1. The Viking in accordance with ancient prophecy descended upon my exceedingly humble abode the week before last, bearing filth, madness, a huge Biblical beard, and modern Catholicism in equal measure. Luckily i had virtually no work that week so could entertain his delusions of modernity and get focken wasted on gin and whisky, by Harry. And so, here is my account of this horrific week:

2. The Viking appears in clouds of depravity. We watch Murdoch Murdoch videos (now Shoahed) and drink and smoke. We watch two episodes of the 80s classic Robin of Sherwood (Viking strokes his manly beard and mutters obscenities), Excalibur (Viking sniggers like a 10-year-old girl throughout), Seven Psychopaths (Viking strokes his manly beard and mutters obscenities) and Bram Stoker’s Dracula (Viking strokes his manly beard and stares in horror). As an autistic fundamentalist Calvinist Chemist, his criteria for a good film are: ROBOTS, ROBOTS, ROBOTS. ROBOTS, ROBOTS, ROBOTS. ROBOTS, ROBOTS, ROBOTS. ROBOTS, ROBOTS, ROBOTS. ROBOTS, FASCISM, ROBOTS, ROBOTS. ROBOTS, OEDIPAL, ROBOTS, BIG TITS, ROBOTS. ROBOTS, ROBOTS, ROBOTS. ROBOTS, ROBOTS, ROBOTS, you get the picture. He is basically a robot with a robot’s brain and a fascist 2-year-old’s soul – he has a Zen-like retard clarity though unfortunately one has to tell him things like “don’t set yourself on fire”.

3. His derision of Excalibur stirred me to thought. John Boorman was both sensitive to, and able to re-articulate, the central matter of the Arthurian myth, which is also the English tale. An odd thing – those who seem most sensitive to this greatest of English myths tend to be either rad-trad fascists or colonials or exiles; it is as if the white English are in some way blocked, as if a miasma lies over England itself; i note that Survive the Jive (from Berkshire) now lives in Sweden, and Millennial Woes is originally Scottish, and Theodore Dalrymple lives in France; only Roger Scruton manages to exist in England, and he lives on a farm where he can drink wine and smoke in peace with his horses. My ex-Muslim Pakistani schoolfriend Shrekh is more sensitive to Arthurian myth than the Viking – that expresses well the dispossession of the white English, for while Shrekh recognised the power of the myth and the film, the Viking spent most of the entire 2 hours giggling and snickering – and, indeed, precisely at the most sacred moments, for example Parsifal’s rebirth in the river

and his second ascension to the Grail Castle – throughout this scene, the Viking was rocking back and forth tugging his beard and cackling with deranged, childish hilarity, gasping occasionally “doh ho ho ho ho! ha hah hah! Arthur needs you! haha hah haha! look, he has a big beard! doh ho ho ho ho! look, he is like really sad and stuff!!! doh ho ho ho ho! He is like in a river and stuff! Doh ho ho ho ho! Thrashing about in the water! Doh ho hoh! Look, this weird old guy is in a chair! Doh ho ho ho hoh! Funny music! Doh ho ho ho hoh!” i was reminded of a newspaper article i read of English chav teenagers who were forced to watch Schindler’s List, presumably in an attempt to educate them about human suffering, but they sat there giggling and throwing popcorn about – there are people who would simply snicker and chortle if they saw the worst sufferings imaginable, and if faced with their own originating impulse would laugh and mock.

4. Later i reflected that the worst of the European countries, in terms of degeneracy, migrant invasion, and cultural alienation, are England and Sweden. England is i think the only nation with a strong and complex national myth; Sweden a Viking nation now fallen into effeminate degeneracy. Sweden has its own aetiology, to do with two centuries of peace and being a nation of homosexuals. England, however, is exceptional – i can think of no other nation with such a powerful, rich myth, reaching from the Dark Ages (Arthur) through to Dunkirk. This mythic life reflects a real spiritual force in the land and what the people once were; and this is why England, more than any other nation (save, perhaps, Sweden) has been systematically targeted for cultural annihilation: replacement of the native population with incompatible invaders, and violent tearing-up of the mythic roots.

Derision, mockery, is the common response to the sacred, among the deracinated, the dispossessed, the demonic. The triumph of evil is to have so corrupted the white English that, faced with the supreme exemplar of their own myth, they snicker and giggle uncontrollably like little girls. They do not even denounce their ancestry; they see it as so ridiculous as to merit only mockery. How, then, could they be loyal to the gods of their long fathers? How could such folk be other than modern?

From Albion Awakening

The final element is the land itself, the ‘pleasant pastures’, ‘mountains green’, and ‘clouded hills’ Blake evoked so powerfully in Jerusalem. There is a conspicuous absence in the UK, I think, of anything that might be called ‘British Christianity.’ None of the denominations, as far as I can see, seem interested in the powerhouse of mythic lore that animates our island and gives it such imaginative resonance and archetypal depth. There is no attempt to link the faith with the land and the aboriginal understanding that the land in itself (as Blake knew) is sacred and holy – qualitative not quantitative – hallowed ground, not a random collection of rivers, mountains and fields.

i have made it my life’s work to remedy the Viking’s debased nature, to purge him of Adam’s stain, to reform him with alcohol and tobacco and whores – with, so far, mixed results.

5. As part of my quest to redeem this fallen son of Odin, i dragged him to a rad trad Catholic Mass, mine & his first. i was afeared he would run around the church kicking the occult implements over and roaring with laughter: “Doh ho hoh! That stupid funny man in those like robes and stuff is on the floor!!! Doh ho hoh! He has like spilt all that wine and stuff! Doh ho hoh! Everyone is like pointing at me and shouting stuff!!! Doh ho hoh, my cock is out! Doh ho hoh, I am jizzing on the congregation! Doh ho hoh, I am drinking the wine and like conjuring up Cthulhu and CS Lewis and stuff!!! Doh ho hoh!!!”

However, to my surprise he comported himself with restraint. He didn’t disrobe, smear himself with mashed potato or jeer or (my greatest) fear leap over to the altar and start drinking the wine and scoffing the wafers with a gloating: “Doh ho hoh! Now I am God and you must worship me! Bring me mashed potato! Bring me gay manga! Bring me the daughters of Eve!”

It was the first effective Christian operative ceremony i have attended. There were about a dozen attendees, including a Matrix-clad priest in the pew in front of us, who looked highly fascistic and noble and unlikely to partake of manga; the rest were mostly quite young. There was an atmosphere of concentrated purpose, unlike any other so-called Christian ceremony i have witnessed.

For the most part the priest faced away from us, mumbling inaudibly at the altar, with occasional snatches of Latin, and only defiled himself in modern vice once, by turning and reading to us in German. The separation, far from alienating the congregation, instead created a vacuum in which the sacred could come into physical existence. The divine is not directly present within the world; it would destroy the world were it to directly be; thus, the reticence and secrecy of the old Mass allows for a fuller invocation than the profane modern way where the priest faces the congregation, speaking a vulgar tongue, prances and plays the bongos while the congregation sing Coldplay, baring their effeminate bodies for the orgy, the gay manga, and the melted cheese.

The more religions seek worldliness, the weaker their understanding of the gods. The Allfather created this world but he is only covertly present, as it were under a nom de guerre: Gangleri, Grimnir, Draugadróttinn, Alföðr, Christ, etc. He is hooded. The modern Christian displays seek to mock the Almighty, to say, “he is just like us! he listens to U2 and plays the banjo! Don’t think of God as some unapproachable old man on a cloud, think of him as Dave or Tony!” Naturally, this appeals to the modern man, who lacks the taste for mystery and would think mystery is merely bamboozlement and chicanery because as the Viking would put it: “Everything should be like clear and logical like in Chemistry, because like anything else is like difficult to understand and stuff.”

The Almighty is masked, hence any mystery can awaken a sense of the divine as creator of our world, as apart from our world. If god were present in our world, as a mountain or a cathedral or a tree, we would not know uncertainty and evil: we would go to god and see. If god were wholly absent and uninvolved in our world, we would not have even these momentary apprehensions; and our world would have already collapsed into non-being.

The nature of tradition is thus: it can began as apparently arbitrary gesticulation and pompery, but over time that which is incidental or wrongheaded is pared away, and that which is however covertly valid becomes central.

i had no particular expectations, save a fear that the Viking would run around laughing and knocking the chalices and swords and pentagrams and bells over. His restraint and decorum was itself remarkable – for those unfortunate enough not to have met the Viking, imagine a hyperactive 2-year-old child in the body of a 7 foot-tall robot, with almost no self-control. That he did not start running around smashing things and singing U2 was, for me, proof that something remarkable was occurring, apart from my subjective sense of the moment.

Of course i am not a “Christian”, though Odin is a hypostasis of the Christian God. However, i felt something come into being – not so much between the priest and the altar, as in the entire church; a reverberation out of silence.

6. After the Mass we went out and to the gay quarter for a drink. We ended up in a bar full of Aryan QT, hipsters, and anarchist stickers like “the whole of Giesing hates the police” and nonsense of this sort. i had a Brandy Alexander and complimented a young pregnant blonde, “white children – good work!” and she laughed. About forty minutes after the Mass ended i felt a peculiar quietness come over me, so looking over the Viking’s shoulder at this hideous “anti-racist” t-shirt i was able to retain my Buddha-like composure and aura of exceeding peaceableness.

7. The next day we went into Munich to get focken wasted and fight Antifa but we found ourself in the midst of a gorillion faggots, it being some kind of gay pride orgy. “We are in occupied territory,” i advised the Viking as we forced our way through thousands of leather-clad homosexuals and 400 lb blue-hair feminists, “We must keep a low profile and avoid overly fascistic statements.”

It was horrible.

However, i did see two smoking hot lesbos French kissing and stopped to watch, was indeed tempted to say “you take requests?” and throw them some of my hard-earned McLingua coin. Marching through this nest of degeneracy i fantasized to the Viking: “now more than ever the Muslim would be welcome, to blow himself up and kill us all, ridding the Earth of all this palaver, indeed while i would normally be the first to whip out my Uzi pen and tackle the Muslim i might now just stand and contemplate the matter as he screams Allahu Akhbar! and detonates in the name of Love and Tolerance. We should find a gay bar and when the Muslim whips out the AK and starts shooting we can hide under the table and whisper “go on, do it!” and then reach out and steal cocktails from the tables of the dead. ” The Viking merely stroked his beard and said, “Hmm.”

We ended up at an old student’s restaurant where i had a great Negroni, the Viking a beer, and we breathed the air of heterosexuality and normalcy while he drew obscenities:

This was the result:

The Viking was in fine form and drew this depiction of me coolly discussing the modern world:

My student came out and we chatted for a while, then he insisted the drinks were on the house. Given how focken broke i am, this was a Great Victory; i’d calculated how much we could drink based on my wallet, and the Viking’s almost equally meagre coin, and so we were enabled to continue our sojourn in the pit of vice that was Munich on this Gay Day, drinking and cursing modernity. The Viking stroked his beard and commented: “Now we are ahead of the curve.”

i almost forgave his degeneracy, and we returned to my miserable cramped den to watch more films and smoke and discuss the Race War. While the Viking has not yet been converted to the old gods, i have hope, and as a mark thereof as he was cooking for us i carefully and lovingly selected two of the prostitute business cards Toddball brought back from his wedding in Las Vegas, and slipped them into the Viking’s laptop bag, hoping he would accidentally pull them out while visiting his fiancee’s family, and end up derelict and desperate, homeless and despised by all, and ready for the Truth.

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