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1. My father called me as i was watching a not-very-interesting footballs game between Belgium and Hungary. i mentioned that i’d voted for Brexit, and was surprised to hear that he had too. i once found a Labour Party card in his name somewhere in the house, but he (and i think the father of Shrekh, a Muslim schoolfriend) normally voted Liberal Democrat because Labour wanted to destroy the grammar schools – egalitarian levelling is not generally welcomed by those who came to England to work and make a new life, only by white middle-class liberals and those who don’t want to work. This is one reason i think this poisonous ideology can’t last long – the hard-working immigrants realise the Guardianistas want to keep them in their convenient ghetto, and when the economy can no longer support masses of dolescum, the “one shitty size fills all” vision of the Left must collapse. But then the USSR managed a good long run, by the timeframe of a single human life.
i suppose the Guardianistas would say my father is a vile old racist Paki (actually he’s Indian, but tush, such little details should not concern the enlightened Left) and shouldn’t be allowed to vote, since all he did was work about 18 -20 hours a day as a doctor, paying maximum income tax, while they studied Menstrual Marxism and then secured cushy jobs in the EU-funded public sector, haranguing the rabble.
My father, like most immigrants, hasn’t integrated any more than he absolutely had to, speaking a barbarous strange English and remaining staggeringly ignorant of English history (but not more so than the average Brit, or Feminist). He is a peculiar specimen, the educated higher-caste Indian – he declined to prosecute an Army officer who drunk drove into his car in the 70s; he explained they were both servants of the crown, much to the local constabulary’s dismay, i imagine. He had no idea the English had ever gone in for witch-burnings, and regarded English Literature, History, Philosophy etc. as utterly worthless, indeed contemptible; however, he knows far more than i of politics and current events (he is a newspaper reader, while i prefer to read books a good generation or two after the event, when the dust has settled).
2. He grew disillusioned with Nu Labour when he realised they were essentially Thatcherite in their adoration of wealth, and whereas Thatcher and her kind seemed largely indifferent to society, to culture, utterly uncaring if the unfettered pursuit of the stock market corrupted human nature, Nu Labour were positively hostile to English society, true Marxists who strove to overthrow Western civilisation and replace it with a deracinated, lost people who would feel no attachment to locality, to each other, and be supremely biddable by their all-wise masters, the elite:
Tony Blair was the exemplar of this new Marxism – rightly i think dubbed Cultural Marxism, for it is essentially Thatcherite in worship of money, and keeps only the old Soviet hatred for tradition, local culture, independence, anything which is raw and not readily subject to the rule of the new order:
‘For I am Saruman the Wise, Saruman Ring-maker, Saruman of Many Colours!’
I looked then and saw that his robes, which had seemed white, were not so, but were woven of all colours, and if he moved they shimmered and changed hue so that the eye was bewildered.
He drew himself up then and began to declaim, as if he were making a speech long rehearsed. ‘The Elder Days are gone. The Middle Days are passing. The Younger Days are beginning. The time of the Elves is over, but our time is at hand: the world of Men, which We must rule. But we must have power, power to order all things as we will, for that good which only the Wise can see.’
3. Now the so-called Conservatives and so-called Labour are essentially right and left-wing of the same financially Thatcherite, culturally far-left party, there is no mainstream political outlet for those who care anything for society. i know little of Jeremy Corbyn but find it interesting that he is an unregenerate old-school Commie, the very opposite of Blair and the bureaucrat-class of champagne socialists with their cushy UN/EU jobs.
Judging by face alone (he looks quite a lot like my stepfather, who voted for Brexit) he isn’t a Saruman. Labour of course always hated England but there was an element of the old working class Labour which i would vastly prefer to the Blairite management echelon. Not that even a socialism which respects culture (a national socialism, if you like) would ever be my cup of tea: socialism, i think, only works if it is very limited and there is almost no immigration, and the people naturally want to work and pay into the system. When you have a Sweden – really uncontrolled immigration, from every 3rd World shithole the suicidally socialist Swedes could find – the system will collapse. And socialism requires control: as soon as the bureaucrat-class have power, they abuse it, as is natural to humankind. One sees this now in England, where the political class certainly do not mirror the views of the people. Consider that 52% of the electorate voted to leave the EU, then consider this:
For the political class, the EU is ideal – no more need of democracy, accountability. They will never elect to take their snouts out of that gravy.
4. i don’t take politics very seriously, however, and imagine we will require a serious economic collapse before anything really changes. Naturally, the Left will blame this on Brexit, even if it was clearly coming for years from a combination of effectively unregulated banking practices, mass immigration, and Leftist “welfare”. But already i feel the tide is turning right; a few weeks ago, when i heard about the EU Hate Speech laws, i wondered if i should close my blog down or at least delete anything other than book reviews and what not, but then i felt that the Leftist ideology would not last, that it would be brought down, and those who clamoured for horrible Tory Anarchists such as myself to be shut up by law, and imprisoned, for old people like my father to be stripped of his voting rights, and presumably prosecuted for voting the wrong way, that all these Leftie loudmouths will slink quietly away and pretend they never had anything to do with it. It could be that the Left’s utter and to-the-hilt support of Islam will bring them down; that when enough women and small boys have been raped by Muslims, popular revulsion will turn not merely against the invaders, but also against the Feminists, the shrieking university professors, the belly-patting political elite, the smug lying journalists, all those who bought the rapists into Europe and tried to silence dissent, all those who grinned about “humanity” and “love” and “cooperation” and the State, and practiced deceit and treachery, and enabled rape, assault, robbery, and murder. Judging by the facts, our Muslim guests are certainly working hard at bringing things to a point where even the mainstream media cannot fool the people.
There will be tears before bedtime, mark my words. However, it’s not all bad – after talking to my father, i turned back to the footballs and the last 20 minutes were superb.
1. i am growing a Brexit beard, to infuriate the Left. At the moment i look like i just got out of prison and am in the mood for love, i predict that in another fortnight i will look like a full-on Muslim and end up accidentally drawn into a Jihaddist rape cell, by my beard. The bile spewed out by the white liberal Bremain losers is amusing unto my beard, and i find some of my more Leftie colleagues avoid talking to me now, fearing no doubt my propensity to fascist manliness, and my beard. i almost wish i had more English colleagues so i could smile as they mumble angrily and avoid eye contact; as it is, i have mostly only American colleagues so must content myself with remarks such as “of course, i will vote for Trump” and “didn’t Hilary Clinton rape an intern with a cigar?” – but that isn’t really the same, since i don’t care who wins the US elections.
2. In addition to beard development, i have been watching the footballs, some kind of European version of the World Cup. Amusing that some of the Bremain camp thought England would have to leave this footballs in the event of Brexit (though i presume this was just a joke). However, i do find it bizarre that people think being European, liking European culture (or at least preferring it to American, Chinese, 3rd World Islam etc.) means you have to fanatically support a political system of unaccountable bureaucrats who call themselves “the European Union.” Here’s an analogy for you: i like whisky, therefore i have to join the Scottish Whisky Association. Here’s another analogy: i like Durham Cathedral, Dante, Haydn, therefore i have to become a Roman Catholic, pay church tax, and if anyone tries to leave the Church i must attack him and blame him for everything bad that happens to anyone thereafter. If i say, “no, i’m not actually a Christian” then i can no longer go to Italy, can no longer read Dante, or listen to Haydn. Or, to use Daniel Hannan’s analogy, i like football therefore i must support Fifa.
3. Footballs are generally tedious and wearying. England, as in every World European Cup, are listless and petulant and my predictions are now: England will get knocked out either by Iceland tonight, or in the next round; in the end it will come down to Germany, Belgium, or France. i have some ideas on how to enliven the game, however:
i) Second ball to be tossed onto the pitch for 10 minutes whenever the game gets too dull; goals can now be scored with either ball.
ii) Coaches to be able to run onto the pitch and play for 2 minutes per game, randomly determined – however, they must wear their usual clothes.
iii) Dance off between opposing teams to determine the result in the event of a draw.
But i’m no expert: i often wonder why the goalie, since he can legally carry the ball, can’t just walk towards the enemy, surrounded by a phalanx of players to fight off the other team, and then toss it into the goal. i presume someone has created a rule to prevent this, alas – fucking EU again.
1. So England may finally be free of the EU, though i note with some amusement that the losers, unused to losing, are angrily demanding a second referendum because that’s how democracy works – if you lose, you just demand another vote, until you get the desired result. i am used to losing – i and those of my kind have been fighting what Tolkien calls the long defeat for decades; and so i didn’t expect Leave to win, and i don’t think i would have signed a petition for a 2nd referendum – i would have just accepted that most people don’t value their own culture and identity anymore.
i would agree with Andrew Breitbart, that politics is downstream of culture, and it seems to me that English culture has been rotting away, from the head down, the last couple of generations. i once thought all countries were probably more or less as vile, till i went to Italy in 2003 – under the auspices of an EU project, ironically – and saw that the supposedly dangerous Padova had safe streets, no public drunkedness, and a quiet unstudied decorum even among the young. Likewise even the supposedly dangerous Kassel has safe streets, only boisterous public drunkedness, and if Germands aren’t exactly decorous, they aren’t as vile & debased as the English.
2. On either my 2010 or 16 trip to England, i was standing in the corridor on a train somewhere (probably Manchester to Huddersfield) about noon on a Saturday, and a guy came out of the toilet. Two teenage girls, i think about 13 or 14, dressed like prostitutes, shrieked at him “Hope you left a nice stinky shit in there!” and then screeched with laughter for some time. i was shocked, after months in Germany, then remembered & thought, This is just England now, this is what women and girls act like here. i’ve seen worse things, casual violence in the middle of the day in the town centre, for seemingly no reason, crazy people or junkies screaming at demons, i’ve been “menaced” by gangs of 10-year-olds (amusing till i reflected they probably had knives), seen one junky kicking another in the head at a bus stop (the first one threatened to kill his family), i was spat at, had bottle tops thrown in my face, and on a Sunday afternoon, i was surrounded and violently pushed around by three drunk Geordies on a quiet street in Durham, as they made gorilla noises and shouted “Paki bastard!” and for some reason “Imran Khan!” Two Geordies tried to burgle my student room while i was in it in 2001. A schizophrenic girl high on acid broke into my house in Manchester at 0800 on a workday, and ran about breaking windows and screaming. i lived below drug dealers in Leeds for 2 years, and could hear them having fights in the early hours (i remember the curiously immediate sound of a fist on a face). Half a dozen big teenagers tried to pick a fight with me and Bonehead on the road outside my flat, in my first week in Leeds, surrounding us and doing the man-dance warm-up of insults and threats (they were deterred by Bonehead, who has a certain aura of violence). And so on and so forth.
i’ve now been in Germany nearly 7 years, and can’t remember anything at this level. There have been a handful of incidents which i wouldn’t even call altercations, just young guys trying it on and then fading away when i didn’t back down.
Politics has certainly helped the decay – curiously, not just i but everyone i asked noted that England started to really go to the dogs in the late 90s; even Nu Labour types would say things went into a taildive from then on, with notions such as respect, deference, politeness, humility, decorum, gentleness going out of the window completely – even a young greasy-haired self-proclaimed Marxist i temped with in Manchester in 2007 said teenagers held no respect for anyone anymore, that in his day (he was 23 or so) if an adult shouted at you, you’d shit yourself and mumble, Oh, sorry, yes, but in the last few years he’d noted you could tell them to fuck off and they just jeered. i saw this myself many a time – for example, in a laundrette in Leeds in 2005/6, two teenage girls were climbing into the huge driers and generally giggling and shrieking like whores, the middle-aged owner came in, shouted “oi! I told you not to come back here! If I see you again I’ll get the CPS!” [CPS is a kind of 2nd-rate cop organisation comprising mostly fat pasty-faced slobs who chew gum and look like recent offenders stuffed in paramilitary gear]. When i, or indeed anyone at my violent school, including Bonehead, were shouted at by adults we immediately backed down – i only know one boy who didn’t and he seemed to have a mental or emotional disorder, and is probably in prison now. These teenage girls just laughed and giggled.
3. In 2006 i had a vision of sorts, and began to wonder if there was anything good about England. i realised there were good English people, but they were almost all over 50; the decent younger ones seemed lost, bewildered at how vile English culture had become, essentially chav culture so millionaires and royalty dress and talk like chavs. It doesn’t surprise me, then, that the Leave votes mainly came from the older generation – those who knew England before it was gobbled up by the EU, and therefore don’t suppose trade would cease without, or that everyone would lose their jobs, or that Denmark would invade. The younger generation – and this happened in Nazi Germany too – believe the lies of their rulers, knowing nothing else (those processed through the Hitler Youth were generally far more fanatical than those who grew up in Wilhelmine Germany).
4. It is, i would say, the most emotional political issue in my lifetime. Most of my colleagues are Lefties – not really educated, most have gone to some kind of university but are almost illiterate (their lips move when they read); the few who read, only read the Guardian, or “genre fiction”. Here is how i celebrated Brexit:
In the past, i would openly tell my colleagues “i’m extremely right-wing” and sneer at them as “filthy commies” when they talked about the Guardian or how they were voting Bernie Sanders and want someone to assassinate Trump. They would sneer back in good spirit and all was well. Now i’ve noted a considerable level of vitriol on the Remain part, even among the mildest, e.g. a Brit colleague, a soft harmless pussy-whipped coward who i like, posted something like “Well done, some of you deserve what you’ll get. Going to the Ausländeramt to get a passport”. i found “you deserve what you’ll get” rather sinister, possibly directed at me, since he seems to have only Left-wing friends – like a lot of soft liberal white people, he probably thinks “but, Elberry, you’re…you know, a Paki…you have to be on the Left!” – and now gleefully imagines me being stoned to death by white racists, because only a white racist would, presumably, vote to be independent of the EU. I’ve heard this “argument” from a few white Lefties, which boils down to “your race determines which political party you can vote for” – i was even accused of being a racist by The Communist (a well-paid UN apparatchik pining for the good old USSR) because racism is the only reason you might prefer not to be a socialist.
i am unsurprised that rich UN apparatchiks are full of rage that i’m not a Leftie, but now the Remain camp seem to think the useless old people who did nothing, except work their entire lives, have now ruined their entire future, and England will become a rogue state – and so even the placid fat Lefties, with their soft white hands, are angry and spitting venom on all & sundry. i suspect this will be akin to the Dreyfus Affair, which likewise divided French society – i would then have been a Dreyfusard, believing the truth, and the individual, more important than the supposed glory of the French army, and the careers of well-paid bureaucrats and liars.
5. It is perhaps so emotional because it indicates the spiritual gap between the camps. The Remain lot had mostly economic arguments – often full of lies, e.g. that Britain relies on the EU for farming subsidies, when in fact Britain gave 13 billion € a year to the EU, and only got 4.5 billion back. Two of my students have told me, as if it is an indisputable fact, that Britain needs the EU for its generous wallet. The Leave camp had really only emotional appeals, such as “this is our country and we don’t want foreign powers telling us what to do” or “I don’t want Sharia law”.
The economic arguments are largely irrelevant for me personally, because i don’t see much correlation between prosperity and cultural health – i know good people who are rich, and good people who are broke; i know bad people who are rich, and bad people who are lifelong dolescum & benefit cheats; this is one of many reasons i regard the Left as wrong-headed and misguided. i can say, from experience, that England in the 1930s, in the midst of economic depression, was safer and more civilised than England at the peak of its Thatcherite boom, or its fairy gold Nu Labour spivvery.
The Remain camp think only in terms of material advantage, exchange rates, share prices. Oh no, my soft liberal colleague has to go to the Ausländeramt and get a passport – how terrible! Oh no, holidays abroad won’t be as cheap! And so on.
And Esau said to Jacob, Feed me, I pray thee, with that same red pottage; for I am faint: therefore was his name called Edom.
And Jacob said, Sell me this day thy birthright.
And Esau said, Behold I am at the point to die: and what profit shall this birthright do to me?
And Jacob said, Swear to me this day; and he sware unto him: and he sold his birthright unto Jacob.
Then Jacob gave Esau bread and pottage of lentiles; and he did eat and drink, and rose up, and went his way: thus Esau despised his birthright. (Gen 25. 30-4)
My mother and stepfather were both in the Leave camp; both would be despised by the ruling elites, by smug Leftists, as uneducated and more like to read a tabloid than Left-wing controlled media like the Guardian or the Times. The Leftists would call them racist bigots, and if i said Neither are remotely racist or bigoted, the Leftists would say i have false consciousness, and i myself am a racist and a bigot and should be done away with forthwith, how dare a Paki not be on the Left? – perhaps i should be stoned by Muslims, for i am surely an apostate? – since all dark peoples are Muslims, or should be, hmm?
For people like me and my mother economics are irrelevant, because we have never been rich and never would be, and would rather have freedom and decency and honour than the latest iphone and a special deal on a nice little place in Tuscany. This makes us “little Englanders” and Tory scum, apparently.
Every argument i’ve seen in favour of Remain is to do with economics. i don’t even bother disputing with these people, because all i could say for sure is that the EU is destroying the fabric of English culture – not that it’s the only factor, by any means; and they wouldn’t understand, because they are all deracinated, rootless types, parasites who could live anywhere and are only in Germany because they can claim money from the Government, or because they can work here at an easy low-skill job (English teacher, or McLingua management, neither requiring talent). With people like this, there is no debate, one must hold one’s ground and try to ignore their slurs and slanders, their Leftist rage as the gravytrain is shunted to a different siding.
6. Almost every German i’ve talked to was angry that Britain was even having a referendum, regarding it as an affront and possibly a war crime. An East German engineer snapped at me: “What is with this England? All lands will be in the EU. Only the British peoples they are thinking they are special, or?” i don’t see it as exaggeration to say that Germans are natural pedants and control freaks, and want to control not merely their immediate surroundings but other countries, and the world. For the German, it is intolerable that a country should be independent and not part of the 4th Order. i believe this is in part because of German geohistory – jammed between France and Russia Germany has had war every generation, invasion, rape, catastrophe. England hasn’t been invaded in a thousand years, at least not by an army – i would see the immigration of the last 20 years as an invasion, just as the recent Muslim “refugees” are an occupying force doing what all occupiers do – loot and rape.
Thus Germans value security over freedom. They yearn for order, bureaucracy, for powerful men and women to rule over them – the more powerful, faceless, inaccessible, the better. And being Germans they want to extend this empire over their neighbours, to include all in their net, to have power over all, to have one power to rule over all men.
But then that describes the Left in general, so i find it amusing that so-called anarchists are protesting against the referendum and assaulting anyone they find with the Union Jack. As is often the case with the Left, what they say (“we are anarchists!”) is the opposite of the truth (they want a one world government to control every inch of human life, as long as it doles out enough arts grants for shrieking menstrual feminist poetry slams, and “anarchist” communes). i think because the Left usually deny objective reality (“hate facts”, post-structuralism, feminism, logic as a male patriarchal tool of oppression, everything is a “construct” because some French assholes said so in the 60s etc.) they have no problem with lying, don’t even really recognise it as lying – for them, it is merely whatever is expedient, to achieve social revolution and remake man in their image:
The EU is a curious partnership between financial neo-liberals who, judging from their actions, want to destroy small businesses and clear a path for vast multinationals to dominate the market; and hysterical social justice warriors like the delightful Trigglypuff. For the former, any individualism, any tradition, any borders, any national identity, is an irritating obstacle to a global financial empire; and since the latter violently hate and attack tradition, the individual, borders, national identity, well, it’s really a match made in Heaven, or, you know, somewhere else. It is natural that the security-craving Germands love the EU and its works, and natural too that they will now blame every failing on the British people, and therefore on me since i am quite open about my views. A Muslim gang rapes a child? – Brexit to blame! A Muslim blows himself up and kills dozens of innocents? – Brexit again!
The EU was really perfect for the Left – a soft totalitarianism, perhaps like Communism in Poland: one of my students, who lived through this era, said it wasn’t as bad as in Russia, that having a politically incorrect opinion would get you fired and unemployable, but you probably wouldn’t be tortured and executed. The EU was heading in this direction, with its interesting Hate Speech notions, directed against people like me; and its so-called secret army, presumably to punish states who might try to withdraw from the glorious Fourth Reich, and needed a bit of enlightening, 1956 style.
7. It will be interesting to observe as events unfold. Since Britain was one of the few strong economies, contributing to the numerous parasites (all of Eastern Europe), without us the others (France, Netherlands, Germany) will have to do more, as millions more Muslim “refugees” flood into Europe from warzones like Pakistan, Algeria, Morocco, and Iraq, demanding good Halal meat and white girls to rape, and cars, and good housing, and respect, and for gays to be thrown off buildings, and dogs to be slaughtered as haram, and Jews to be burnt alive, and Christian churches converted into mosques. It could be that if another strong economy pulls out, the whole “European project” will collapse, and of course everyone will blame Britain for all that follows, because we shouldn’t have wanted freedom from the glorious socialist neo-liberal republic of Islam.
Scotland, i wager, will leave the UK, which is only fair since practically the entire country voted to Remain. i don’t see any reason why they should stay in the UK, and as a small-government Tory i think it would be better if they fucked off to eat their fried Mars Bars and crack sandwiches in peace.
So there it is, history.
my message to the Beta Leftist rabble and Chardonnay-drinkers
1. Thanks for moneys pledged via Patreon, it is a surprise that anyone reads my writings at all, let alone that they would toss some coin into my well of drowned kittens. As the EU devours nation after nation, the religion of peace rape-conquers Europe with the help of traitors and manginas, and Fukushima’s radiation kills off the world’s oceans, my own life seems ever more insignificant, but then it was already so piffling that the end of Western civilisation, and the destruction of all life on Earth can’t make much difference.
2. i recently hatched a new literary crush – Tim Powers, labelled as a sci-fi/Fantasy writer. i finished his novel Declare yesterday in a state of stupefied resentment & awe – resentment inasmuch as it is more or less the novel i’d been planning for the last 15 years, a Fantasy/metaphysical spy thriller set in WW2 and the Cold War. Here is a scene, chosen at random, where Andrew Hale, SIS and involuntary occultist, meets a non-human in the desert:
“Human enough to have survived the doom of your kingdom,” Hale observed. He didn’t change his expression, but he had to run his tongue around the inside of his mouth to be sure he had not actually eaten something, and he wished he had brought his water bottle with him when he had walked away from his camel – for his mouth was fouled with the woody taste of dry, long-stale bread.
The red lips smiled in the black beard, exposing white teeth, though there was no change of expression in the watchful eyes. “Human enough for half of me to have survived.”
Hale breathed in and out through his open mouth, trying to lose the taste. “How did the…the killing stone…kill your people?”
A’ad stared at Hale as if at an idiot. “Know, O man, that it fell upon them. It, and others like it.” He shook his head, then dipped his fingers over his right knee, by the blinking parrot’s head. “Do try this meat. You have never tasted anything as exquisite as the seasoning of this dish.”
“Akh al-Jahala!” cawed the parrot. The phrase meant brother of ignorance.
Oddly, this scene felt familiar in an agent-running context; and Hale realised that it was like debriefing an Arab agent who has lost respect for the handler and is about to stop cooperating. Get what you can, fast, he thought.
It’s at times Alan Fursty in atmosphere, with an almost Kafka strangeness. Impossible to summarise neatly, but it’s about occult cliques in military intelligence, djinns, Kim Philby, nations, and quite a lot of mystic Catholicism. Powers evidently read biographies of Philby and then wrote this to fill in blanks with fantasy – i know little of Philby but as far as i know all of this is good fantastical speculation on history. As with any good Fantasy novel, parts of it are true – for example, a kind of trance-walk which takes the walker long distances through danger unscathed, unremembering, which Peter Kingsley also wrote of in his last work.
In the novel, a so-called djinn becomes a protecting angel of the Soviet Union, maintaining its internal cohesion in return for lavish blood sacrifices. In the novel, this accounts for the enormous purges of the USSR, and actually it would explain why Sweden is now the rape capital of Europe – because they sacrificed nothing in the war, and so their nation is now gone, just a geographical definition.
3. Every idea, every symbol, can take on a “life of its own”, as an independent intelligence, a spirit. A nation is an idea and symbol. As i see it, the EU is a continuation of the thoroughly malign spirit of the USSR – socialist hegemony and levelling, to annihilate identity and human individuality, to create a Tower of Babel with an inner circle of unelected and unaccountable bureaucrats having dominion over hitherto free nations. It is the “spirit” of the Machine, of a world cleared of the human.
Even if England votes to Leave tomorrow, so far a good 50% of those polled vote to Remain, indicating the servile depths to which the chavs, polishers, and Southrons have sunk in the last 70 years. There is no longer an England to save, even if the political elites would allow their trough to be taken away. Where once we had fighters and traditionalists, now all are hobbits – fat, content little creatures who will happily sell their birthright to the religion of peace and EU Marxists for a pot of frankly shitty gruel.
As to why, i know not. Those i know who want to stay in thrall to the EU tend to be standard Leftist idiots, who regard any kind of nationalism as Nazism; culturally-suicidal fools who would be the first to call for Muslims to have Sharia patrols and the right to stone all & sundry in England, because that’s tolerance and respect, yet would regard any real English culture as terribly vulgar and backward, the kind of dreadful nonsense people in the North go for. They are secular atheists all, even if they mumble approvingly into their Chardonnay about Christian architecture or the Bible – but fundamentally, they are, at best, glib Southrons and apple polishers, totally severed from the spirit; they have done very well for themselves, in the world.
4. i could not take their path. It seems my fate to be born at the tail-end of decaying empire, to live through the final disintegration of culture, the rise of the totalitarian state and then total war. If chronology is any guide, the war will begin in ten years, and destroy everything – imagine a Balkans-style civil war across Europe, as the sand peoples rise up against the white man; and, why, even the fat belly-patting Southrons in the nice little middle class suburbs, the content worldlings who vote for the EU and think Muslims jolly good chaps who do a nice Balti, even they will be slaughtered.
But by then, perhaps a meteor will destroy this whole planet, or the hundreds of tons of radioactive water flowing from Fukushima, every day, will settle the matter, and we can begin again from amoeba up.
Another of my probably stupid short stories, take it as you will:
The Rat Catcher
They come around almost every day now, these new folk with their thin ankles and fat faces, holding book and pen, with their questions, their demands and insinuations and what they call suggestions, which I am to take as commands, it seems.
Rat-catcher am I, man and boy, these years, in the house of the king. I am in pride that for many years no rat disturbed king’s repose or rejoice, no grand feast interrupted by patter or screech, no queen afrighted by sound or stink of ratkind. It pleases me indeed, when that desert king and his court came and made carouse in the year after the little flood over westway, in his cups the great bearded one spake loud, – But where be the rats in this house? – for he could, and did, toss bones and all manner scraps and grease to the floor without siege of rat ensuing.
It is long work. I inherited much of my fathers, their faithful labour and vigilance. You, my far aftercomer, you must begin from new, you must overpass my work and my father’s also, in ratlore and craft. Now, rats are common to the houses of men, so much that it wonders me how they can live where no man is. And how, as soon as a man sets him down and a house is builded, then come the rats. From whence, many have inquired. Be rats spontaneously generate from our waste, our sewage, our sweat, our breath? And when a house be parsimonious with its waste and has barely food to feed its own, lacking a good rat-catcher it can also host thousands of shrieking, scuttling beasts, as if – spite their huge hunger – food is not their need, they can and often do live with no dropped bones or moulded bread or glistening cheese, and live in their triumphant squeaking thousand. Yes, recall you the Beorma town, wholly taken by the rat, where all men were fled or dead, months past, and yet when folk went there in armour and with teeth of terrier and fire then found they a million rats, vainglorious squeaking ran rat on roof, up and down drainpipe, through streets, along gutters, and the people asked then, But from what eat they? Ratkind are base and ordinary, yet with a great mystery at their heart, and the capturing and killing of a rat is work of many lifetimes and much art and cunning, rat-like cunning I might say.
The new folk, my questioners and doubters, understand little, I judge. First they came with pen and book, to know – quoth they – my place and purpose in the king’s house. Rat-catcher, so I. But there be no rats here! came their response. And thank thee, I answer, curt like, and go about my work.
But they be not so easy shaken off. They pursue into the dark ways, kitchenways and cellar where few but menials ever be. ˗ What do you here, then? they demand, haughty as you please. − Where be your banes, your poison cheese, if rat-man you be?
Always on poison, these folk harp. Whence they came, no man knows, they follow also the cleaners, the cooks, soldiery, the tailor and his boys, butchers, fishing men, the equerries, herald, teachers, leather craft, scribes, executioner, even the goodly whores, setting fool questions and demands, in the name of the king, as they say.
Down to the very cellarage they pursue, jabbering away, and demanding, What make you now? And I, − I listen, and watch, so hold that gob. This they cannot comprehend, yet in my time the work was largely so – only vigilance, patrol, presence; and in the old days enough. I made patrol, I and a terrier or two, through grand tapestried halls, with their huge polished tables and scrubbed floors; and down wide imposant stairs, and likewise up, and through drawing rooms and strange musical chambers of gold and jewel, and hall of stone figure and paint, and halls of glass also, and to the menial quarter, the whoredoms, kitchens, pantries, furnace, sewerage, rubbish fall, soldiery, weaponry, wine cellar, etc etc. – now always pursued by the new folk, always they are squinting as they would stick their noses into every corner and shade, and always asking, − What make you now? Why we are here? And I, at the end of my scant patience, only, − Shut that gob, for I would listen and look.
And truth there be rats in this house, perhaps always will and must be, and I listen not at silence, but at cavity and runnel and reek, at ratway behind and between stone wall, under floor, over ceiling, behind tapestry however wondrous and fair, by what hands woven. Attend, and ye hear – ratkind are always with us. In the good days it was but a distant scuttle, echoed and caught in stone, but never absent, never even so distant that I could not say exactly where. So to the big gob I spake, − Listen, and press his fool ear to the stone, and he merely, sniffing haughty, − Some light noise, no doubt rain or old wood creaking in this atrocious dereliction. Well, it was a rat some 200 yards off, I guess by one of the rubbish falls on the east side. And in the good days, much of my work was so, patrol and sniff and listen and look, and sometime act. Acting could be poison but the older I be in ratcraft and lore the less I like such solution – the ratkind learn, and some dimwit maid’s little dog may gobble up my bane, or the woman herself even, for some are fond of seeming dainties, and none too particular. No, for all the new folk babble and expect me to be wanton laying poison all over the land it is a risky answer, and so my tools are tobacco, trap, terrier, and largely useless cat. Tobacco? you may wonder, for this is not part of the ratlore. Yet this is my finding, I note since many year, that where I stop to smoke pipe the rats would sure scant for some time. Perhaps they love not the scent for it is indeed a harsh tobacco, or perhaps they know it to be mine, and so avoid where it do reek. A goodly arrangement, I patrol and smoke and they flee my burning pleasance.
The terriers were likewise doubted by the new folk. − Ridiculous, Sir Ratman, that the king pay for your pets! cry they. Meanwhile the terriers regard the big gobs with the old terrier expression – amazed and wary, apt to biting. Fine dogs, harder to procure at quality than tobacco in these lands. Look you, my favourites must slumber in my little room now, fierce little hounds of royal blood, their lineage is noted in the heraldry and their ancestors served the rat-catcher of the big-belly King Markku who was alway drunk and clad in black. Yes, were it not for these waggy-tailed jolly killers my work would be near impossible. And the new folk call them pets, indulgence of my senility as they say.
Now the cat I could easily dispense with, an unruly horde of indolent upstarts who are more apt to blink sleepily than defend their house against the rat. And yet they serve, to some very minor degree. Ratlore is divided on the subject of cat, for me and my fore-goer they are most time an alarm of sorts, screeching and hissing at rat incursion, if they can bestir themself that is. There was the time of the Rat and Cat War, when dogs were banned after a shrieking royal whore kicked a terrier, and was ankle bitten for her pains. My far fore-goer let the cats multiply beyond decency, hoping it seems that hundreds of cats could replace a dozen hounds. In this time, rats skulked in every corner and slipper and empty wine flagon, gnawed many a fine lady’s gown, ran under the feet of visiting kings, stole meats from the forks of barons, jumped even onto the high table and copulated in the dessert of the king himself. And the cats? They grew insolent beyond belief, idle and gross upon divans, filling ladies’ chambers with their sarcastic mewling.
No no, take away the cats by all means, but touch my terriers not. And yet I fear, for you, distant rat-catcher, there will be no sound dogs; the new folk will have won here, and you will come many years after calamity with none to help. Yet this is not the first such fall. For after the Rat and Cat War, my far fore-goer came to this house when it was a slaughter floor with fine ladies stepping daintily over dead cats and rats in the halls, on stairs, dropping from ceilings, floating in their chamber pots, in their baths, a great and noxious stink of death, for the cats were finally put to it, and did fight in the end. And then the rat-catcher began anew, with what dog he could.
I do not know when you will come, in a year or ten, or a hundred, or more yet. But there will be no dog. For the new folk spake, − There be no rats here, hence no need of stinking folk such as you and your unclean dogs.
I brung them a rat caught that day in my trap, and then spake they, − Very good Sir Ratman, there be a dead rat, but what of it?
And now their talk is of acceptance, of No Great Thing. − All cities have rats, they laugh, − And they do no harm.
They gesture to a rat carcass and speak grandly, − What harm could such a small beast do? Is it not, as your unclean dogs, a living thing, as a cat, a horse, as you, Sir Ratman? Is this little peaceful rat not also a part of God’s creation, sir, is it not also to be loved? Does it not also have blood and breath, and babies? Can we say it is any worse than we who build fine palaces on the blood of serfs, and wear silks, and say we are nobles? Is not the root of all woe hatred? Then why, Sir Ratman, do you hate the humble rat, the poor rat, the peaceful rat which only wishes to live with us, to enjoy our prosperity, to have a better life with us, recognising, in sooth, our virtue and our splendour, to be our friend?
Ratcounts, they demand now, detailed listings of every rat caught, where, when, how, and why. Why? – because it is a rat, sir big gob. I must now it seems account for my work and my self, and explain and justify why I fed my terriers meats today, why I patrol just this corridor today, and not that corridor, why I spent an afternoon in the vast kitchens. − Are you, Sir Ratman, perchance availing yourself of the hospitality of the kitchen wenches? they sneer, these corpulent red-faced officials in their fine velvet and silk robes, to me.
At first I thought them foolish and ill-witted, with their question. Now I question their purpose, and think them ill-willed, for the rats grow bolder, and I note ratsign every day, especially where the new folk have been, and I wonder at the intent of these gross strange-worded inlopers. We gang together last day, without my dogs because the new folk have a curious loathing and fear of dogkind, deeming them dirty and unclean. Through the corridors and to the kitchens we gang, I sniffing and looking and the big gobs jabbering away as is their wont, and in the kitchens I was listening at walls and floor, uneasy and smelling something rank amidst cabbage and potatoes and basil and raw meat, and the big gobs helping themselves to platters of cheese and flagons of wine, and a rat ran sudden forth from a shadow, and there was no terrier to fight, the kitchen cats as usual purring on stools, awaiting their cream, and so I pulled my ratting blade, and the huge grey beast ran directly to the big gobs, and where a wench or cook would have screamed (in fright or anger), these perfumed officials smile and lift their velvet gown, and the rat ran between their thin white legs and took refuge in their midst as I stand, ratblade in hand, and the big gobs all a-laughing, − Oh la! Will he stab us, with his big sword? and all a-laugh together, a high whinnying giggle, I and the kitchen menials looking wondering on, the rat hissing between bony pale ankles.
Now my terriers are to be taken away, I hear. The kennel master is told, Pack your things and take these unclean animals from out the king’s palace. I keep my two best terrier in my little room, and I sleep little, patrolling also at night now, listening for rat. The new folk carouse and sleep late, in their rich quarters, and so I work best undisturbed in their thick slumber. And the rats are, I judge, at return. I have left whole quarters and now patrol only the kitchens, sewerage, and king’s quarter, smoking liberally and laying traps. And often, I find my traps cleverly or crudely sabotaged, a bar broken, a hinge loose, or sometime the whole smashed. My terriers sniff and then growl, as to say, A rat.
− We wonder much, Sir Ratman, the new folk laugh, gobbling down sweetmeats, − That you persist here. Are you not a man outmoded, by the newest fashions, by the newest thoughts? A ratman, forsooth! You are a veritable museum, a walking museum, Sir Ratman, a quaint little man, a vulgar little man!
Poison was laid at my door, for my dogs I judge, dogs too canny to be so taken. − These are hate dogs! the new folk proclaim. − They must be done away with! Vulgar little ratman, if you are distressed you may appeal to the clemency of the king’s wise council! And when I inquire, who that be, they giggle, − Us!
So you see how things were in the last days. I know not how long I have before they settle me and my dogs. Already rats are seen in daylight, have bitten children and killed a foolish maid’s lapdog, and yet the new folk, these silked & velvet officials smile and pat their bellies, − Why are you so afraid of such little mouses? Such irrational fear! You have a demon, perhaps? The king will have no demons about him! So leave if you must!
Rat-catcher is an old post in this house. I perceive that the new folk would not do away with it entire, but would rather I be defanged and dedogged, left with – as they smilingly promise – honorary status. Gold, they offer, and perhaps even a title, to be a noble. − And you may take the rat as your coat of arms! they giggle. − Oh yes, a noble and historical family! The good Baron Ratman!
Astounding, the speed with which ratkind return to this domain. Were my traps unsaboteured, I would catch some every night now, judging by ratsign. If my last days will be grim and most like humiliating – for it seems I am to be driven forth with untrue accusings – then the first days of my aftercomer must be worse yet, for he will have to cleanse the house, and that will be no easy task. I advise you, my far son, look to good dogs of good blood, terriers with a strong spirit, eschew poisons, and lay no reliance on cats; smoke much tobacco, and be of good cheer as best you may, love this house, and hold fast.
18 June 2016
1. i find myself broker than usual. My tastes are relatively inexpensive, especially now i’ve greatly reduced my alcohol consumption, but i also work less & less, a natural consequence, it seems, of refusing to teach kids, crash courses, weekends, late evenings, Arbeitsamt. When i do reasonably well with work, and save a bit of gro, something bad invariably happens to wipe out my savings, such as, in 2012, losing about 1300 € in one weekend after nearly dying of asthma. Having had several such experiences, i no longer try to save more than a few hundred euros, and even that is now impossible, since i get less & less work each year.
i feel that one’s deep and largely inexpressible understanding of life derives from such experiences, which is why most people can’t understand my choices – because i tend to have very different experiences.
2. At the moment i feel as if my life is in slow-motion collapse about me. Perhaps it is age, or perhaps a result of six months largely without the “internal dialogue”, but my character is changing, in ways which bring me further & further from my colleagues, my job, my earthly existence. A few weeks ago my Arbeitsamt class started shouting at me in German, because they couldn’t understand the Present Progressive; i am generally quite a patient teacher, so tried to simplify it, but 4 or 5 out of 14 students were shouting things like “that is stupid!” and “I will never understand this bullshit!” in German, and since it was 10 minutes to the end i just packed my bag, said “fine, then” and left, and told McLingua i won’t teach this group again (one of the many reasons i’m broker than usual now).
As i was leaving the building one of the students ran after me to apologise, and say it wasn’t meant personally against me. i told her “i know. i don’t take it personally. But i can’t teach people who don’t cooperate.” And indeed, i felt a total lack of anger or even irritation, just a forceful resolve to leave. i have done similar things since, for example staring coldly at Toddball when he leered “look at this fucking creepy guy creeping in” as i came into the building earlier this week; i would once have forced a half-assed smile of “ho ho ho, yes, let’s all laugh at me, that’s what i’m here for, ho ho ho”. i don’t feel any recognisable emotion, but realise my actions would strike most observers as aggressive and confrontational.
Because i don’t feel any emotion in these situations, it’s hard to control my actions – i don’t feel i’m doing anything untoward, and only later do i reflect that i am acting like The Cop or Molloy, both of whom have walked out of uncooperative classes, and neither of whom respond well to mockery.
The McLingua scheduler has tried to find me more classes (at the moment i have about 2 hours’ work a day, and 2 hours’ unpaid traveling) but it always clashes with one of the few classes i have. It’s got to the point where we exchange a well-worn “not again” look when i compare her appointments with my almost totally empty calendar, and find i can’t take the classes. It seems to strike even her as curious, as if the teaching gods don’t want me to have work.
3. i feel as if the stitching of my teaching life is being slowly but methodically unpicked, and the seams of the last 6 years are coming naturally apart. i find i can’t even properly panic about my impending financial doom, indeed i even bought some 75 € shoes (reduced from 300 €!) and have booked a flight to Finland to conspire with the Man in Black as foretold in days long past – not a prudent decision given i am making less than i need to live, but it feels like the right thing to do, and so there it is. With my new propensity for confrontation i wonder if, as in Manchester in 2009, i will do something which makes my life here untenable – then, it was a sudden spasm of rage, and i found myself telling one of my fat stupid manageresses off, with some vigour, and an odd German accent, jabbing my finger at her fat stupid face and then stalking majestically out, thinking later, Fuck, i’m going to get fired.
4. i was moved to donate some of the money i don’t have to my favourite youtube channel, Vee – an amusing Romanian who looks like some kind of beast man from Game of Thrones; then i decided to set up my own Patreon account in the sudden wild hope that i would suddenly go from my usual dozen-or-so readers to thousands, hundreds of thousands, and some of them would feel inexplicably moved to give me gro. i’m by no means desperate for money – i can just use my UK credit card to stay afloat, and get even more in debt, and if need be i could agree to teach kids, late evenings, Saturdays. i’m not keen on being paid for this blog but on reflection it could motivate me to write more often – i have ideas for posts quite often but usually can’t be bothered, since almost no one reads this blog, my 7-year-old PC is on its last legs, and anyway i see my writings as the literary equivalent of stick figure doodles and vile graffiti carved on an old school desk out of boredom & hate.
Anyway, i will no doubt continue to blog here, and also when the fit takes me on my more obviously satirical blog, however my proposal is that if i can raise a tenner a month i’ll try to post here at least once a month; if i get 50 dollars, i’ll try and post once a fortnight; and in the unlikely event of getting 100 dollars a month, i’ll try and post every week. It sounds funny talking about such ridiculously high sums, given i have about a dozen readers and i think most or even all of them are broke, or have children (which automatically makes one permanently broke). i think some of them are even more broke than me, which takes a lot of work. i do have a lot of ideas for blog posts – film reviews, book reviews, anecdotes from work, hate-filled Tory rants, but because my PC is so laboriously slow, and i’m lazy, i can’t be bothered writing most of them, and so they are forgotten. As far as i can tell Patreon is anonymous, unlike Paypal – so when i sent Vee some gro via Paypal i got his real name & address, but via Patreon just his homepage and stage name. i’m presuming it works both ways, so both patron and base-born serf are anonymous.
Anyway, i don’t expect a single contribution since i have almost no readers and they are all broke, but just in case, my patreon is here.