is wrong for people like me, and is actually poisonous to everyone, and the “tax the rich and give free stuff to the ghetto troglodytes” approach is not merely economically suicidal, but spiritually ruinous. Money is akin to time – albeit vastly less significant – of consequence to the human spirit, and if you take money for nothing, i.e. welfare, you have lost something of value in yourself.

i speak from experience, having been on the dole for 3 years after graduating; grim as my office jobs were, i never for a moment contemplated going back on the dole as a reasonable alternative, because even then i felt that there is some minimal power in working for the means of survival; but to accept money for nothing is to become a supplicant to the State,  that is to an impersonal bureaucracy with which you can have no vital human connection. It is one thing to accept payment for work done, or help from friends or family – here, there is a human relationship, a duality and a reason for the exchange; living on welfare is to become impotent, as i understand it. But just as most people would see no sense in handwriting, or using a typewriter, or having a watch instead of a mobile phone, so it seems most people think society can function if “the rich” are punitively taxed for the sin of success, and their money given to vast government bureaucracies, who then administer what little passes through their capacious absorbent gut, to the ghetto spawn who never expect to work, because they have lost all sense of personal power (which begins with minimal self-respect). i feel that power, as i perceive it, is in fact the law of the universe and hence of society and individuals, and a society which works to annul the capacity of its citizens will naturally collapse, and that seems due soon.

7. As i survey the state of dreariness and mediocrity, the triumph of the lesser man, i feel a grim optimism and curiosity. i would say, with Dante:

però giri Fortuna la sua rota

come le piace, e ‘l villan la sua marra

Turn Fortune her wheel then as she list – and the clown his mattock!


i’ve set up a second blog for what i call satire, but others may call tedious drivel. At first i thought of simply posting these pieces here, but then people would probably be unable to tell the difference between my hate-filled rants about Muslim rapists/Left-wing scum, and my satirical attempts. i’ll try and update it at least once a week, so far i have a backlog of things i want to write about in this form, and so may update more frequently, till i run out of elberry-juice.

Anyway, here it is.

1. Yesterday was 20 April – a very special person’s birthday! Joel Zuckerberg? Sid James? Steve Job? Obano? “Pope” Francis? Hugo Chavez? Russell Brand?


Adolf Hitler.

That’s right, Führertag!


In many ways, our culture is both a reversal and continuation of Nazi Germany. Continuation: the idea that an all-embracing, all-seeing Government can and indeed should regulate everything, with regular wars and persecution of pre-selected groups (Jews and Commies and Christians and conservatives then, whites and heterosexuals and Christians and conservatives now). Reversal: Nazi ideology, such as it was, is a Nietzschean/Darwinian melange, survival of the most brutal – weakness taken as sign of inferiority (odd, given the physical and mental ailments of the Nazi leadership). The Nazis liked to present Germans as hard-done-by, more sinned against than sinning, but victimhood itself was a sign of inferiority – as Hitler allegedly said in his last days, if the Russians could defeat the Wehrmacht, then the German people had no right to exist.

2. In our culture, victimhood is a mark of pride, to be held high and flourished, forsooth. i suspect this is the first time in human history that people are proud to be victims, and in which a victim economy encourages the falsification of grievance. Such fancies could only come to pass in a soft, late civilisation; they would be impossible in a warrior culture, or any culture with an awareness of the essentially savage and merciless nature of things, over which civilisation is a difficult and fragile facade. In “nature”, an animal which rolls onto its back, whining, feigning terrible injuries in order to excite pity, would be promptly gobbled up by the nearest predator.

i find the adoration of strength and the warrior tedious after a while, if that’s all a culture has (5th C BC Athens would have been a far more interesting place than Sparta). The adoration of weakness and the (often professional) victim is, however, a truly disgusting spectacle. The black disabled “identifies as a unicorn” tranny rolling on its back whimpering about white privilege, while secretly licking its fangs, is only possible in a society that coddles and positively encourages the weak, the deviant, the mentally disturbed. i see it, as with much of the Left, as a perversion of Christianity – in this case, a caricature of Christian pity, which Nietzsche presciently lambasted.

This will go the way of all such decadence – destroyed by the dreary warrior culture of Islam, invited into Europe by the professional victims and the Social Justice priesthood. In this, the Left reveal that they have no interest in equality, fair treatment of gays and women, since Muslims are not renowned for their tolerance of sexual minorities, other religions, or their respect for women. The Left is, rather, a cancer in the West, set on the destruction of civilisation, and they see the Muslims as useful tools. But then, they seem to imagine that after the Muslims have burnt down every church, murdered every white man, they will then suddenly break out the tandoori tapas, llamas, sombreros, yoga, tantric sex, and saris and start singing and dancing en masse in the socialist paradise where no one works and everyone lives in a mansion:

The lyrics would run something like:

oh beautiful feminist!

oh wise tranny!

oh magnificent gay/lesbian/bisexual!

oh socialist oh communist oh Marxist!

you are so wonderful!

you invited us to dance for you!

we dance for you, we dance for you, we dance for you!

the white man is dead

the Jew is dead

the Christian and the Sikh and the Buddhist and Confucian are dead

we killed them all!

for you for you for you!

now we are so happy

allahu akhbar!

happy forever forever forever!

3. Curiously, i don’t think about the past that much, don’t feel in any way implicated in the actions of my ancestors, or even in the actions i undertook before this life. Perhaps this shrugging disavowal is necessary (for me at least) to remember anything, since i would otherwise be burdened with judgements on my finished lives.

The Left seem to look on the past purely as a source of guilt and blame, perhaps because the protected “minorities” haven’t generally accomplished much they can point to with pride (relative to white males). i suppose i could try to feel proud that my father’s forebears were Brahmin, and so genetically übermensch, and my mother’s were Anglo-Saxon, and so genetically above the global average, but actually i don’t care, nor would i accept blame because people vaguely related to my white mother colonised India, nor would i accept preferential treatment because my father is Indian, hence oppressed and colonised, though it would be amusing to try and feel both simultaneously, and Harvey Two-Face style constantly accuse and apologise to myself.

For the Left, every past civilisation is an abomination, and perhaps only tribal illiterate societies escape censure – ignoring the warfare and slavery practiced by the Africans against each other long before the White Devil arrived. Actually, there is one civilisation the Left favour – the Soviet Union, the workers’ paradise which sadly only failed due to Jews, fascists, and Capitalist saboteurs, but nonetheless a glorious experiment that we simply must repeat – this time with more gulags, more secret police, better indoctrination, more surveillance, more laws and harsher punishments.

4. Yesterday, i told my Arbeitsamt (Job Centre) group: “It’s Hitler’s birthday today.” This came as news to them, though one of them redeemed their collective ignorance by saying, “Congratulations. Happy birthday”, inciting much mirth. Later, in the teacher room one of my colleagues was talking about a 80-something teacher who worked in a school Hitler had praised: “and, my God, she brags about this!” Everyone looked horrified, except me. “That’s awesome!” i enthused. “i would brag about that!” “Don’t get him started,” California Jesus moaned, for i have fully embraced the Left-wing ideology of self-identification and “racism”, and have now self-identified as a black disabled Palestinian Muslim trannie and since racism is prejudice plus power, and as a black disabled Palestinian Muslim trannie i have no power, i can basically say and even do what i want, and no one can say shit. For example, i started offering phrenological notes to colleagues on the dimensions of their skulls and their ranking in my personal racial scale of value, and i accused an Irish alcoholic ex-colleague of being “a traitor to the white race” after she cheated on her German boyfriend and had sex with a Muslim security guard at a migrant camp where she works in Berlin. As you would expect, my colleagues gave me a “but…you’re blek” look, and indeed i am blek, i am in fact a disabled black Palestinian trannie unicorn, and so have no power, and hence cannot be racist, and so now indulge in frankly rather baroque racial theories and phrenological observations. i’m planning to start talking about the secret Nazi base in the Arctic next week.

5. As a freak of nature (don’t like football, don’t drink beer, don’t even drink alcohol now, plus i like to read) i have little stake in any society, and am resigned to the destruction of the West. My objection to the Left and their whining victim culture is more a matter of sorcerous principle. Castaneda is right to liken the sorcerer to a warrior, for in a time of war any self-indulgence, weakness, distraction, sloth, is a fatal error. War, as i found in my last life, can compress and focus a loose, incoherent character. War gives purpose, and it is only with this directed will that one can attain to power and knowledge. Some passages i read this week in Castaneda:

i) The hardest thing in the world is to assume the mood of a warrior. It is of no use to be sad and complain and feel justified in doing so; believing that someone is always doing something to us.

Nobody is doing anything to anybody, much less to a warrior.

ii) Self-importance is man’s greatest enemy. What weakens him is feeling offended by the deeds and misdeeds of his fellow men. Self-importance requires that one spend most of one’s life offended by something or someone.

For the vitki, life is war – he is at war against his own ignorance, his sloth, his self-indulgence, his self-pity. He must become taut and directed, ruthless to himself and others. If he is a victim he does not ask for preferential treatment, he simply strives to escape his conditions through his own work; or if this is not possible, he strives to develop internal resistance to his troubles. The last thing he does is to expect others to help, and he would rather be destroyed than to roll on his back and whimper.




i was deleting old text (SMS) messages and decided some of them should be made public, Panama Papers style for the public good. These are all texts i sent to Toddball, in their entirety:

1. Cocaine & high blood pressure. Ask him about the time disabled kids carried him through a forest like a heathen god. (27 April 2012)

2. His mother is really weird. He broke his suitcase and set a luggage label on fire. Also he did a lot of batman impressions. (1 August 2012)

3. i’m a dirty gippo. (5 October 2012)

4. That’s because she’s a Russian whore. (3 December 2012)

5. Am too drunk to move. (24 October 2015)

And here are some texts i have received & kept for posterity:

1. Michael just got THE WORST nose bleed while we were on the craziest, tallest ride at spring fest. Blood was shooting out his face all over the place while we spun in circles, screaming. His face, arms, my left arm, his seat, all covered in blood. Then later he puked up the blood that he swallowed during the ride. (27 April 2012, from Toddball)

2. Indeed, am in flat pondering loss of consciousness. (11 July 2012, from Viking)

3. Don’t bring home any dead animals. (28 December 2012, from Juniper)

4. Fine and better than murdered by an axe. See you next week. (15 April 2013, from a Marketing manager at a big tobacco company)

5. I’m getting wasted at that little shit hole establishment by X-str. That filthy little whore that you love is here. I think she’s a junky of some sort. I just won 14 euro on video roulette. Life is good. (1 July 2013, from Toddball)

6. I told this kid that I would beat him bloody then hold him down and put my finger in his ass. Not cause I’m gay but so his friends can see, and talk about how they saw some strange man from Chicago come and make him his bitch for the rest of his life. (2 October 2013, from Toddball)

7. Sabine is one damn fine-ass piece of schnitzel. (16 October 2013, from Toddball)

8. the last words I heard were “Peruvian whore” (16 October 2013, from Toddball)

9. The Cop: We gotta Elberry out of here…

Me: Wait, what?! why!?

The Cop: These guys came here lookin for trouble. They plan on fighting, I’m sure of it. We gotta get Elberry to safety.  (31 March 2014, from Toddball, reporting on a beer garden conversation with The Cop, the latter sure some Germans were going to jump me after i told them to fuck off)

10. last nights Stammtisch may have been the best stammtisch ever. all star cast including all the legendary teachers and none of the shite (11 April 2014 from Toddball)

11. and by shite I mean new teachers. I hate those fucks. (11 April 2014 from Toddball)

12. if he’s wearing his blue leather jacket then the threat is real (24 May 2014, from Toddball)

13. do you dance at concerts or just stand there nodding rhythmically with one hand in your pocket and the other clutching a whiskey? (2 June 2014, from Toddball)

14. Just spoke to the Reichsmarschall, says he wouldn’t have it! So better think of a proper excuse for Göring. (20 October 2014, from Der Fechter, a politician/fencer friend)

15. I called one girl a Schweinbauerin and her friend a Dumme Gans. (19 December 2014, from Toddball)

16. I felt like I was turning into a lizard. (3 January 2015, from Toddball)

17. Spawning an evil baby destined to rule over hordes of teacher scum like us. (5 January 2015, from Toddball)

18. bring a bullhorn (16 April 2015, from The Cop)

1. i’ve given up on booze and feel distinctly odd, and even healthy. Over Easter i felt i’d damaged my gut with years of immoderate boozing, and so stopped for a week. The old Elberry gut is still reluctant to take much food, which is fine as i was 1.5 stone overweight, disgustingly obese by my standards though no one else seemed to even notice. My body has apparently reset to my pre-teaching levels of booze, i.e. i can go without alcohol and my tongue now responds to whisky like a maiden aunt thrust into Al Swearengen’s fine establishment – a bracingly unusual situation, to be taken in exceedingly small doses. Before beginning to teach full-time (six years ago), i drank perhaps a glass or two of red wine an evening (with food), and got through a bottle of whisky every 3 weeks, when i had the money for it. At my teacherly height, in Kassel, i was getting through 2 glasses of red wine an evening, and a bottle of whisky every 2 or 3 days. Curiously, my body seemed able to take it without the slightest ill effects, perhaps because i only started heavy drinking aged 34.

Having drunk almost nothing for 2 weeks, i realise how much alcohol structured my free time. The weekend would pass in a blur of gin, wine, whisky, as if alcohol itself were companion. i don’t feel at all lonely without my old guide, but time takes on a different quality. For one thing, i need less sleep now, so have an extra 2 or so hours every evening, and in general much more physical energy and desire to perform noble deeds (murder, etc.).

This is typical of me – i lack any real discipline and only adopt what seem unusual courses due to necessity (the ox is driven to pasture by blows). When i want to do something that requires any discipline, i have to create a situation with the apt necessity, e.g. i take a German book (at the moment, Joseph Roth’s Radetzky March) with me, along with my Kindle, and since my bag is usually too heavy, i feel obliged to read some of the German book to justify lugging it around all day. i am a little envious of those who can discipline themselves, but then perhaps it isn’t really natural – why, in nature, would anyone do something they don’t have to? Of course, most such disciplines are undertaken not for pleasure, but for future profit.

2. i’ve been studying IQ and race in my dilettantish way via youtube. There seem to be significant differences between IQ between racial groups – or if you don’t like the word “race”, between groups sharing physical characteristics which everyone can objectively observe. One theory for the differences is that the climate and culture of colder countries weeds out those who don’t go for discipline and long-term planning, so the impulsive or lazy find no food or shelter come winter. i suppose it’s a complex of factors, often with a feedback loop, so certain practices develop due to landscape and climate, and then these practices encourage certain character types, and discourage others, and over time these practices become a culture (or civilisation) which replaces climate as primary influence.

It would be interesting to compile statistics of crime according to migrant group, for i notice that in Germany most rapes, thefts, and assaults are committed by Iraqi, North African, Afghan, and Syrian “refugees”. i suppose if, 6 months ago, you lived in a country where everyone carries an AK-47 and if you see something you want you kill whoever has it, Germany must seem like a Disneyland of potential rape and pillage. There is a reason Muslim women are stuffed in burqas and jealously guarded by their male relatives – because for these people, if you want to fuck a woman, you just rape her and it’s her own fault for going out on her own. A sentiment, curiously, more or less shared by feminists, as long as the rapist is Muslim – the feminist  Mayor of Cologne basically said the mass sex assaults on New Year’s Eve were the women’s fault for, well, not being stuffed in burqas and guarded by male relatives with AK47s, and by the way we should all welcome the 3rd World because they will enormously enrich our culture, and if you don’t agree you are a racist.

3. i haven’t seen any news reports of rapes, assaults, or robberies committed by Eritreans, yet there are plenty of them in Munich, looking hapless and bewildered. As far as i can tell, their country is a 3rd World hellhole but for some reason they either aren’t committing many crimes in Germany, or haven’t been reported on yet (i suspect the former). i had to help one buy cigarettes in the supermarket a few months ago, he was staring at the vending machine with utter incomprehension, and in general the Eritreans i’ve seen here look as if they just woke up one morning to find themselves in Munich – one of the cleanest, safest, richest cities in Europe, with probably the most beautiful women, and have no idea what’s going on or whether it’s good or bad.

The other migrant groups – who generally look Afghan or Pakistani to me – are very different, with a look of swaggering and predatory contempt for the Germans who are paying for them to rape, steal, and murder. Several of them exude a feral criminality and clearly bear a capacity for extreme violence – it happened even at work, as i was in the corridor when the rapists came out of their classroom (supposedly learning German), and i found myself locking eyes with a bearded Afghan male, early 20s, very healthy and untraumatised and unrefugee-looking, and noticeably bigger than the others. i recognised the capacity for lethal violence in him, and he recognised that i’m not a German mangina. Perhaps, i thought, i am being a bigot once again, and paranoid to boot. However, when i went into the teacher room and told Toddball, – One of them Mooslim rapists looks like a motherfucking killer, Toddball responded promptly, – The one with the beard? Yeah, I noticed him too.

It’s a difference between German manginas and people from Huddersfield or Chicago or Brooklyn – many of the English teachers have been in scrapes and altercations and fights back home, and so have learnt to recognise potential violence in others; you would have to look long and hard to find a German with any such sensitivity.

4. i was discussing weaponry with a German friend the other day, he already has a longsword and expandable baton in his house, and a fat and dangerous-looking cat, his wife has pepper spray, and he is thinking of getting a weapon’s license for something more serious. Conversation ran as follows:

Kraut: There gives a small weapon license for gas guns, and heavy weapon for real guns.

elberry: i was thinking of getting a box, putting your cat in it, then opening one side of the box and poking the beast so it launches itself claws-first at the rapists.

Kraut: That is also possible.

elberry: Or putting some hungry aggressive rats in a sack and carrying it everywhere, and when the Mooslims start to rape, just open the sack and throw it at them.

Kraut: That is against hygiene regulations.

elberry: Or getting a tomahawk and a crossbow and saying i need them for my religion, some Mooslim starts screaming Allahu Akhbar and raping small boys and women on the u-bahn, not to worry, i pull the old crossbow out and give him a bolt through the head, then run over with the tomahawk and start hacking away.

Kraut [to his wife]: This is why we need laws against weapons in Germany. Because of people like Elberry.

i already have a modest armoury of legal weaponry. i’m not sure how long it will take before we have Rwanda-style slaughters in Germany – there are perhaps a million military-age 3rd World Muslim men sponging off the German taxpayer, and more will be coming each month thanks to “Mutti Merkel” (a crack-addled mother who invites a string of abusive boyfriends to rape her children). Given the ferocity of the average 3rd World Muslim, i think Germany will collapse into Rwandan or Balkan-style genocide and mass rape as soon as the Muslims feel strong and numerous enough to rise up against the generally sheep-like whites – already i think if France’s Muslims (7.5% of the population, comprising 70% of the prison inmates) rose up, the whites would just sit there grinning about diversity and tolerance as they were raped and slaughtered. An aggressive, and ideologically-motivated minority can overpower a docile majority with ease, and if you think e.g. liberal Sweden couldn’t possibly turn Muslim, consider Iran in 1970 and Iran today.

i foresee the collapse of Western Europe in the next few years, the lucky few escaping to Trumpica, Eastern Europe, South Korea, or Japan. Perhaps the destruction of Britain, France, Belgium, Germany, Austria, the Netherlands, Spain, Portugal, Italy, Scandinavia, will encourage the Eastern European states, and we will have an inversion of the Iron Curtain, with the hitherto free countries being under Muslim subjugation, collapsed states with a white population maintained purely for rape purposes by the Muslim overlords, and the ex-USSR bloc will be havens of European civilisation, protecting their borders against incursions from the scimitar-waving armies of Mordor Merkel.

i considered trying to learn Japanese, since the Muslims will find it harder to invade an island, and but after 6.5 years trying to learn the Bosche, i feel i should probably just die here, wielding my sack of rats and my tomahawk as the bearded hordes close in. i have, after all, had a quite enjoyable few years in Germany and so it is only fitting to perish here.

1. As part of my odyssey into multicultural damnation, i read Jean Raspail’s 1973 The Camp of the Saints.

jean raspail

In this novel, he envisages the destruction of Europe under a deluge of 3rd World invasion, passed off as migration, hate-filled invaders presented as poor refugees by the Left-wing elite. A fleet of 3rd World invaders board ships and sail slowly to Europe. Most of the book concerns the various Left-wing elites’ reaction to this invasion, with politicians and journalists grinning about diversity and compassion and a new world order, a world without class, race, nation, a world without borders. Pop bands compose songs in support of the invasion. A Left-wing Brazilian pope weeps and wrings his hands and encourages Europe to open its doors to the dispossessed and wonderfully poor fleet. Young white people go to the shore to welcome the invaders with food and supplies. They wave “we are all the Ganges Armada now!” banners.

Those who resist or demur are, as one would expect, accused of racism and fascism and of being all-round nasty types. Finally, the invasion fleet arrives, and the poor refugees from the 3rd World take over Europe, robbing, plundering, and killing all who resist. Finis Europae.

2. It’s not a great novel, not even i would say a good novel – the prose is good but all the characters sound identical, and it reads more like a tract; however, it takes on a certain power in these last days. Raspail is pleasantly unaccommodating; as i see it, he regards Europe as doomed unless it can recognise that universal love is meaningless, that one must first love one’s own community and culture, and protect it against destruction:

Man has never really loved humanity all of a piece – all its races, its peoples, its religions – but only those creatures he feels are his kin, a part of his clan, no matter how vast. As far as the rest are concerned, he forces himself, and lets the world force him. And then, when he does, when the damage is done, he himself falls apart.

i think it’s fair to say that no one could love human beings just for being human beings, because there are 7.4 billion of us and so the category becomes meaningless. On an alien planet, surrounded by tentacle-waving green monsters, i dare say i would be relieved, nay delighted, to meet even a pre-Columbian Aztec; just as, surrounded as i am by Germands and Americans, i am always happy to meet an Engländer – even though i would feel absolutely no affinity for any of the English colleagues i’ve met, if we were back in England. To say a pen and paper are identical because both are made of atoms, is not helpful. Further – i like pens but am very choosy and so would never use a 20 quid fountain pen (it would leak and feel cheap), or a throwaway biro. The idea that one must identify with another, just because he’s human, is absurd – try asking a Social Justice Warrior to sympathise with a straight white man who stubbed his toe. The truth of the matter is that we naturally cluster into groups, and regard those beyond a certain limit as somewhere between alien and enemy. One sees this where Social Justice Warriors turn on each other; at the moment, the various SJW groups (Feminist, Muslim, gay, paedophile, trans-everything, Black etc., Marxist, etc.) are only united by their hatred of those who created Western civilisation, a civilisation sufficiently open-minded to allow these folk to thrive.

– but long before the last straight white man has been murdered, these groups will turn on each other, and i think one can safely say a mob of angry fat Feminists with dyed hair will not fare well against a billion AK-47-wielding Muslims.

3. Raspail’s Brazilian Pope is right on:

…a statement by His Holinless, Pope Benedict XVI, the official text of which reads as follows. I quote: “On this Good Friday, day of hope for Christians the world over, we beseech our brethren in Jesus Christ to open their hearts, souls, and worldly wealth to all these poor unfortunates whom God has sent knocking at our doors. There is no road save charity for a Christian to follow.” […]

“How do you like that?” the President exclaimed, over the concerto that followed. “I can just hear the good Lord above, complaining, ‘Et tu, fili?’ What else could you expect from a Brazilian? The cardinals wanted a new-style pope. For the universal Church, they said.

It is hard not to grimace at the irony of the novel’s Marxist Brazilian Pope being titled Benedict XVI, when Joseph Ratzinger (the real Benedict XVI) was unceremoniously shuffled off stage to make way for a pope seemingly modelled on Raspail’s Leftist. As the Germands say, the fish stinks from the head, so here is a public announcement by the novel’s French President, who doesn’t believe a word he says:

Five hours from now, a million refugees will peacefully begin to set foot on our soil. Refugees whose race, religion, language, and culture are different from our own. For the most part they will be women and children, jobless and needy peasants, all fleeing from famine, and misery, and despair.

4. The dissenters are as usual few. A Special Forces colonel who tries to hold back the hordes with his few men – one of my favourite lines:

Let’s go up there, Captain. If you’ve still got a conscience, now’s the time to forget it! Sit on it, damn it! And for God’s sake, fire!

And a right-wing journalist who can’t print due to a union strike:

“I can’t tell,” Machefer replied, “if you’re all a gang of bastards, or just stupid assholes!” He shrugged his shoulders, and added as he left: “Just assholes I guess! Too bad!”

It looks like Europe can no longer be saved.

When Europe has become a colony of the 3rd World, and people in Japan or Australia scratch their heads and wonder how the civilisation of Dante, Goethe, of the Gothic architects, of Mozart, Frederick the Great, could have slit its own throat within a generation, perhaps it will suffice to say “just stupid assholes I guess!”

1. i haven’t been reading much save histories (generally WW2 and so on), however films have stepped in to fill the imaginative gap. i saw Tarantino’s The Hateful Eight, and have been rewatching Nolan’s Batman trilogy, and then Inception. i didn’t much like 8 – every main character is (to use a Werner Herzog phrase) “vile and debased”. There is a brief vignette of some grinning rustics – who get wiped out – but they are so implausibly nice, Arcadian, that they just got on my nerves, and i cheered when they were shot. i feel there is something pathological about Tarantino; so, i note that it is his hands choking Diane Kruger in Inglourious Basterds, because he felt Christoph Waltz couldn’t do it properly, and by Kruger’s account she was not feigning panic and pain, Tarantino having got a little carried away.


i like a good bitch-slapping as much as the next man but, watching 8, i got the feeling Tarantino relished the sight of Kurt Russell beating a helpless female captive (she is, naturally, also a nasty piece of work). One only needs to look at Tarantino, and listen to him talk – he is vile & debased; i wouldn’t be surprised if they find a load of dead hookers in his basement at some point. He is, naturally, a Leftist and Social Justice Warrior.

Having said that, i like most of his films – Pulp Fiction, Reservoir Dogs, Jackie Brown, Inglourious Basterds, and Django Unchained. He is certainly a master technician, with a vision – hence, one talks of “a Tarantino film”. In his best works, for all the cartoonish & gory extravagance, there is a fidelity to our experience of cause & effect. Films tend to get on my nerves because the plots often run thus:

Bad Guy has a master plan

Good Guy defeats him by being good and strong

In Tarantino films, every plan goes awry. In Pulp Fiction, the entire story is driven by plausible chance, and plausible human response – a guy is hiding in the bathroom, shoots at Jules & Vincent, misses, then Jules chooses to give up his way of life. Vincent accidentally blows the head off an informant, as a result they end up breakfasting in a diner dressed like morons, when Tim Roth’s character decides to hold it up. In Inglourious Basterds, Von Hammersmark meets the Basterds in a beer cellar, and a curious Gestapo officer is sitting nearby.


In Django Unchained, Waltz’s Dr Schultz loses his temper, precipitating the bloody last act of gore and vengeance. Nothing is planned, or rather men plan and then something unexpected happens, and it all ends in bloodshed and death.

i find this highly satisfying, for it is my own experience of life. Even Stalin apparently said that events have a will of their own (memoriter, i read this wonderful sentence in one of my many WW2-era books but forgot to make a note). We live, quoth Wallace Stevens, in an old chaos of the sun, and are constantly surprised by events, and our own impulses and actions, keeping appointments we did not make (Chaucer via translation via Harold Bloom).

2. Christopher Nolan is, i would say, as great a film maker as Tarantino, but in his films there is a classical neatness and form – so in The Dark Knight, the Joker has his masterplan, but watching this film again recently, i kept thinking “how could anyone plan this?” The opening bank robbery (a homage to Mann’s Heat) is ludicrously overplanned, to the point where it would all have fallen apart if one variable had acted even slightly other than expected. Later, the Joker tries to intercept a police van (i can’t even remember why), only failing because Batman intervenes, then Batman fails to kill the Joker on a last minute impulse of (presumably) mercy, then the Joker fails to kill Batman because Gordon happened to be (in disguise) driving the van and holds a gun to his head. Joker is taken to prison, gets out when he uses a phone to activate a bomb implanted in another prisoner’s gut, and then quoth Gordon “the Joker planned to be caught!”





What? What? What? You on crack or summat?

Same in The Dark Knight Rises, Bane and his men are put on a CIA plane without any kind of checks:

CIA agent: Was getting caught part of your plan?

Bane: Of course!

Of course, everything is part of the plan and everything runs like clockwork. In Nolan’s films, when things go wrong it is because of willed opposition & choice (e.g. Moll’s spectre in Inception, or Catwoman finally siding with Batman), never because things just go wrong. In Tarantino’s films, the characters are small figures in a largely incomprehensible world, a world with a will of its own. Fate is the principal. Nolan’s films are more like a dream where the main character creates everything, including his adversaries, and so everything that happens is a working-out of a central and uniform vision.

3. My own sense of things is that daily life is Tarantinian, but outside of time it is Nolianic. When i think of my own fated events, there was no frisson of otherworldly awe at their start, nothing to indicate significance; everything seemed to come from chance, prosaic cause & effect; yet the result was pre-ordained.

Because most plans seem to go awry, and many things happen for seemingly no reason at all, i have long resisted conspiracy theories about giant lizards and the New World Order. However, the situation in Germany is now so strange that i have begun to wonder what is guiding Angela Merkel, or Morgul as i think of her (actually, her real surname is dire enough – Merkstaves, Mirkwood, murky). Among my German acquaintances, interpretations run:

i) She has suddenly chosen to be emotional and wants to embrace the 3rd World in her  loathsome bosom;

ii) She wants to make Germany look good and not like a bunch of snarling Nazis;

iii) She wants millions of young men to do low-skill jobs in Germany;

iv) She is stupid

v) She is mad.

No one finds i) plausible, and ii) is also risibly flimsy. iii) would make sense if Germany had enough low-skill jobs, and didn’t already have enough East Europeans. It is also highly unlikely that the millions of young, aggressive male Muslims will contribute to the German economy – Sweden here is the exemplar of multicultural horror & economic collapse; since Sweden’s Leftist politicians magnanimously chose to open their country to the 3rd World, rape has gone up 1472 %. Even if crime and the actual danger to the native population is of no importance, economically Muslims contribute nothing to Sweden, or actually any country. They mostly lack education, and don’t come from a culture where education is valued (unlike, e.g. Jews, South Koreans, Chinese, Japanese), and also centuries of inbreeding have not made for intellectual potential. The idea that these violent, inbred, young Muslims will become Purchasing Managers in BMW, or engineers, or accountants, is, well, a bit of a stretch. Although they could probably manage basic physical tasks, they will only do so if absolutely compelled.

They will rape, and rob, and murder, and live quite a comfortable life off the taxes of those who spend 15 or more years in education, and who want to work – that is, the native population – but i wouldn’t expect too much in the way of productive labour from 3rd world village Jihaddists.

Here are my suggestions, interpretations behind the Morgul’s actions:

i) Destroy Europe and exterminate European races, and European civilisation. Quite why anyone would want to do this is beyond me; even the Muslims can only live a cosy ghetto life on welfare as long as there are educated Europeans to work for them, or enough natural resources to manage without civilisation (as in Saudi Arabia):


…but then, i suppose after the world economy has collapsed completely whoever is left can always blame the white devil, as they presumably will.

ii) Introduce so much chaos and disorder that people cry out for more police, for the army to patrol the streets, and they are willing to pay even higher taxes to protect the borders. This would be a way of moving money from the private individual to the State, and so is a plausible motivation, for a politician.

iii) Introduce so much chaos and disorder that people are distracted from the impending financial crash, having other things to worry about – how to protect their wives and children from being raped by our Muslim guests.

The Morgul is apparently playing her cards close to her chest, as a German friend in the know seemed bewildered by her actions. i think one can safely say the Morgul wishes not merely millions of young men, but especially young Muslim men – or so i judge, since Germany is refusing refugee applications from the Ukraine, where there really is a war, and where people have a broadly similar culture, and education. A million Ukrainians would cause problems, but they wouldn’t be roaming the streets looking for rape victims, and i dare say they would have a much higher level of education, and willingness to work. And yet the Morgul has turned them away. So, it looks like the motivation is purely to introduce millions of young aggressive Muslims into Germany.

i doubt Morgul is unaware that Sweden’s 16.5% immigrant-background population consume 66.4% of total welfare, and that not merely the first generation, but their children and grandchildren are over-represented on the welfare rolls, and in criminal statistics (see also the Pakistani community in UK). So, unless she is stupid or insane, her only motivation is to destroy German society and economy, and to end European culture.

4. i am not naturally given to optimism. Once the rapists are here, it will be impossible to solve the problem without iron will, and ruthless force of a kind (West) Germans haven’t known in precisely 71 years.

‘I wish it need not have happened in my time,’ said Frodo.

‘So do I,’ said Gandalf, ‘and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.

i am mildly put out that this comes now, in my gouty middle years, my lungs so damaged by repeated attacks that i lack the power for an extended brawl. Realistically the most one can hope for is total financial collapse, burning cities, gang warfare, mass rape, Sharia law, and a good death, fighting the invaders and trying to take a few to use as doormats in Valhalla.

1. i didn’t blog for a while, as i was busy rewriting my awful Bildungsroman, The Better Maker, and felt besides a paralysing impotence and lack of faith in any kind of public thought or writing. TBM is now, i hope, finished – begun in 2002, first draft finished on my 28th birthday in 2004, edited and re-edited for years, i self-published the best version i could make in 2008, not entirely satisfied; then i began a total rewriting about a year ago and now i think and pray it is done. It isn’t a great book but i think it is good at least, and whole, whereas the earlier versions were flawed, probably because i was then too close to the protagonist. Now i am an old dog of 40 and so somewhat distant from that earlier self.

2. Back in 2002, i wanted to be published and famous in a literary sense (i.e. no one would recognise me on the bus). By the time TBM was self-published in 2008, i wished merely for enough money to stop temping. i now feel uninterested in either money or readers. i have always been, like Farinata, unable to perceive the present – one reason, perhaps, that i proved unemployable for any save the worst jobs in England, being uninterested in beer, football, celebrities, TV; i have always felt more at home in the distant past, and now i have lost any sense of a future:

‘We see, like those with faulty vision, things at a distance from us,’ he said, ‘so much light the Sovereign Lord still grants us; when they draw near or are present our intellect is wholly at fault and unless others bring us word we know nothing of your human state. Thou canst understand, therefore, that all our knowledge will be dead from the moment the door of the future is closed.

tutta morta

fia nostra conoscenza da quel punto

che del futuro fia chiusa la porta

(Inferno, X, tr. John Sinclair)


Although i did not really think much about the future, i wanted European civilisation to continue – civilisation as i have seen it in Germany and Finland, for it is already half-gone in England. i found Germany & especially Bavaria astonishing, in many ways like some idyllic England of the 30s, with almost no street crime, a naturally conservative, traditionalist culture, relatively homogeneous, with a daily decency which seems to have disappeared from England (when i think of exceptions, they are almost always people over 60). Germany seemed indeed like Tolkien’s Shire – there were petty spites and crimes, but especially in Munich life was stable and secure. Women could get blind drunk and take the u-bahn home at night without fear. When i told my German friends here how dangerous England is, they said “oh but it is dangerous here also! A man was killed 3 years ago in McDonald’s!”, and i blinked and told them that this would be a rather more regular occurrence in England.

When i think now of the future, it is of Eurabia. Germany has few low-skill jobs (mostly outsourced), so the young males imported from Afghanistan, Somalia, Eritrea, Iraq, Syria, will be largely unemployable. There will be sizeable ghettos, as in Sweden and France and Belgium, where the police and emergency services no longer dare go. The police will act only to arrest and intimidate the native Europeans who try to protect themselves, their women and their children. The migrants, i imagine, did not come here to work in any case – and certainly not because they are fleeing warzones – they came with the promise of generous welfare and a carefree existence. One need only look at how 2nd and 3rd generation migrants have assimilated in Rotherham or Sweden, to see what lies in store. If there is, as projected, a 1929-style crash this year, the migrants will riot and rise up, because they are not granted the pleasant accommodations and BMWs they expected. The police will be unable and indeed unwilling to do more than arrest PEGIDA and Soldier of Odin-style European Maquis. Finally, the kind of riots we saw in the UK in 2011 will be commonplace, with added Muslim mass rapes, tortures, murders, until finally only the rich, and their well-rewarded tools will dwell in secure compounds, or even relocate entirely.

This sounds, of course, preposterous. When i told my German friends, in September 2015, that they would soon see Muslim rape as an everyday phenomenon, and Feminists and media would ignore it or defend the rapists, and the police would do little or nothing, naturally everyone thought i was nuts (for those who don’t follow the non-mainstream media, it has come true). As, i’m sure, it would have seemed ludicrous to suppose that the Bolshevik party could overthrow the Russian Government and turn all the lands unfortunate enough to fall under the USSR into a police state. It would have seemed ludicrous, to upper middle class Jewish doctors or lawyers or musicians, if one had suggested they get out of Europe in 1933. Had one told Tolkien, when he was a child in leafy Birmingham, that in a few decades it would resemble Mogadishu on welfare, he would probably have scoffed and said, Don’t get carried away.

3. i sympathise with Stefan Zweig, now. He committed suicide in Brazil in 1942. In his suicide note:

Every day I learned to love this country more, and I would not have asked to rebuild my life in any other place after the world of my own language sank and was lost to me and my spiritual homeland, Europe, destroyed itself.


i have considered escaping Europe before it becomes Eurabia, but i feel a great lethargy and hopelessness. As one of my German friends said, grimly, Where can we go? Japan, perhaps, but i fear to start a new and totally alien language at my advanced age.

In the eyes of the early 20s migrants – a class of whom sexually harassed my female boss at McLingua a few weeks ago (they were supposedly learning German) – i see only gloating triumph, as the white Christian devil opens the gates and waves welcoming banners.

stupid bitches

4. Perhaps, in a few thousand years, civilisation will arise once more in Europe, but i am an impatient man. i have some scant hope that the Kraut will rediscover their killing rage of yore, and resist the 3rd World invasion. Contrary to what i read in Der Spiegel, the rapists are not feared by a tiny minority of neo-Nazi extremists – almost every German i meet has said it is a terrible idea to import millions of young males from the 3rd World; so far, i have met only one (a hippy dippy fat woman, resembling a giant bespectacled rabbit) who is unreservedly happy to have hordes of rapists running amok in her neighbourhood. i don’t know quite what Angela Merkel, and whoever put pressure on her, had in mind, but i get the feeling they were thinking in terms of Sweden – that most people would be afraid of being called Nazis and would grin forcedly as the Muslims drag their children away to be raped; that the media would effectively cover up the inevitable atrocities, that the entire country would be turned into a 3rd World slum with a few scared white people paying high taxes to subsidize the welfare of millions of rapists and criminals.

My one hope is that Merkel and her backers have underestimated the Bosche. Already, the Government has taken the attack to the German people, using tax-payers’ money to accuse us of being violent Nazis:


“Stay strong Germany! With humanity, against your dark side!”

i’m not joking – the German Government have actually used the money paid by Germans, and poor folk such as myself, to accuse us of being potential monsters. The gap between the official narrative, and the everyday reality, is now so great that virtually everyone i talk to says things like “you cannot trust the Government” and “the newspapers are all lies”. Even the frigging leftie multiculturalists i know are now saying they are scared, and one even of these “welcome refugee!” idiots asked me where she can get pepper spray.

5. If we can take Sweden as the Eurabian exemplar, i think it is a mistake to see Germany going the same route without a struggle. i don’t know why some countries, e.g. the UK, passively accept their Muslim overlords and the Politically Correct elite – actually, when i worked with the left-school-at-16 masses in my temping years, i found virtually everyone was conservative and un-PC, but were terrified of being hounded by the leftist mob and leftist police. It’s different in Germany, especially Bavaria. i see England as a special case, perhaps as Peter Hitchens suggested, our sense of inferiority to the US – heightened by our common language – destroyed our cultural integrity. i think Sweden is a particularly egregious case because they haven’t had a war in a long long time now – they were carefully and profitably neutral in WW2, and i note that the countries which really suffered and fought the most tend to retain their cultural cohesion and pride. Denmark, Norway, Belgium, Netherlands, France, were quickly defeated and then relatively gently occupied by the Panzerkraut. These countries are now all hellholes of Islam and left-wing ideology. They didn’t fight worth a damn, and apart from the Jews and Commies they had an easy enough time of it.

Now let’s look at Finland.


Finland was at war, unaided, against the Soviet Union for 3 months. And it won. Well, it lost but at such a high cost to Ivan that as one Russian general put it, “we won just enough earth to bury our dead in”. Then Finland was an ally of Germany, fighting to regain territory and officially at war with Britain, the US, USSR. Then Finland made a peace with the USSR and was at war with Germany. Finland was at war with fucking everybody.

The Finns have low immigration and are a bunch of scowling black-metal-looking abominations, clutching warhammers and spiked clubs. They have the usual left-wing Government and media but the people themselves seem to be a race of blood-soaked maniacs, ready for war.

Russia, Poland, Hungary, etc. – consider Timothy Snyder’s Bloodlands. Do you think Ivan will welcome half a billion Muslim rapists? Will Ivan wave “welcome refugee” signs? Will Ivan say, “this Muslim rapist must have had a hard childhood, so we can’t send him to prison.” Will Ivan say, “you are all welcome to rape and steal, and we will turn the other cheek”? Will Ivan put 3rd World rapists in cruise liners and 5-star hotels? Will Ivan bankrupt his own nation to provide for foreign rapists?


Now let us turn to Germany. At war with virtually every country on the planet over 5 years, a good brutal war every generation until 1945. It is true that present day Kraut are much softer and feebler than the Kraut of the 1930s:

Bilddatum 2008 Ort Credit ? Legende Claus von Stauffenberg um 1924. .. aus dem Buch von Konstanze von Schulthess 'Nina Schenk GrŠfin von Stauffenberg', erschienen im Pando Verlag Fotograf

This Kraut would lose a hand and an eye and still fight. The present-day Kraut are naturally a much softer bunch, but i think the warrior genes are still there, the sense that life is war and conflict, and that the nice, the soft, are eradicated by the ruthless and the brutal. It is my hope that Germany will mark the turning of the tide against the Left, against mass rape and genocide. It is, of course, unlikely.

Merkel will go down in history as the destroyer of Europe. Whether the native populations are to be exterminated or enslaved by the rapist hordes, or whether we have a hideous Balkans-style civil war, with house to house fighting, she will not be remembered fondly. i doubt i will survive this coming war, but then i never expected to get to 40, so, as one of my German friends said, i should look on every day as an added and unexpected bonus. In my mind, i am already dead, as is the quiet, orderly Europe i have enjoyed the last 6 years – now comes the war, ruin and the world’s ending.

Have been too enraged to blog, but here’s a story i wrote a couple of weeks ago:


The Commission


In the seventeenth year of the fifth Emperor of the Third Dynasty, this humble servant was appointed to the Imperial Commission on its research tour of the Empire with special reference to historical monuments, ancestries, songs, and customs and folklore. I was at this time young and enthusiastic. I had no qualms about leaving my family, I had no wife, I was eager to take on official duties and gain a name for myself.


Time passes, youth is no more, and I suppose my name is now nothing at all. Certainly, when we arrive at a new settlement, even at a major city, we usually find ourselves unwaited and unheard of, and after lengthy explanations and the proper flourishing of certificates and letters and the imperial seal, we are accorded a generally baffled reception; sometimes grudgingly and barely civil, sometimes clumsily warm and fawning. The locals often take us for spies, naturally enough, and shy away from even the most innocuous questions regarding their organisation, rulers, markets, customs. But then we are only tasked with history, and here they are willing to satisfy, even if they almost always fail to appreciate the importance of our mission. For them, history is a tale told to children, something you half-forget and take for granted. They could not be more incredulous if we came to study their children’s games of stick and stone.


Nonetheless, we learn much about present arrangements. But we impart more, for as we are eager to learn of their ancestries and folk legends, they are eager to learn of the Capital, of the wars, of the Emperor and his court, of neighbouring provinces, of trade and trade disputes, of the Great Army, of nomad incursions against the Wall, of torture and cruelty and massacre. Much of our news is old, for we have now been in this service for just over eight hundred years, criss-crossing the empire with our notebooks and our pens and inks. Of course, these eight hundred years are not ordinary human years; for one thing, the Commission has effectively removed itself from ordinary human affairs, and for another there have been four complicated calendar reforms, through which our reckoning of time has been considerably warped, though it is now hard to say if these eight centuries should be adjusted up or down.


We dispatch reports to the Capital at every reputable station. Occasionally we arrive at a town or city to find a sealed letter waiting, in care of apprehensive officials; and then we find we are to proceed to such-and-such a province. Sometimes we find a new Imperial seal and learn that the one we had thought of as “the new Emperor” is now the old, and then we sit at a table in our lodgings, and drink whatever (usually dreadful) wine is available, and tally up all the Emperors we have outserved, in our patience.


More and more, when the people ask for news, we merely relate our more recent observations, how the Wall stands, how the nomads have taken this or that outpost or town, razed it to the ground, taken the young women and boys as slaves, slain all others, how the Great Army has retaken the outpost or town, or at least the ruins thereof. And the captives? they ask. Then we tell of the great desert beyond the Wall, and of expeditions swallowed by that unmeasured space, of the army of a million who disappeared under the ninth Emperor. Then the people shudder and tell their children, Behave, or the nomads will take you!


When we tell of the fifth Emperor and his court, of the great university, the planetarium, the Sky Hall, the astrophysics optic, vast libraries laboriously crafted into the mountain, the endless trains of wagons and barges, the prosperity enjoyed even by the peasantry, our listeners smile and nod at each other, and disbelieve, for these tales are now coeval with the histories we seek, and we ourselves seem as unreal and unreckonable as the fifth Emperor of the Third Dynasty, in our age. The eight centuries are not to be seen in our hair or limbs, we bear none of our time so; but in our speech and our manner we are, it seems, somewhat antique.


We were long accustomed to striking trepidation into the hearts of villagers and country folk, with our courtly vestments, our haughty airs, our perfect speech. But over time we lost much of our airs, and since our silks and sashes and tassles wore away and proved impractical, we are, from afar, indistinguishable from merchants. Close to it seems we appear somewhat outlandish, wearing modern garments with something of an older, incongruous grace, like actors who leave the stage as slain kings, remove their tinsel crowns and robes, undaub their faces, dress in their accustomed dun, proceed to a mean tavern in a beggarly quarter, and yet sit on a rickety chair as it were a throne, and hold a cracked wooden cup as it were a goblet of silver and gold. The sixth son of the Duke of a province that no longer exists sits at table in a barbarous city, and as he orders wine he would be almost unrecognisable to his long-dead family, and yet to the locals – whether base villagers or gaudy barons – he seems to have come from a distant realm; that is, the past, the era of the fifth Emperor. When we speak, however we strive for the modern tongue there is still the accent of vanished kingdoms, of courts that have entered the history we study.


Zig-zagging the Empire we see much, we hear and record histories we have slowly come to precede. In my old province, I see the old town almost unrecognisable, and eventually hear of a certain young scholar and Duke’s son called to the Imperial Court, and never seen again; a very minor tale, in which I slowly recognise myself; and slowly recognise my father and my brothers in the eyes and about the lips of this village cobbler and rumour-monger and storyteller, and I wonder how my lineage has fallen into obscurity and myth; where the great house of my father once stood, there are now huts of mud and twig, pitiful chickens and pigs, shrieking whores, children plastered with filth in lieu of clothing. Where there was once a good library, there is now a kind of rubbish heap on which the children play, hurling stones and shards of broken pottery at each other, tumbling headlong down the mounds and screaming.


The Empire is still the Empire, though to us it has now a dreamlike quality. Old customs are forgotten, old ways despised. We do not bewail this; were it not for our longevity, we would know nothing of the knowledge and art gone into oblivion. As it is, we have been spared to observe, and to rue; yet with age comes patience, or perhaps our original patience has kept us so, exempt from the ordinary toll.


In our youth the Wall was strong and well-manned; some centuries later it fell slowly into ruins, the soldiers fewer and fewer, the nomads bolder and louder. Some years ago the hordes broke through the gates and surged hundreds of miles into the Empire, sacking and burning and raping and killing, and were not so much driven back as bought off, one of these new Emperors paying their chiefs for a time, forever he thought, a few summers as it transpired. For while our Empire has become progressively barbarous, the nomads of the desert are as they have always been. It would do no good to warn the new Emperors or their viziers and counsellors – though I have wondered, what would happen if we returned to the Capital, after eight centuries, introducing ourselves as the Commission, yes the Commission of the Fifth Emperor, these people who have periodically sent historical reports from all over the Empire. Perhaps there would be a fuss, perhaps the doorkeeper would send for the lowest official who would send for the lowest librarian and exhume our reports, and demand explanation. Or upon our return we would collapse in little clouds of dust, and become another minor historical footnote and legend for future days.


It is unclear how the Court would account for us. Presumably, whoever receives our reports, whoever instructs us to proceed to such-and-such a province, takes us for pupils of pupils of pupils (etc.) of the original Commission. Or maybe this is normal, it may be that every Commission, every delegation, every spy, immediately becomes immortal upon leaving the Capital, and if we returned some pomaded courtier would greet us with a sneer, Oh, another lot of eternal vagabonds, and which century are you from, pray?


It is at any rate probable that far from being welcomed as exemplars of the fifth Emperor’s time, we would prove highly inconvenient and be sent on our way with blows or little bags of gold, or disappear into one of the many dark places set aside for this purpose. The degradation and decay we see in the Empire is, we hear, also to be found in the Capital. In the city touted as the second Capital, we were given place at a banquet for some visiting dignitary, a lowly place of course, at a table far removed from the latest Duke, we were in fact stationed by a draught and they would have given us the poorest wines but that my colleague – actually distant ancestor of the fat perfumed Duke at his distant high table – appropriated several flagons of the best; and this was accepted because although clad as merchants, we relaxed into our old customs and speech and the servers and the courtiers and the guests assumed we were of good blood and standing, and my neighbour (wife of a minor baron) asked, Wherever did you learn such perfect Classic? and being rather drunk I smiled and told her, From the court of the fifth Emperor of the Third Dynasty.


No, we would not be welcome at the Capital, with our old manners and our fantastical tales. These are forward-thinking times, the courtiers said in this so-called second-Capital, even as we were advised not to walk home without ample weaponry, even as we found no real libraries and no learning, the scholars half-read idiots, the scholarship a gallimaufry of demotic jargon and nonsense. It should not surprise, then, that the nomads are no longer regarded as a threat; for what should fashionable barbarians fear from barbarity?


The latest Emperor recently announced a so-called alliance with the nomads. Pacts and agreements were signed, with a people who cannot read and are at best entertained by paper. They are our cousins, quoth the Emperor, they will bring us prosperity and enterprise, the Empire will profit from their labour and their energy. Well. Some say he has been bought by those his forefathers sought to buy, others whisper he is senile or has a demon. No matter, he merely marks the Empire’s final form. At his edict, the soldiers unlocked the colossal portals and retreated from the Wall, and even five hundred miles away we find refugees, bearing their few goods and tales of mass rape, torture, and murder, the burning of cities and the cries of women.


The Emperor’s Court has relocated to an unfashionable city, and depending on the speed of the nomads’ little horses, he may live out his days in peace. In a sense, it is no concern of ours, it does not touch our work. We found ourselves in the nomads’ path and observed the destruction of a city, and since there were no survivors we asked the nomads their history, their legends and ancestries. Here there were new tales, and perhaps they will interest future generations, if not this.


We have not heard from the Court for some time, a century perhaps. Presumably our historical researches are filed away somewhere. It is alas possible that our reports are now incomprehensible, for when we write we make no concessions to the modern demotic. My latest report, taken from a nomad chief over a campfire with roast lamb and vile milk, was of a perfect classical idiom. The illiterate nomad chief was highly amused when I explained the marks on the page, the nature of my research, as the city burnt some miles off. He indulged in an enormous laughter, clapped his hands, and then invited me to enjoy some of the captives – girls, boys, young women – and when I declined he surprised me with some knowledge of our demotic: Fucky fucky!


So, as my colleagues surmise, it is possible that no one has been able to read our reports in many years. I privately wonder if anyone read them, after the passing of the fifth Emperor; for we were his men, and this was always his mission. He was far-sighted and subtle, his successors lesser and cruder men. Perhaps, as the old Capital is sacked and destroyed, eight centuries of our carefully-gathered and written history will also burn, one little flame, in the conflagration.


We are not unduly saddened. We will continue to travel and inquire, and record. I suppose we will post our reports to the new capital, as long as possible. The futility of our endeavour is apparent, and of no consequence: when the Emperor orders a thing, it is duty and pleasure to obey. The service itself is enough; and this perhaps explains our longevity.


And the fifth Emperor perhaps intended otherwise than we once thought; it has occurred to me that our purpose was not, truly, to write up the histories and legends of our people. Perhaps we were instead intended to become immortal. We went into the past before memory, seeking after the roots of things, the first causes and origins of our people and our selves, and we accordingly became memory and history. In our dogged perseverance and obedience we have set ourselves at odds with a wasting civilisation; we are all that now remains of the court of the fifth emperor of the Third Dynasty. That was, perhaps, his purpose.


It is late and tomorrow we have a cold breakfast and an early start.


Walter Aske

Munich, January 16 2016

1. Was too idle and scrofulous to blog, though i have laboured on the latest (and hopefully) final version of my grotesque Bildungsroman, The Better Maker. For the first time since the beast arose in 2002, i have a good feeling but of course wouldn’t be surprised if it actually turns out to be a pile of moronic shit. i feel the crucial difference, between this & other versions, is the distance between me as writer and me as protagonist (yes, it’s a Bildungsroman, hence autobiographical). Now in my gouty middle years, nearing 40 and paunchy like GK Chesterton, i regard my 21-24 year old self with pity and occasional contempt.

2. Went to Vienna for my annual bunse. Smoking now banned save in small cafes & bars, and to be totally so by 2018. Curious to think that, when i go in December 2017, settle with pipe and cup in a cafe, i will know it is the last time i will smoke save in my own meagre home (it is rare to know this is the last time you will enjoy an ordinary human activity). Even when i was a total non-smoker, i felt the smoking ban was somehow pointless and tyrannical; i see it now as propaganda according to Theodore Dalrymple’s definition – its purpose is to humiliate. Smoking is widespread and only harmful to the lesser man, and pipe-smoking leads to a long happy life, so the real purpose of the ban is, clearly, to say “we are the Government, we own you, we can ban your ordinary pleasures and you can’t do jack shit. Now fuck off and pay your taxes, oh and by the way a million 3rd World Muslims are going to move into your house next week and you are a racist.”


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As usual i met the Viking, who drew various obscene depictions of myself:

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The Viking at the 12 Apostles beer cellar, relishing the Catholicism:

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and his depiction of myself therein:

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Then to Pub Bukowski, one of my favourite places to smoke. They always play sehr cool music, including the Drive soundtrack.

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And naturally the Viking was provoked to draw Catholic obscenities:

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3. It was a bit chilly and the Viking decided he wanted to stand on the train platform in a blizzard (he lives in some awful Communist ghetto east of Vienna, so returned every day). i blamed him for the weather and he gave me his hideous Russian hat.

4. Last day alone, Viking preparing to fly back to England to commit Catholic atrocities. Vienna continues to be scuzzier than Munich, many boarded-up shops, but some with style:

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And Cafe Kafka, a good smoking place, i ordered a gin & tonic for breakfast and got an amused look, and a gin & tonic:

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i started re-reading Kafka’s short stories and found them much more interesting now than when i first read them, 10 or so years ago. They retain their original strangeness, even after millions of secondary whotsits. With truly strange works, such as the poetry of Hart Crane or Wallace Stevens, re-reading is (for me) essential – i remember, or rather don’t remember, reading Hart Crane in 1998 and taking nothing in; the second time i was gagging and slobbering like a dobermann, thinking,  How was i not astounded & moved & delighted by this 6 months ago??? Kafka is similar, one needs to attune to the length and rhythm of his stories, to learn what to expect and (more important) what not to expect.

My last night in Vienna, at Bukowski:

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Had i only known of the Cologne New Year Muslim sex attacks, i would have gone up to this girl and groped her, leering “bitch, ficki, ficki!” as a multicultural diversity thing. Unfortunately, that hadn’t happened yet, so instead i just drank a lot and then went to bed.

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