You are currently browsing the monthly archive for September 2017.

1. i’ve been diligently working on my new volume of, well, stuff, and hope to self-publish it this year. It will consist of a play i wrote in 2013, my last 5 short stories, some racist remarks, some mediocre poems, and my temp memoir: at present it comes to about 70,000 words. Rather annoyingly, my monstrous Bildungsroman, The Better Maker, should also be ready soon. And then there will probably be another 20 years of nothing but blogging before various projects i’ve taken up, discarded, tinkered with, discarded, resumed, will suddenly coalesce into another two or three books all at the same time.

2. i’ve been long admonished for my bizarre ways and lack of focus, but have come to accept that the longer-term my plans, the less likely they are to be realised, and so i now live more or less from day to day like a vole burrowing about in your waistcoat closet. On the train down to Bratislava i started reading Nassim Taleb’s Antifragile, after long regarding him as a pompous blowhard based on headlines and his own occasional ex cathedra pronouncements on, e.g. ties. He is abrasive but as i read i rather warmed to this quality, and realised who he reminded me of – Varg Vikernes.

3. Both Varg and Taleb have to some degree disconnected from the world – Varg by living in the middle of rural France where he can play roleplaying games with his dozen blonde children and throw axes into trees, Taleb by being exceedingly rich and disdaining to act like a normal sensible human being. He describes his reading habits, for example he apparently read all of Zola’s books in one month, one a day. He says that he gets bored easily so immediately switches to another activity the moment he loses interest. He advocates unpredictable eating patterns. He drinks wine and eats steak and wears moccasins.

i share the distinction of getting easily bored, which is why i use a Kindle for my travels (i typically spend at least an hour on trains), so i can flick from e.g. Taleb to Thomas Bernhard to Chuck Palahniuk to Victor Davis Hanson to William Gordon Gray to Martin van Creveld. It takes me ages to finish a book but i’m never bored and because i only read what i want, i can read at maximum concentration.

Likewise with writing, i get bored and just switch off. i go through obsessive phases, for example i edited The Better Maker from beginning to end about five or six times earlier this year, then abruptly lost interest, feeling that i’d burnt out my capacity to perceive its particular landscape & defects, and only recently i’ve felt a renewed interest in finishing it off.

4. My character is, i think, essentially labile. Thus, school was a torment for me, as were office jobs, and i naturally gravitated to temping, and now as an English teacher i live in almost constant uncertainty, financial and otherwise. Taleb, when i Googled him, is subject to repeated criticism and abuse, but he’s a big boy and can take it. In part, his abrasive nature attracts criticism, but i think it’s also that he is highly dubious about Mankind’s ability to even comprehend reality as it is, let alone to make long-term plans and forecasts; and civilisation is driven in part by the need to comprehend a space within the city walls, to organise, order, and plan; and so he draws fire for his scepticism.

Our civilisation has been slowly crumbling for a while, and i think in the next few years it will come crashing violently down. Those who have profited from the current dysorder are unlikely to see it coming, because there is a natural human tendency to suppose that if one has a comfortable managerial position, with a Volvo, the world is as it should be and needs, at best, minor tinkering by a belly-patting Southron managerial class.

5. i’m hoping for a plague that wipes out about 90% of the human population, starting with those who have wronged me, then proceeding to anyone i dislike, those i don’t particularly like, people i like but who get on my nerves, friends, etc. Naturally i am unlikely to survive but it’s all good.

The shock will be extreme in highly conformist bureaucratic countries like Germany, Sweden.

My feeling is the collapse will come during the next 7 years, because Donald Trump will be in some way centrally involved in how things develop – whether (as the corporate media would insist) he will start randomly nuking the planet and aliens will come and destroy us because of his Twitter account, or whether his almost manically flexible mind will make the difference between utter destruction and some kind of survival. i feel it is the latter, and that he was in some sense chosen in advance, to be in place when the great collapse comes and behold men will stagger out of their burning cities, onto the ashen plain, weeping blood, they will rend their fine garments, cast their melting iphones to the ground, and say, We have sinned and brought damnation upon our heads. Who shall save us? Who can, in this darkest of all hours, preserve Mankind from total obliteration? Who?

Who indeed.

Having nothing to lose, i welcome the collapse and look eagerly forward to looting whisky and tobacco and fine waistcoats and either dying in battle or taking to the mountains to become a tyrant and religious figure, bestowing trinkets and crusts upon the faithful, sacrificing the unfit on an altar of marble high in the Alps or Pyrenees or whatever mountains are to hand, summoning demons, drinking blood for breakfast and generally having a good time.


And so i journeyed through fire and Islam to witness the Chemical Wedding of the Viking and his Intended in Bratislava. My notes:

1. Train to Vienna, then change for Bratislava. Urban decay as soon as the train is out of the Vienna central station, patches of grass overgrown or brown & strangely stunted, a sense of chaos and the haphazard. Intensifies in Bratislava. i carry my 20-year-old suitcase (sans wheels) from the station, down a main road: along which i note a strip of grass which for some reason strikes me as odd – in Germany it would serve some function, it would be a bicycle lane or accommodate bins or advertising, not be just, well, grass. And if it were grass, it would be manicured grass. There would be no leaves on the grass, because that is not orderly. That suggests sloppiness. Every blade of grass would be the same height and colour.

The pavement is bumpy, with occasional holes, sprouting grass, protruding tree roots, though i only see dog shit twice and few cigarettes.


The walls are crumbling and cracked. i pass an Allianz billboard and even here by a main road it is torn and flapping in the car wind. Graffiti everywhere. Most of the cars are low to midrange (Skodas, Peugeots, VWs).

The women all look ugly here, not merely thin but scrawny (they improve later). The first attractive woman i pass looks like a prostitute. The men all look ready to fight, inscrutable and slavic, often with shaved heads and cruel noses.

The people are mostly white, with a few presumed gypsies. The Slovaks don’t stare, unlike the Germans. Germans typically favour me with a dead hostile regard, though i think it is really just a dead stare – but it comes across as hostile, somehow both interested and devoid of any flicker of warmth or human commonality, as if they are calculating how much soap you would provide. Slovaks are either more polite than Germans, or less interested.

2. The buildings are almost all decrepit, crumbling, many with broken windows. Even in the old city there are only a few buildings which could pass muster in Germany or Austria.


(This is in the old city, there are several buildings like this on a cobbled road 2 mins from the tourist centre; show this to the Trumperator and he would develop this into a 5-star hotel faster than you can say pussy).

i get the feeling the Slovaks just don’t care, probably don’t even notice that a building is slowly disintegrating onto the street. Their cars are generally well-cleaned which suggests attention to the private sphere, none to the public. The Viking later remarks that the Slovaks don’t care if you’re eccentric here, whereas both the English and the Germans are conformist by nature; perhaps this freedom from opinion goes with a tolerance for shabby public spaces, a lack of interest in odd-looking people like me. When Germans stare at me, they stare as if to say “das ist nicht in Ordnung!!!” – the same stare they would direct at anything disorderly in the public sphere.

3. The EU flag is everywhere, like a conqueror’s stamp.


4. There are no beggars.

5. The pedestrian crossing lights seem largely non-functioning. There is the usual two-colour display but blank, with no mechanism by which to active it; and i wait for a couple of minutes by a busy road in vain, as Slovaks look left & right then cross, then i follow suit. i’m so accustomed to German roads, where it is illegal to cross against the lights but drivers would happily run jaywalkers over because the traffic lights said it was okay. i’m surprised that Slovak drivers stop at zebra crossings as i wait – in Germany they usually just drive straight through, as if the crossing is meaningless decor or a suggestion at best (and suggesting anything to Germans is usually a waste of time).

6. i meet the Viking and his family, and after a few drinks am spontaneously moved to gift him my Uzi pen. It was one of my most prized possessions and i never left my flat without my keys in my left pocket and my Uzi in my right. i liked to stroke it. It looked like this:


Without even touching the Uzi i could feel it against my thigh, hot and heavy, potent, full of ink, and then i would hear a voice telling me: Elberry old chap. See that fellow over there, the one in Adidas? Break his skull into little pieces. Then write with me.

It was my only friend in Munich. And then, carousing with the Viking i feel, tenderly, a need to impart this friendship to him. Pulling my only friend out of my trousers, i say, in a spiritual tone of voice, – Jonah, i want you to have this.

He shrugs carelessly and accepts it. Now he is the Bearer of the Uzi, the Man of Titanium.

6. i find my hotel, sleep, and then go to the Viking’s wedding. i am the “best man” so have to sit by his side lest any of his relatives-in-law try to strike him down with a switchblade, gypsy-style. It is a large, ornate Catholic church and i am aware of 80 or so people behind me as i watch the Viking and his Intended seated by the altar.

i am wearing a tie that i couldn’t tie properly because i am a retard. It is askew and i probably look drunk already. Also, i am wearing my Valknut under my shirt and keep muttering prayers to Odin and wishing i had my Uzi.

i met the Viking first nearly twenty years ago when he was clinically insane and wore bright primary colours and had a huge Christian beard and was a bit rapey. i was also insane. Somehow we have both survived to old age and i have become decrepit and wise and he has become a regular human being who can get married without a doctor to attend to his lithium dosage.

It is a beautiful event. Mostly in Slovak, so i understand nothing, and thank God there is no ghastly modern music or karaoke or negro dancing. As i stare at the Viking and his (surprisingly attractive and sane) Intended i think, Here ends twenty years of struggle and madness. Here ends a generation’s war. The days of our kind are numberèd. The one God comes to drive out the many gods. The spirits of wood and stream grow silent. 

i am required to hand over the Rings to the couple in full sight of eighty Catholics. i stand at the Viking’s side, the Rings in my hand, for only i am trusted to wield such power, and the priest douses the Rings and incidentally my hand with what i presume is Holy Water. My hand is now covered with what is basically God’s saliva. i want to fall to the floor shrieking, It burns us! It freezes! Nasty elveses! and then disappear in a cloud of sulphuric smoke and go to a pub and sell the Rings and get drunk, and then later email the Viking, We both knew it was not fated to be.

Instead i am Gandalf.

7. We go to a hall in the adjoining Franciscan monastery and someone steals the Laphroaig Quarter Cask i bought for the occasion. On the one hand it’s just money, on the other hand i feel vexed because it must be someone in the wedding party. i finger my pocket, where the Uzi used to be, and eye the Slovaks distrustfully. They are all thieving gippos. i get a bottle of apple schnapps and try to offer some to a nun. She smiles and shakes her head.

8. We go to the wake in a nearby restaurant. We get proper drunk but there are no fights – because i no longer have the Uzi. i keep stroking my pocket and feel naked and lost – without an Uzi, a man is not a man. Now the Viking is the man. i go over to congratulate him and want to hiss, Do you have the Uzi? but decide not to bring it up right now.

The Franciscans call his Bride and say they have the whisky. They apparently decided to clear the hall and made off with several trophies. Thieving Franciscans! i sputter, grasping at my empty right pocket, then suddenly decide i like the idea of a bunch of degenerate friars drinking stolen whisky and laughing coarsely.

During the wake the Bride’s hot youngest sister points at me and asks me to stand up. Drunkedly i leer at her and get to my feet, then sober up horribly, thinking they want me to give a speech. Having prepared nothing i rapidly improvise in my head and come up with this: “Gentlemen, I have only fourteen words to say. We are at a crossroads. On the Left, we will be outbred by r-type subspecies until we are a minority in our own homeland. On the Right, we will struggle over mountains of skulls, to Valhalla. Odin calls us. The ravens call to us, to war, gentlemen. One man will lead us. That man has an Uzi. That man is sitting here today.”

But actually i didn’t have to do anything so sat down again and ate dumplings and then some cake and stroked my gut in a contemplative fashion.

9. We get kicked out of the restaurant at midnight. Some young bucks try to get me to go drinking with them thus:

Young Buck: We have heard a lot of interesting stories about you. They say you are this crazy guy who hates people but likes to drink. You are the perfect guy to go and get totally drunk with now.

me: i’m too old for all that nonsense. i just want to go back to my hotel and have a nice cup of tea and sit there smiling and thinking, This is nice.

So i go back to my hotel, like Gandalf departing Middle Earth having achieved his Great Work.

10. The next day i walk around Bratislava in the heavy rain. i find alchemical statues:


and curious doors:


naturally besmirched with graffiti like everything else in Europe. i am drenched and start shivering despite my habitual hardiness – but then, i am now a man sans Uzi, no man at all. i am deterred by all the super-touristy “traditional Slovak” pubs in the tourist area, stare strangely at this


and head for the Urban House.

11. i am immediately given a glass of water and sympathetic look by a hot waitress, and order a gin tonic:


It is a good place for drinking, reading, and thinking – just enough background hum to induce a sense of being both with those about me, and apart and alone. They have amusing cocktails:



They also have good music and it would have been perfect had i been able to smoke but, alas, the modern world has taken away this simple pleasure.

The Viking unexpectedly appears with his Bride, we talk about the Uzi then they depart and i get a pizza (mushrooms and green stuff) and wine and read Nassim Taleb’s excellent Antifragile:


12. i wander about in the rain for a while, then end up in U Čerta, a dingy sinister place run by gypsies and the devil. i get a Laphroaig and contemplate my fate, as a man without an Uzi.


The Viking later miraculously appears, and a scientist colleague of his called Carl, a Brit who looks like a cross between these two gentlemen:





The Viking as is his wont disappears as mysteriously as he appeared, and i talk with Carl over booze. He is an amusing character who has a doctorate in some science or another but also did a Master’s in Philosophy and is almost an allegory of Iain McGilchrist’s emissary, a robot brain in a human body, a mumbler (until i later enrage him into clarity, i can only make out about 80% of what he is saying). Discussing the Muslim Question he says that he doesn’t care about it, because he’s always lived in white areas and never met any Muslims, then adds that he’s suspicious about newspaper reports of Muslims raping underage girls because in our culture paedophilia is the worst sin of all (actually, i think it is racism against anyone who happens to be Muslim) so if you wanted to persecute a poor minority you would accuse them of being paedos; i say, In that case you could go out and rape a child and no one would believe your victim because paedophilia is so sensationalised. He demurs and says yes probably the Muslims were raping girls but then he shrugs and laughs and says, – But I don’t care. These girls, uh, you’ve only got to, uh, see what kind of girls they were, I mean, uh, where they come from, their family situation and their life and background, and [laughs] I don’t care about girls like that.”

i’m at first shocked then laugh my own different laugh and say, smilingly horribly, – Yes, these girls were from broken families, from the estates, their parents didn’t care about them, if the Muslims didn’t rape them someone else would have, who cares about girls who get drunk and get in a car with strange men?

He seems aware that under my smile i’m not smiling and he explains eagerly, – I just don’t care about it. I don’t feel anything. I don’t care about human rights and I don’t believe in religion or morality or anything like that. I don’t care about these girls, I really don’t.

i admire his clarity. i say that actually many people don’t really care, they just feel they should. Having not met the girls who were raped, i suppose i project my own experiences of the sand peoples, and those of the chav girls i’ve known, and i care about that projection.

We get onto Brexit; it seems he’s a Bremainer – an advocate of the managerial technocrat state, where what Taleb would call fragilista experts “order” society according to their own plans. He becomes heated, and when i remark that many people think all those who voted for Brexit were shaven-headed hooligans he explodes, – They were! Have you seen the figures? There’s, like, like, a serious correlation between education and voting patterns! Like a near-total correlation!

– Well, universities are a den of Left-wing progressive ideology, i say vaguely, not really caring and wondering if having a university degree means anything today, given degree inflation.

At this point his mumble disappears and he becomes almost belligerent. – If some 18-year-old decides he’s not going to go to university because it’s so left-wing, if he thinks he knows enough to make that decision – and he fucking doesn’t, right? – then he’s a FUCKING IDIOT. These FUCKING IDIOTS are the people who voted for Brexit – fucking 18-year-olds who think they know enough about the world to say they’re too good to go to university, because it’s left-wing!

i find myself stroking my right pocket, where my Uzi would be. Uzi my Uzi, i pine for you, i can only hope that you now inhabit the Viking’s pocket and go with him in all his endeavours, guiding him as you once guided me. Uzi my Uzi, were you here now, i would take you out and drive the titanium tip of your glassbreaker into Carl’s face, repeatedly, calmly and even amiably because i like Carl, then i would order another Laphroaig and maybe even light my pipe and say to the gypsy barmaid, – Best dump that in the river. But the Viking now has my Uzi. He is probably stroking it even now, smiling and listening to the Uzi, as it whispers to him, as it imparts great secrets and lore. Could i kill Carl with one of the barstools? Probably, but it would be so much nicer with an Uzi. You buy an Uzi to write with but at the back of your mind you are always hoping to murder someone in a dingy bar in Eastern Europe and then tell the gypsy barmaid to roll the corpse into the nearest sewer where it belongs, so why use a barstool? Why buy an Uzi then use a barstool? Could you call the Viking and ask him to bring the Uzi? No, he might be romantically engaged, or just sitting in a dark room smiling and stroking the Uzi while his Bride knocks on the door and asks if everything is okay. It is his Uzi now, let it go, accept that the Uzi has found a new disciple.

Carl continues, – If you don’t like the system, you don’t drop out and moan about it and vote Brexit, you join the centre, which means you go to university, where all the intelligent people are, and you destroy the system from within! But these fucking idiots voted for Brexit because they think they can judge academia when they’re just 18-year-old idiots!

Bratislava seems to me the sort of place where you could beat someone to death and dump him under a bridge and then plausibly claim, – It was the gypsies.

i just pray that the Viking cherishes that Uzi.

13. Walking back to my hotel i reflected that Carl was a typical example of the technocrat class excoriated by Taleb and Iain McGilchrist. On his own admission he didn’t care about anyone, didn’t believe in any morality of any kind, and yet was passionately angry about Brexit – because, like many of his type, he saw it as a challenge to his own better wisdom, an affront. Tolkien was prescient: he saw this machine-mind character as the new elite and embodied it in Saruman:

“But we must have power, power to order all things as we will, for that good which only the Wise can see.”

Saruman is contrasted with Gandalf as being a man overly reliant on machines and slaves, and manipulation. For Carl, education and degrees are status, power – hence his fury when i casually dismissed universities as dens of Leftism. For Carl, 12-year-old white girls from Rotherham are insignificant because they are from chav/working class families and don’t even have a Master’s, let alone a PhD.

Carl was incapable of seeing that people who don’t go to university don’t make a decision that it’s too Left-wing for them: they either come from a background where no one goes to university, or they’re dim, or intelligent but not academic, or just want to start working. He was so utterly enveloped by his academic bubble that this was beyond, or rather beneath, his colossal intellect. i found it amusing that he had studied Wittgenstein, though predictably for an “emissary” he seemed to focus mostly on the Tractatus (his knowledge of the lecture notes, journals, and Philosophical Investigations seemed weak); amusing because he was exactly the type Wittgenstein would have regarded with some coldness, the reason Wittgenstein exhorted his students to get a real job instead of living in academia from graduation to grave. Round about the time Wittgenstein was working as a lab assistant in Newcastle, and Paulus was preparing to surrender at Stalingrad, C.S. Lewis wrote, in The Abolition of Man:

We make men without chests and expect from them virtue and enterprise. We laugh at honor and are shocked to find traitors in our midst.

14. i return to Munich and find a new tactical pen, Chinese-made but seems sound so far, with a concealed blade in addition to the glassbreaker. Not an Uzi but then what is?

1. My hideous cohort (i realise cohort means something different but i don’t care) the Viking is to wed his Intended this weekend, in the City of Sin known as Bratislava. i have decided to appear and deliver a carefully-crafted speech:

2. Then i will seize the Muslims and force them to dance with me:

3. Then i will pull out an antique sword and kill the bride and her family:

4. It will be naturally a family event, with the Viking’s clan in awful bear-fur-and-skull-clad presence, smeared with Christian blood and leering, to make sure things go to plan, and the Intended’s vast gypsy clan likewise, lest anyone get cold feet:

5. i will bring some whisky and my Uzi pen and be prepared for all manner of jollities:

6. Then i will take the Viking aside and give him a motivational speech about his matrimonial duties:

7. Then we will all go to the Viking’s house and cook a huge banquet:

And then everyone will die.

1. i’ve had a student called, i don’t know, Heinrich or something, for the last few months. He’s a bit older than me but looks younger, very energetic, charismatic, good-looking, a Pick Up Artist and alcoholic. He works from home and i think is naturally introverted but also requires periodic social contact. He typically spends his weekends drinking then going to clubs to acquire girls half his age.

We talk about women and booze then i write “acquiring business/soc contact” on his file for the day. He said that he feels great when he can drink and not worry about the next day, but has to abstain Monday to Friday and then has nightmares for the boozeless Monday and Tuesday nights.

He is a tall, athletic, good-looking chap who could pass for 37, and so i believe him when he says he was, e.g. last week in a bar and two girls hit on him as he was trying to drink his beer. i caught him, a few months ago, picking up a sehr hot Brazilian student by the McLingua coffee machine and could only stand there shaking my head in awe.

He is an unhappy individual who has, materially, what most men would desire: more than enough money, social status, the ability to seduce girls more than half his age.

2. He told me that he would like to stop drinking but has no idea what he would do in his free time, without alcohol. This got me to thinking. For the seven years of my drinking i feared to cut back on the sauce, for i felt i needed it to be happy or even content, and actually when i abstained for even a day it was difficult not to continually fantasize about gin. Now, however, i have cut back to the point where a doctor would only say i’m at risk of being an alcoholic. i find that my levels of contentment have not dipped at all – i often go a day or two with no booze for occult purposes and feel no difficulty in abstention.

It occurred to me that addiction binds to your pleasures and renders you incapable of enjoying life without the product. It succeeds because you cannot even imagine being able to live without (in my case) copious booze. But in fact it doesn’t add anything to your life; it merely subtracts possibilities.

3. There are people like this, and naturally politics (of the Left), which muscle in on the anarchic but functioning everyday and proclaim themselves essential for what transpired quite easily before their intervention. The parasite is integral to reality, like illness and death; it does not in any way assist, it is the natural drag you must expect and if possible discard.

So in politics, people wonder, What would happen without a huge State consuming 50% of GDP? Well, how about 15th Century Italy?

4. Today, Heinrich said that he is losing interest in picking up women. He has a Spanish fuckbuddy girlfriend who he rates only 6/10 for face but 9/10 for body and he admits he likes talking to her but says he cannot imagine being with her for long, because “she is only a 6 out of 10”. i suggested that he not be so fucking choosy but then he is German, and hence a perfectionist, and as an introvert i understand his position: it’s better to be alone than with someone you don’t love.

5. i’ve known three Pick Up Artists:

i. Heinrich

ii. Gordon the Buddhist

iii. Shrekh

Shrekh is a pitiful wreck of a human being, a Muslim turned militant atheist who is content to subsist in a ghetto, watching Doctor Who and playing computer games. Gordon is a coldly manipulative narcissist, a typical German academic for whom all intellectual discussion is total war against the Enemy (it seems a very German characteristic for i’ve noted it not merely with Feminists, my old boss Morgana, but it is also the tone of Kraut & Tea’s channel – an intellectual dominance and aggression that is often in inverse correlation to intellectual substance and logical rigour). Heinrich doesn’t read, Shrekh reads but is an idiot so nothing leaves any mark on him, Gordon’s only reading matter seemed to be Barack Obama’s autobamagraphy and books about how to manipulate people.

i see the Pick Up people as products of our mechanistic age, where everything (including human beings) are regarded as essentially just machines to program and use. The modern man is akin to Blake’s Urizen, a limiter and controller, natural ideologue and tyrant.

6. It passed briefly across my mind, discussing bureaucracy and the human will to control with another student, that the originating religious impulse (that is, a spiritual moment) is to acknowledge if not address the forces beyond human contrivance (forces also within us). One could sketch out a religious spectrum, on the one side a sense of awe before the Almighty (Sophocles and Aeschylus), and on the other extreme the highly circumscribed ritualia and prohibitions of Islam.

These sometimes coincide strangely; i had a Jewish psychologist student a few weeks ago, who poured scorn on Christianity, Western civilisation, the white race, the Germans, etc., and then said he can’t stand the heavily decorated Catholic churches of Bavaria but has visited very spartan and minimal churches in Southern France and found them to his tastes. He is both genetically and religiously a Jew, and told me somewhat of the rituals and commandments – i found it curious that here you have a religion incorporating both the bureaucracy and the awe, for Judaism is also animated (i suppose) by a sense of the incomprehensible divine. Perhaps Catholicism is, in Christian terms, the nearest thing – simultaneous bureaucracy and awe, order and that which dissolves the ordering mind – the singer and the sea.

7. There is an intense and nuanced ordering which dissolves into the reality it cannot comprehend, and can apprehend no more than a man may grasp the thorn – but then the blood of attempt may also instruct.

She sang beyond the genius of the sea.   

The water never formed to mind or voice,   

Like a body wholly body, fluttering 

Its empty sleeves; and yet its mimic motion   

Made constant cry, caused constantly a cry,   

That was not ours although we understood,   

Inhuman, of the veritable ocean. 



1. i taught at a software company a few months ago, a supplier of business solutions, whatever that means. The student said that people often resent his company, as their software causes more work for everyone. Then why, quoth i, does anyone buy your shitty product? He explained that the software allows managers to track workflows in detail, to see exactly how many times X happens per day, however the employees need to enter the data in an exact and standardised form, and hence once-simple tasks now at every stage require an extra layer of bureaucracy.

i had always thought bureaucracy grows like a cancer, for no sound reason. It was interesting to see it as a side-effect of increased internal transparency; though i doubt the stress and extra manhours required can be justified by any managerial insights into the workflow. Having gorillabytes of data is of no value without intelligent analysis and specific need, as we see whenever a Mohammed explodes or knifes someone or drives a Truck of Peace into a crowd, and it turns out “he was known to the authorities.” At this point, i dare say the number of Explosive Mohammeds in Europe is in the hundreds of thousands, and so without the political will to do something

it’s like having a toxicology report on an alcoholic who drank himself to death.

2. i was discussing self-driving cars with another student and reflected that it would probably be dangerous to have a self-driving car in ordinary human traffic, since human beings are inherently unpredictable and so difficult to “map”. However, if every car was self-driving, and human drivers were banned, it would probably work – if every single car was controlled by a central computer, although this would be extremely complicated, it should be possible to coordinate all the traffic in some way. But have even one human driver on the road and sooner or later the model would be thrown into disarray by human unpredictability.

3. This seems the general trend of our society, that for the convenience, comfort, and safety of human beings, human agency is removed and we must become increasingly machine-like to operate or even survive within this world. The successful human beings of today look like this:

4. Mercifully, all this will come crashing down. i’m hoping for a plague to reduce the human population by about 90%, preferably starting with anyone i don’t like the look of. If nothing else, once everything is automated there will be a hack or bug and everything will stop working, and even if there are manual controls no one will know how to drive anymore, or how to regulate a nuclear power station, and since most people will be living in vast ghettos, drinking beer and watching TV all day, they will go out into the streets and start killing each other, quite merrily by God.


1. Just saw this amusing video about Equifax, a credit reference company where i worked many years ago:

Turns out Equifax just leaked the data of half the US population.

2. i also worked in three banks. i was in all of these a temp, and not subject to background checks. i got a password and hence access to the entire database on my first day. In one bank, me and the other half dozen temps in my team were offered a permanent contract, i declined, the others said yea, and one of them was then fired as they had to do a background check and found he’d been in prison; he had, at that point, been temping at the bank (doing money transfers, with complete access to all customer data, down to your secret questions, your debit/credit card payments, your address) for 6 months.

3. From working in banks, i can say now: all of your electronic data is accessible by anyone working in the company, and a fair number of these workers will be disgruntled temps who are paid minimum wage, subject to no background checks, are bullied and treated like shit by their pit bosses, and will only be there for a few weeks or months. If you have a gmail account, you don’t even have to worry about Google freezing your account, Jordan Peterson style: anyone working at Google – any blue-haired 400 pound feminist, any skinny-jean hipster, any minimum wage temp – can read all your emails and suspend or delete your account on a whim. Likewise at Facebook, Blogger, WordPress, Yahoo – and in any bank: anyone working there can read everything, all your emails, all your drafts, every key you ever pressed, every contact you had with the company, everything. i worked in one bank where i and my temp brethren were treated with open contempt and distempered rage by our pit boss, badly trained, and then we got to hear her handing a customer who rang to complain; her end consisted of her snarling: “well I can assure you, our staff are highly professional and highly trained” while rolling her eyes at her guffawing team of permascum, the temps meanwhile trying not to look too incredulous.

4. i worked in another bank where a temp colleague immediately searched for everyone he knew on the database, and openly discussed his findings; he was fired a month later for “disrespecting management” by talking back to the hysterically aggressive pit boss. i doubt anyone except his fellow temps realised he had been stalking everyone he had ever met, at least those who had an account at that bank.

5. If you want privacy, write it on paper; or better, speak it in private; or better – think it to yourself but don’t tell anyone.

1. i think Christopher Nolan one of the great living & working directors, along with Werner Herzog, Terrence Malick, Spielberg, Scorsese (i would add Michael Mann but he hasn’t done a great film in 20 years), however i find Nolan more exciting because he is relatively young and seems, artistically, to be one of “our guys” (incidentally, if you read my blog more than once, you are automatically a fascist of the most esoteric & deadly kind, congratulations you’re going to jail). The Dark Knight Rises is generally considered inferior to Batman Begins and The Dark Knight but is in fact my favourite of the trilogy because watching it is like watching the entire saga of our degenerate yet deeply Trumpific times, condensed to 2 and whatever hours. i don’t find it surprising that some have adopted Bane as something of an Alt-Right hero,

and for all i love Tom Hardy in the otherwise dreary Legend, in the insane Bronson, Warrior, The Drop, the astonishing Locke, for me he will always be Bane. And thus, when i went to see Dunkirk, knowing he would play a masked man, a pilot by god, i was hoping he would at some point intone “Crashing this plane – with no survivors!”.

But he didn’t.

2. i went with Toddball, who thrust a plastic bag at me as we waited for our u-bahn. i opened it and found a pickle and salami sandwich of his own construction and ate it with glee (he is a good cook and sandwich-maker, though his cocktails tend to the haphazard). Two security officers stared at us as i chomped my way through the sandwich clad in my WW2 Swedish army coat (which looks almost the same as the Wehrmacht feldgrau) with Toddball slouching nearby in his dirty clothes (his baseball cap literally smeared with dirt) looking like one of Al Capone’s goons with his criminal leer and shabby, food and vomit-smeared American clothes. Before and after the film he largely ignored me, instead going through his Facebook feed on a tablet, muttering “look at this fucking douchebag” and “what a douche” and “douche central” and “fucking douche” at his friends’ posts, seeming especially douchfuriated by an Alabama cousin who is a big Trump fan (Toddball is, naturally, a hardcore Democrat); finally he settled on a video of someone dragging goo out of an elephant’s behind and seemed highly diverted and spiritually nourished by this video, licking his lips and chuckling to himself. i’ve found this is Toddball’s normal behaviour in social situations, and i once watched him teach a one-on-one where as the student was hesitantly talking he got his smartphone out and without even trying to conceal his actions started scrolling through Facebook, chuckling and muttering “fucking douchebag” and “heh heh heh, that fucking cat looks funny” while the student looked at me with distress, presumably wondering if this was normal behaviour for a McLingua teacher.

It is the American Way.

3. i had a hipflask of whisky, actually whiskey/y since it was mostly Kilbeggan (gift from a student) but i mixed it with about 5% Talisker Storm. To my delight, the rather bland workaday Kilbeggan ended up tasting like Talisker, i guess because the latter is so formidable even a small addition will overwhelm a standard Irish whiskey. And behold, we drank it all over the next couple of hours.

First of course we had to sit through 20 minutes of adverts, of which Toddball commented “they should fucking pay us to watch this fucking shit”. Then the film began. It is extremely good and a directorial showcase: there is very little dialogue, almost no character backstory, no real story, so it lives or dies on the director’s judgement.

There are moments, for example when oil spills out of a wrecked ship and coats those who jumped into the sea, and without at any point making it explicit you feel the urgency, and know it makes everything extremely dangerous for those in the water; being a Das Boot buff i of course enjoyed the film at a higher level. But such a scene could have been wrecked by a workaday director – it was all a matter of timing, editing, soundtrack, mood.

4. The best thing about the whole film is the total absence of a love story. There are a few women, nurses and the like, mercifully in the background handing out tea and toast as the good Lord wills it. Also, virtually everyone is white: there are some black French soldiers which i suppose could be realistic, but they represent about 10 seconds in the film. It’s refreshing to see a historical drama which doesn’t try to pretend the English weren’t predominantly white until very very recently.

Tom Hardy is great as a pilot whose fuel gauge gets smashed so he has to use his Omega to guess at his reserves. The Kraut are here almost only in the form of bombers and fighter planes, so the only real combat is Hardy and some other pilots crashing the planes with no survivors.

5. In a sense, it isn’t a war film – it’s closer to a disaster film like The Towering Inferno, with the British soldiers being blown up, drowned, incinerated, shot to pieces as if by the world itself. It captures well something of what i will call “the storm of war”: it is a field of violent, chaotic force within which people die and it seems unimportant whether they are deliberately shot by the enemy, accidentally by their own comrades, if they fall down and break their neck, if they crash a jeep into a tree, if their aircraft engine fails, if they get food poisoning, if they drown crossing a river, if they kill themselves by accident or on purpose, if they are stabbed by a demented civilian, if their own munitions blow up for no reason, if a rat bites them and they get some ghastly disease and perish in hospital, if they get fragged by their own men, if they trip, break a leg, and then get left behind and left to die – it just seems that the war killed them. 

6. Hardy’s fuel runs out but then his reserve tanks kick in and he keeps at the Kraut a bit longer, gunning them down into the sea, and then finally even his reserve tanks run out and you think, Okay he’s going to bail out but he drifts and then reappears to take down another Kraut bomber. i exchanged bemused glances with Toddball. Afterwards, he said “his fuel kept on going like your fucking whisky flask, every time I thought it was empty there was some more left in they nigga.”

7. Taking the train home, i mused that the England of 1939 has so effectively and swiftly disappeared that it is as if the entire land has passed through to an alternate reality, where the capital of England is a minority-white city, where almost the entire political and media/academic class want to surrender national sovereignty to a German superstate, and will call you a Nazi for disagreeing, where white girls are systematically gangraped by Pakistanis, Iraqis, Turks, Iranians, Africans, and the white police cover it up and call the girls liars for twenty years.

There was to be no “home” for the Dunkirk soldiers. Home no longer exists for the English.

1. The levee.

2. The sociology professor.


3. The heels.

4. The President.

1. i’ve been on a novel-reading binge recently, after years of mostly only reading non-fiction. Last three were Cynthia Ozick’s Heir to the Glimmering World, Mario Puzo’s The Godfather, and Arthur Machen’s The Great God Pan. i was a little afeared that the Ozick would be Philip Rothy, i.e. as Juniper said after trying to read American Pastoral, every two pages there’s a “hey I’m extremely Jewish!” moment. But it was actually a pleasantly non-identity-politics read, albeit about a Jewish refugee family in New York in the 30s, the father a scholar who probably wouldn’t understand the concept of getting a job, the mother insane, and the children left to their own devices until the narrator gets a job as amanuensis and all-round family help. The father is trying to write a study of the Karaites; as far as i can gather they were a Jewish sect rejecting Talmudic commentary and advocating something like a Protestant spareseness and rejection of authority and tradition.

The family are dependent on a wayward patron, James A’bair, the subject and financial beneficiary of his father’s series of children’s books. There’s also a chap called Bertram, a curiously innocent, curiously scheming friend of the narrator, who loses his job and money in pursuit of a Bolshevik Jewess calling herself Ninel.

The characterisation is excellent and subtle: Ninel, for example, acutely reminds me of angry German Feminists i’ve known in her savage nihilism and hatred; the scheming Bertram is also memorable – partly hapless and naive, he ends up burrowing his way into money with seeming innocence; people often are guided by an instinct to their own advantage, and will not only never address their actions but could also be said to be guided by a “wise innocence” to use James Joyce’s phrase (‘The Boarding House’); they sense, dimly at the edges of their consciousness, an instinctive turning to their profit, but carefully shrink from that awareness, letting themselves act with seeming selfless innocence.

The wealthy patron James A’bair is an alcoholic whose adult life is a repudiation of his father, his fortune, and the image of himself embedded in his father’s children’s books. His nihilism is akin to that of the Bolshevik Jewess Ninel – a purely negative drive, with barely enough humanity to exist in this world; in his case a certain wry amusement and charm; in Ninel’s case the usual meaningless Leftist talk of equality and justice, a stiff painted mask for hatred and cruelty.

The father of the family, at work on his Karaites, could be said to study a kind of nihilism, in that within Judaism to reject the Talmud is, i suppose, to jettison centuries of ancestral thought; in a sense, it seems that Judaism is closer to Catholicism – the accrued tradition, the arguments, the controversies, the heresies, the refutations, form more of a community of doctrine, whereas i remember the Viking (a Calvinist) once telling me: “Doh ho hoh! Catholicism is like a Babylonian sex cult and stuff! In real Christianity, which means Calvinism, you can just, like, eat a load of mashed potato in a hole underground in the dark and then God will speak to you and you will become a Prophet, like me. You can also read the Bible if you want but the only absolutely essential reading for a true Christian is C.S. Lewis because he like explains all this complicated stuff so you don’t even need to read the Bible, anyway the Bible is hard to read because it is too long and stupid.”

Reading Ozick’s book, the determined nihilism of thought and action struck me as almost the central drive of humanity – the desire to reject one’s heritage and tradition, to be undetermined. It tends to destruction in its purest form, la Peur.

2. The Godfather is set at almost the same time and place as Heir to the Glimmering World, and is also about a complicated family and a dominant father, and violence. i put off reading it for many years, thinking it would just be the film in workmanlike prose. The story is almost the same in film and book and the prose can be functional at times, with dialogue that could have been sharpened and made more apt for the characters. So Michael speaks in the same idiom as the others, which weakens the sense of his difference and depth. The film’s screenwriters wisely differentiated his speech from e.g. Sonny’s. The action, however, is beautifully done, e.g. when Sonny learns his brother-in-law is beating Connie Corleone:

They gossiped a while about baseball and women. Carlo said laughingly, “I had to bat my wife around again today, teach her who’s boss.”

Coach said casually, “She’s knocked up pretty big now, ain’t she?”

“Ahh, I just slapped her face a few times,” Carlo said. “I didn’t hurt her.” He brooded for a moment. “She thinks she can boss me around, I don’t stand for that.”

There were still a few bettors hanging around shooting the breeze, talking baseball, some of them sitting on the steps above the two writers and Carlo. Suddenly the kids playing stickball in the street scattered. A car came screeching up the block and to a halt in front of the candy store. It stopped so abruptly that the tires screamed and before it had stopped, almost, a man came hurtling out of the driver’s seat, moving so fast that everybody was paralyzed. The man was Sonny Corleone.

His heavy Cupid-featured face with its thick, curved mouth was an ugly mask of fury. In a split second he was at the stoop and had grabbed Carlo Rizzi by the throat. He pulled Carlo away from the others, trying to drag him into the street, but Carlo wrapped his huge muscular arms around the iron railings of the stoop and hung on. He cringed away, trying to hide his head and face in the hollow of his shoulders. His shirt ripped away in Sonny’s hand.

What followed then was sickening. Sonny began beating the cowering Carlo with his fists, cursing him in a thick, rage-choked voice. Carlo, despite his tremendous physique, offered no resistance, gave no cry for mercy or protest. Coach and Sally Rags dared not interfere. They thought Sonny meant to kill his brother-in-law and had no desire to share his fate. The kids playing stickball gathered to curse the driver who had made them scatter, but now were watching with awestruck interest. They were tough kids but the sight of Sonny in his rage silenced them.

It is of course a violent book, but if violence is always a rejection of something (it can also be affirmation but not necessarily, as we see with the Left: for whom violence is an end in itself) then any strong individual will exert occasional violence to remain what he is; thus after Sonny’s death, when the old Don meets with the other families:

He paused. None of the others spoke. Some were smoking cigars, others sipping their drinks. All of these men were good listeners, patient men. They had one other thing in common. They were those rarities, men who had refused to accept the rule of organized society, men who refused the dominion of other men. There was no force, no mortal man who could bend them to their will unless they wished it. They were men who guarded their free will with wiles and murder. Their wills could be subverted only by death. Or the utmost reasonableness.

The book and the film both convey the codification of violence; that is, most of the time actions lead to death – death is not casual and random, it is the result of a man’s words or actions, of violating a highly refined structure. Thus, the film’s drama owes its seed to Sonny’s ill-advised moment of honesty, when Sollozzo offers a partnership with the Corleone family:

3. Throughout the book, people are killed for refined reasons. i was reminded of a moment in Children of Dune, where the ghola Duncan Idaho (a clone of the Idaho who died to save the Atreides) provokes Stilgar to kill him by insulting him with words no Fremen could ignore.

“Two deaths for the Atreides,” Idaho husked. “The second for no better reason than the first.” He lurched sideways, collapsed to the stone floor on his face. Blood spread out from his wound.

Stilgar stared down past his dripping knife at the body of Idaho, took a deep, trembling breath. Javid lay dead behind him. And the consort of Alia, the Womb of Heaven, lay dead at Stilgar’s own hands. It might be argued that a Naib had but protected the honor of his name, avenging the threat to his promised neutrality. But this dead man was Duncan Idaho. No matter the arguments available, no matter the “extenuating circumstances,” nothing could erase such an act. Even were Alia to approve privately, she would be forced to respond publicly in revenge. She was, after all, Fremen. To rule Fremen, she could be nothing else, not even to the smallest degree.

Only then did it occur to Stilgar that this situation was precisely what Idaho had intended to buy with his “second death.”

In civilised societies, violence becomes highly codified, so while an outsider wouldn’t understand why Sollozzo tries to have Don Corleone killed, or why Stilgar had to kill Duncan Idaho, to Clemenza or any Fremen the matter would be clear. Each society has its own subtle refinements and so two different groups cannot coexist unless one accepts the codification of the other. When, as is presently happening in Europe, the law is deliberately not enforced against foreign rapists, thieves, and murderers, they will exert their own code of violence over the soft natives; and a land which was long almost bucolic in its peace will become akin to the tribal hellholes from whence the invaders come.

4. i was talking to my father the other day, he was dejected at how swiftly England had degenerated, from his arrival in 1962 to the present where, as he put it of the latest sand people rape gang story, the police and the government did nothing to protect white English girls from these people:


A downward tendency is hard if not impossible to arrest; entropy is the general rule. However, i think that if the English who fought in two world wars could so easily become Leftists, perhaps things could just as quickly change in different directions. i don’t imagine a return to decency and civilisation for the English – things are too far gone for that. But i have noted an extreme violence in the English character (try looking on Youtube for “street fight UK” and then try comparable searches in Germany to get an idea of England’s decay) and that perhaps gives an indication of how the matter will be resolved.

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