1. In this video, Sargon of Akkad (also known as Carl of Swindon) casually states that he doesn’t think languages are special, and that ideally everyone would only speak English because for him language is just function. In the terms of Iain McGilchrist’s The Master and his Emissary, Sargon is a typically left-brain man, i.e. a modern man, a materialist, atheist, socialist. He is a figurehead of the Alt-Lite, meaning he recognises Islam is incompatible with Western civilisation, but would have no problem if every single white European died and the sand peoples moved in, provided said sand peoples have liberal Western values (which consist of “tolerance”). For him, there would be absolutely no difference.

i don’t hate or even despise Sargon, although i find his bearded pomposity a little tiresome and he hasn’t offered any unique or deep insights into anything, at least in what i have seen of his content. However, he’s anti-EU and pro-free-speech and i think his heart is in the right place, even if he’s basically a smug fat bastard with a beard; also any civic nationalist is good because i am sure that with negligible exceptions the sand peoples will never integrate into the West, and so inevitably a civic nationalist will end up attacking the same general problem as the ethnic nationalist. It would be as if one group are set against psychopaths (Alt-Right), and a second group (Alt-Lite) say psychopaths are fine but murder, manipulation, cruelty, and torture are unacceptable. In the end, both groups are more or less aligned, and will be regarded as Nazis and fascists by a third group (the Left), who are very much in favour of psychopaths and murder, manipulation, cruelty, and torture but call it peace and love.

2. Sargon and the Alt-Lite in general will admit of no racial differences, because they are functionalists, machine men who think in economic/material terms (his interlocuter, Styxhexenhammer666, is also a materialist but at least enjoys edgy material and is attracted to mystery). In McGilchrist’s terms, the left-brain are men who have become machines: impervious to beauty, to atmosphere, to morality, to the spirit, the mystical. For such people, only what is presented in concretely material terms has value; anything that cannot be explained in material terms does not exist. The fact that almost everything that gives our lives value cannot be explained does not perturb such folk, because as McGilchrist writes, the right-brain perspective can comprehend and make allowance for the left, but the left-brain perspective excludes any possibility of the right: the belly-patting Southron confidence of a Sargon relies upon his utter incomprehension of anything beyond the obviously material.

3. Sargon would happily see every language except English – presumably the only one he speaks – disappear, and he wouldn’t feel anything was lost. He would also i guess happily see every race become one weird brown homogeneous blob because then there would be no racism; though inevitably different geographical groups would begin to deviate from their neighbours and it would be necessary to exterminate them, or to periodically swamp them with other groups to eradicate their individuality. There’s also the problem that in the absence of race, there would be a subterranean sense that these people look like us, but aren’t us, and then witch-hunts of a kind would spontaneously erupt, with mass killings based on odd criteria.

It is deeply strange that most of us can say an object, e.g. the Sistine Chapel, is beautiful and should be preserved; but we cannot say the same for a culture or a race; or rather, we cannot say it for white culture or a white race. In 2017, Sephora Ikalaba won Miss Helsinki. Sephora Ikalaba  you may intone, frowning, that doesn’t sound very Finnish. But then Sargon would say that languages like Finnish should die out so everyone speaks the only language Sargon can speak (it would be interesting to see if anyone on the Alt-Lite can speak a second language), and so no one can say if a name sounds Finnish or not. Here’s a picture:

Sephora Ikalaba.

Guess which one won the Miss Helsinki contest. Guess which one the judges chose as the most beautiful Finnish woman that year. Go on, try and guess. Give it a go. Trust yourself.

In all honesty i saw more beautiful women than most of the above candidates just walking through Oulu with the drunken Man in Black last year. There were some of such unearthly beauty i could only stand there staring and making choking noises. i returned to Munich and found the typical 8/10 Aryan QT a little pallid after the exquisite elvish honeys of the land of the Black Sun.

4. It’s sometimes tempting to suppose that in our progressive modern age we no longer have any sense of culture or race, that we just see isolated meaningless individuals and no longer ask “where is this person from?”. But this is false, as we can readily see by imagining a plain white women winning Miss Uganda – or even a beautiful white woman; racism, they would cry, just as they cry that logic and science are products of the white patriarchy and do not apply in Africa.

The human race has not yet lost the sense that a culture or race exists, even if it exists in a much more nebulous, shifting, and imprecise way than e.g. the Sistine Chapel or a Seiko Alpinist. It is simply at present inadmissible regarding the white race and Western culture.

It seems that no one on the Left would see anything odd in a black woman winning Miss Helsinki, or see any problem with the white race dying out completely, or see that the destruction of a culture is in a sense akin to destroying a work of art.

5. i note that people seem to remember past lives where they were happy or at least fulfilled, where they had a deep love not merely for their kin but for the entire culture, the world of their habitation. It is often objected that whenever anyone claims to remember a past life, it is as Alexander the Great or Cleopatra – why don’t people remember being a mud farmer who did nothing exceptional, lived in squalor, and died of gout aged 22? Well, because there would be no “tug”, no energy in it. So if i were to be reborn after this life, i doubt i would recall being elberry – most of my life has been boring and unrewardingly difficult, with perhaps 4 years where my brain was in daily use (at university), preceded and followed by two decades of mental stagnation, occupied at minimum wage office work or teaching English. My central energy being intellectual, if that is denied my entire being weakens, and that has been the case for i would say almost my entire life save the 4 years at university. i don’t know anyone i can talk to about literature or philosophy, and on the rare occasions i meet someone who has read a book it seems to have left no trace. There would be almost nothing to recall from this life; but i have had other lives where that central energy was allowed expression and so i was more alive, albeit more tortured and difficult than now.

In addition, i disliked my surrounding culture until i came to Bavaria, so there would be very little of the tug of sympathy and need i felt for my world in some other lives. Imagine if e.g. Alexander the Great had also lived as a mud farmer in the 14th Century in Peru – why exactly would it be strange for his present day incarnation to remember being Alexander and not the mud farmer? And in my experience, a surprising number of people with ordinary lives have, at some point, been apparently extraordinary, so it is hardly as statistically improbable as it seems. One need only consider a historical era to see how many so-called great men and women were mediocrities thrust into power (Himmler and Goebbels, for example).

6. There are differences between a culture/race and a work of art: the former emerge, the latter are consciously created. A few weeks ago i was writing (on my now-deleted Facebook account) to Shrekh, my self-pitying schizophrenic ex-Muslim militant atheist schoolfriend:

me: the whole of Europe will be full of the Muslim soon, they will find your apostacy out and sodomize you with vehemence then throw you off a building for enjoying it

shrekh: Elberry, I’m scared, I’m afraid to go out. I just want to live somewhere remote where I don’t have to meet people but my medical condition means I can’t. Sometimes I just think about ending it all. There’s nowhere for people like me. There are Nazis and Muslims everywhere now.

me: Finland is relatively homogenous, they’re not as overrun with the Muslim as the rest of Western Europe.

shrekh: yeah but they’re like dead racist and they hate people who look like me.

He is almost retarded but his last statement got me to thinking; i explained to Shrekh that as far as i can tell Finland has fewer of the sand peoples not because the Finns are virulent racists but because their government didn’t actively import Muslims, Sweden-style. That is, what seems like natural cultural decay in England, Germany, France, Belgium, the Netherlands, Sweden, is i think not so – if you leave a culture and race be, it will change slowly but remain recognisable and stable; it is only when the governments and the liberal elites strive to destroy their own people that a culture/race disintegrate as rapidly as we see today.

A culture and race need not be preserved as one would preserve a monument or painting; for one thing, those appointed for the preservation would invariably fuck it up, that being the way of officialdom and governments. The race/culture need only be recognised as a valid form of existence, and not be actively undermined.

The recognition of a thing’s unique being and worth is a mystical act – in the sense that it is inexplicable, unjustifiable, unutilitarian. There is no point trying to explain why a Medieval building shouldn’t be demolished to make way for a high-rise tower for Muslims-on-welfare (MOWs – i just created a new acronym), or why you shouldn’t execute homosexuals, or burn libraries, or why an entire racial group and culture shouldn’t be destroyed. Anyone who doesn’t see that the English culture i last witnessed in my last life should have been preserved from mass immigration and foreign domination is, as the Alt-Right would say, cucked. That includes, unfortunately, almost the entire intelligentsia on both Right & Left – those who perceive the worth of the white race and white culture, and dare speak of it, are now the extremists, the excluded, the thought criminals.


i believe i linked to the Camel & Friends channel in the past – it’s a woman who lives in some godawful desert with a bunch of dogs and whatnot; one of the bunch is a dobermann called Sugar Tree.

The dog has been bitten by a snake and it seems medical costs are high.

Normally i disdain charity and feel the weak should perish, however having only survived through repeated donations from friends, family, and readers i suppose i should admit some exceptions; also, there’s a dog involved and since the hostess decapitated the snake with a shovel, barefoot, i feel she doesn’t qualify as weak. i’ve been on & off watching the channel for a few years and feel she is a good person so should anyone feel like sending her dober a dollar, do so here.


1. i was going to watch a Black Mirror episode tonight, and then fell to thinking of this Millennial Woes video (i won’t embed it, because his whole channel will probably be Shoahed soon), The Dishonest Mirror. Human beings abstract from reality, we generalise, we form representations to communicate with others, and to explain reality to ourselves. We are to a degree imprisoned within our own representations, as Shakespeare’s kings believe themselves to be not the boys they once were, but rather King – hence, the near or actual insanity that comes from dethroning, as with Richard II and Lear.

2. It would be easy to say we should dispense with our representations; but we have them for a reason – to massively accelerate comprehension and communication. Without representations, we would exist in a state of animal-like immediacy, unfoolable but also without all culture and civilisation. There are days this seems preferable, e.g. when i want to check my email and Yahoo insists on telling me that Obama’s tweet about the Charleston is the most popular tweet of all time, as if i should care what a vapid actor thinks about a situation he created over 8 years of race baiting. In the world without representations, Obama would be the cunning, weak hyena who slinks about pretending to be wounded before crushing the skull of a giraffe baby in its jaws; despicable in a sense, but really just the way things are, and of course the snickering, creeping hyena would end his days destroyed by a lion. In a world of representations, however, the hyena becomes President, Time Man of the Year, and wins the Nobel Peace Prize despite drone-bombing thousands of civilians in Pakistan and Yemen. So it is, in the world.

3. There are those, like Varg V, who strive for an unrepresentational a reality as possible; but in his case i think he remembers a pre-literate Neolithic-style life (genetic groups and lifestyles continued for long after their supposed end date so it could have been relatively recently); but for the rest of us – who mostly remember nothing before we were born – such a life would be extremely difficult. Having said that, i wouldn’t want to present human history in a binary fashion as either literate/representational, or Neolithic; i’m only speculating, as my first life was relatively recent (shortly after the “invention” of writing), but i have always, it seems, acted within, and reacted against, representations such as language, and i think this is often the case. My feeling is that there are degrees of involvement in representation, and degrees of acuity – so in our age i have found the almost wholly uneducated have a sure instinct for reality; and the rest are misled by propaganda and nonsense of all sorts, with the very worst being the half-educated intelligentsia who, like the Communist, opine on everything and understand nothing.

4. Those in positions of power are mostly those who manipulate and (rather oddly) credit false representations. i have recently wondered how someone could consume the evident propaganda of CNN, the New York Times, Washington Post, the Guardian, etc. without noticing the disparity between reality and the official account. i think it’s partly that when such organs are disproved they simply move on – they don’t address their own falsity, and so if they say Trump hires Russian hookers to piss on him in Moscow, or that Putin controls Trump because of muh reasons, and these tales are systematically demolished the average consumer will just continue to believe, because at no point will the media admit “we just made that up”, and the general trend (this is good, that bad) will please the intelligentsia.

i once thought that journalists of course knew they were liars, but having met a few (through my job) i realised they utterly believe in the general party line (in favour of a totalitarian superstate, destruction of European culture and the white race) and so little falsehoods are of no account; and worse, they believe their own lies. Even when one could prove that they simply created a “story”, they must believe in it, much as some sociopaths i’ve known would utterly believe their own lies – even while they knew they’d just made it all up.

5. i stopped reading Breitbart a few months ago, when they had a story about some white guy in England who was beaten and thrown in a canal by sand people. The article was propaganda, insinuating that the attackers chose the victim because he wasn’t a Muslim. While, from my experience, the Muslims would probably have let me pass unharmed because i’m a darkie, there was absolutely nothing to substantiate the article’s interpretation. It was, coming from the Right, typical propaganda, falsification; and compared with the kind of out-and-out falsehoods to be found in the mainstream media, very minor.

6. My 4 years at university were largely a waste of time. When i lived with my sister & her then-husband and children, 11 years ago, the then-husband (a Fat Rabbit Leftist IT guy) joked that even the worst IT student from an ex-polytechnic would get a better job than someone with a BA 1st and MA Distinction in English Lit from Durham and i chuckled bitterly for of course it was true. However, i think in general the kind of close reading and analysis to which i was set has at least sensitized me to incongruities, e.g. Trump attacks violence on all sides after a bunch of (as far as i can judge) peacefully posturing Rightists, including LARPing “Nazis”, are physically attacked by Antifa while the police do nothing, and the media accuse Trump of being a Nazi because he denounces violence on all sides.

i talked with the Jew Yorker a few weeks ago and realised that virtually all her information comes from corporate media, meaning CNN, NYT, Washington Post. She has been well rewarded by the world, having money, status, a highly comfortable existence within an upper middle class bubble; and it is natural to suppose that if one’s life is gemütlich, that is because of one’s beliefs (white race bad, Islam good, etc.). i was surprised that she would continue to credit the corporate media after their years of practiced systematic deceit, but then they are of her world – the gated community elite – and so they naturally side with each other, against anyone who sees the broader spectrum (like Trump), or anyone who is wholly unmodern (like me).

7. The mirror is presently almost symmetrically false. One doesn’t need to investigate actual events to see this, they make claims like “Trump defends Nazis” and then one can just click on Trump’s Twitter and see the exact opposite. In Germany, people mostly believe whatever they read in Der Spiegel and see on the TV, because Germans are natural conformists; in addition, Germans hate Americans and Trump is, if nothing else, highly American. In America itself, i think probably most people’s opinions don’t coincide with the Mirror: the corporate media and corporate academics/journalists are mostly talking to each other. It reminds me of a shitty poetry book i tried to review 12 years ago; it was so bad i couldn’t bring myself to say anything; puzzled, i re-read all the glowing blurbs on the back, and noted that they were by other modern “poets” and that this so-called poet had won numerous poetry awards and also served on the committees of poetry awards, and then i began to realise how things work.

Academics don’t expect anyone to read their books; political propaganda is avidly consumed by a relatively small number of non-journalists in the gated community elite: and because that elite tend to live in the same areas (New York, Washington, California) and talk only to each other, they don’t realise e.g. just how few people think trannies are anything other than confused homosexuals, or how few people think a vagina sufficient qualification to be President, or how few people care that Trump rambles and is off-the-cuff and looks like some kind of neanderthal deity.

i thought, after the corporate media and corporate comedians said Trump wouldn’t have a chance of even winning the Republican nomination, let alone the Iron Throne,

that what the Z-Man calls the Cloud People might realise their Mirror is false; but that would involve the destruction of a lifetime’s self-esteem, and as with the collapse of the Soviet Union the true believers will continue to believe in their bumper harvests and record tractor quotas as the rest of the establishment quietly peel off and go rogue. And as with the USSR those who stay till the end will end up in prison or despised and derided to their graves. The sneering of the Leftists in the above video reminds me of the Viking’s uncontrolled snickering and giggling through Excalibur – this is a man who can sit stony-faced through a great comedy, tugging his beard and frowning, but was hysterical with mirth at scenes of redemption and heroism; i think this kind of laughter is a defence mechanism against reality, against a reality threatening to a childish mind. Just as the Viking, who inhabits a world of manga and cartoons, was terrified into deranged giggling by the force of his own denied cultural foundation, so the Left were hysterical with mirth at a real American presuming to serve America. In a late civilisation, reality is met not with terror but with mirth – at first the IT geeks and manga-fans and socialists think they can laugh reality away, and indeed they can laugh away the awareness, for a while; to quote Bane:

Now is not the time for fear – that comes later.

The mirror will crack.

Give me the glass, and therein will I read.
No deeper wrinkles yet? hath sorrow struck
So many blows upon this face of mine,
And made no deeper wounds? O flattering glass,
Like to my followers in prosperity,
Thou dost beguile me! Was this face the face
That every day under his household roof
Did keep ten thousand men? was this the face
That, like the sun, did make beholders wink?
Was this the face that faced so many follies,
And was at last out-faced by Bolingbroke?
A brittle glory shineth in this face:
As brittle as the glory is the face;

Dashes the glass against the ground

For there it is, crack’d in a hundred shivers.

1. i deleted my main Facebook accounts today, keeping only my “real name” account with no info so people can message me; and even that i only very cursorily check as one would check that the ghetto is still vibrant and on fire. i think i created my first FB account in 2009 but only really started using it in Kassel in 2010, and more after i came to Munich in 2011. It served well as a way to stay in touch with people who would never email, e.g. ex-colleagues, old students. After 7 years, i feel it’s enough and i’m regressing to the more isolated state i inhabited up to 2010/11, where i emailed friends privately, unter vier Augen as the Krauts would say, or blogged sans comments.

2. In part, i think it is to do with my age: in my 30s i was excited by human contact, and enjoyed joking (shitposting), posting photos, commenting, friending friends of friends, unfriending assholes, being unfriended because i am an asshole, being told to fuck off and die, telling people to fuck off and die, unfriending a champagne socialist (the Communist) because he imagined every post and every single comment was personally directed for his approval and so he had to weigh in with his witless sneering; he then punished me for unfriending him by hacking his son’s account and writing “fuck you Elberry you fucking sophomore” on my FB wall, and something similar on a mutual Jew Yorker’s wall. Well all of this was fun and games in my 30s but now i am an old dog and have different priorities.

3. As an old dog, i value face-to-face or at least unter vier Augen communications, which is in part why i disabled comments here – so i could pretend to myself that i write for some imagined reader (if i enabled comments they would swiftly fill up with “fuck off elberry” and “you Nazi bastard” from people who imagine everything is personally addressed to them and requires their imprimatur). Facebook at first seemed to me a generally good thing, as long as you could block the clinically insane, but over time i’ve come to see it as a generally bad thing. In part, it’s to do with the polarisation of politics as the Left seek to not only destroy Western civilisation but the white race itself. People become polarised and intolerant of those to their personal Left or Right, which meant almost anything i posted would be attacked for being Masonic-Zionist or Nazi. i could easily ignore Daily Stormer material, but found it gruelling to read Leftist posts, with e.g. the Jew Yorker (who only consumes the corporate media and seem to think that living in her upper middle class New York bubble gives her privileged access to the President’s psyche) writing something about how Trump is literally Hitler, and all of her friends commenting to the effect that Trump is a Russian agent and Hillary really won the election and the Jews are already being gassed and all of our civil liberties are being taken away, and we should kill Trump and anyone who voted for him and put Obama on the Iron Throne for life, and only blacks with a Master’s in Gender Studies should be allowed to vote, because democracy is good but populism is bad, etc. etc.

If i want to hear Kill Whitey sentiment i need only talk to my American colleagues or to Google anything; i no longer have the will to suffer it in my supposedly private conversation.

4. Just about the only good thing about Facebook was the ability to create photograph albums, but over time i realised that i didn’t even want to share images with anyone; my main FB account from 2010-16 had about 60 “friends” (some of whom unfriended me for not being their good little Kill Whitey house nigger); i deleted it to purge the heretics and for the last year had only six “friends”, only two of whom commented. i rarely commented on anyone else’s posts, as i felt distinctly unwanted in these strange waters.

5. i would typically open my laptop in the morning, see what new Youtube videos were on offer, and then open FB and leave it open. i rarely commented on other’s posts but on any given day i would usually follow some threads in communities (some private, some merely closed) and so there was plenty to attend to.

This is all part of the Attention Age, where it seems you can make money just by having lots of “views” (reminiscent of 15 Million Merits). Attention is money now. i don’t understand how this works: in the 7 years of my heavy Facebook use i paid absolutely nothing and only clicked on one advert (and didn’t buy the product). What kind of business model is this, exactly? i could understand it if you had to pay to access e.g. Youtube, and a channel would get a cut based on viewers, but there seems some nebulous idea that viewers leads to advertiser revenue. i suppose it makes sense – that if you get hundreds of thousands of viewers some of them might click on an advert, and some of them might buy something, maybe, but on an instinctual level i feel it is totally insane and companies like Facebook are bullshit companies selling bullshit to bullshitters, for money.

6. i expect to lose contact with most of my six Facebook friends; some i never emailed in the first place, some (like Bonehead) shifted to FB and where we once exchanged private emails, from 2011 to today we only communicated by commenting on each other’s posts; and since i didn’t know most of his FB “friends” i was much loath to write anything on his, and so we had barely any contact.

Facebook and social media in general seem to me to encourage a broad meaningless engagement (as Bilbo puts it, too little butter spread over too much bread). For example, Toddball (an extreme extrovert and partisan Democrat) had over 700 “friends” and i recall him once surfing through them, sneering at their updates & pictures, and then saying “who the fuck is this?” because he would accept requests from people he didn’t even know; and because like most extroverts “friendship” meant nothing to him – an extrovert cannot be alone, so a “friend” is merely someone who will drink with him.

7. So i won’t miss posting and knowing some of my FB “friends” were probably showing my words and images to their drinking buddies and sneering at me (Toddball-style); i won’t miss having to read recycled CNN propaganda; i won’t miss the motivational slogans; i won’t miss photos of people i know are unhappy, people whose relatives just tried to kill themselves, grinning and waving cheerily in scenic locations while their “friends” comment “hammergeil!” and “wunderschööööööööön!!!”; i won’t miss Feminists claiming the Horde are all 5-year-old Syrian orphans and i should feel bad for my scepticism. i will survive, somehow, and if i could i would conduct all personal correspondence on paper – but i know i would lose contact with everyone except my mother.

i am reclaiming my attention and my time, and mean to spend it drinking gin, reading Ernst Jünger, and writing right-wing propaganda.

1. i finished The Good Soldier. In general i think it makes little difference if you know the plot beforehand, so for example people who say you can only watch The Usual Suspects once are clearly idiots; however, here i think some of the effect was due to my assumption that it would be some kind of war novel, and then a kind of Henry Jamesian tale of middle class life before the War, and then layer by layer finding it to be quite different and grimmer than i had supposed. In brief: there are two unhappy marriages, which end in two suicides and one insanity, the whole thing narrated by one of the survivors. It has some of the tragical impetus and structure of Ancient Greek or Norse legend: none of the characters are particularly bad, merely weak and misguided, and their conjunction leads to death and madness.

The narrator seems a bit of an idiot; he marries a lying no-good floozy seemingly on a whim; he witnesses the collapse of two marriages, the mental destruction of the one character who seems genuinely good, and then remarks:

It is a queer and fantastic world. Why can’t people have what they want? The things were all there to content everybody; yet everybody has the wrong thing.

This is very much the modern note: we have everything we need for material happiness, so why are we unhappy, why do we smash everything we have? In this case, we have a feckless, gambling, adulterous husband, a Catholic wife who wishes only to preserve the estate and appearances, and the result is death and insanity. The narrator sees the gambling adulterer as a heroic, Romantic figure instead of an irresponsible, self-indulgent fool. And like the modern man, he blames tradition:

Conventions and traditions, I suppose, work blindly but surely for the preservation of the normal type; for the extinction of proud, resolute and unusual individuals.

– and yet none of the characters fall into this category; it is rather the narrator who wishes to see them as grand and exceptional, and cannot understand how ordinary human weakness could lead to such disaster. And so, he blames what he calls society:

Society must go on, I suppose, and society can only exist if the normal, if the virtuous, and the slightly deceitful flourish, and if the passionate, the headstrong, and the too-truthful are condemned to suicide and madness.

In fact, the main characters are habitual liars; selfish, but also capable of extreme cunning and cold-blooded manipulation: it is these the narrator describes as passionate, headstrong, and too-truthful. The narrator is himself a character and so the whole story is somewhat like reading an article from the corporate media – probably something actually happened, but not like this.

i think, as with The Great Gatsby, it’s a story about a selfish, grand figure, and about the narrator’s fascination for said figure, the whole glamour cast upon this world. It is the illusion and the weakness of all involved which leads to disaster. They demonstrate the corruption of their supposed virtues, so where the narrator presents them as proud, resolute and unusual, as passionate, headstrong, and too-truthful, they are in fact arrogant, stubborn, depraved, greedy, irresponsible, and hypocritical.

2. The narrator’s bewilderment and inability to even retrospectively understand reminds me of many today: they thought the Progressive agenda was unstoppable, that the white race and European culture would be destroyed in the next few years and none but a handful of “Nazis” would object. Instead, they found that outside of the cities of the plain, most people don’t want to be replaced in their own lands. i don’t see Brexit and Trump as great victories so much as a clarification: as we are seeing in both cases, almost the entire political elite, and certainly the media/academic classes, are thoroughly opposed to the good of the nation and the native population.

My feeling is that in the next few years the failure of democracy will become clearer and clearer. If the President of the United States, with a huge majority in Congress, cannot push through the policies on which he campaigned and won, if his own party stymie him at every turn, democracy is clearly a mere pretense, a pretense by which the people are destroyed by their enemies.

As long as times are good i don’t see any hope of a change, but once the economy collapses i think there will be a real political crisis and probably some kind of new order. Already, as i predicted, even Leftists in the belly of the beast are dissenting:

Many years ago, Google’s mission statement was “don’t be evil”; apparently they dropped this at the time of the migrant invasion in 2015.

3. Most of those i know in Munich don’t want to take public transport (now full of loud military-age young men from Africa and the Middle East), wouldn’t want a migrant camp anywhere in their neighbourhood, and yet believe NGOs are “rescuing” migrants from the coasts of Italy, and they can’t bring themselves to perceive that huge black guys clearly aren’t “Syrian refugees”. i predict that nothing will change politically this year, then there will be a financial collapse and everyone’s savings will be wiped out by hyperinflation, and the invaders will start to issue forth in gangs to rape and steal and murder, and the Europeans will form vigilante groups to protect their homes. There will be frantic censorship and State propaganda and suppression of the native population but as with James Damore the security/military services will start to turn against their corrupt masters.

i envisage a collapse of not merely the European Union but of individual countries – so Germany will once more be a collection of principalities, or rather defended areas where the natives protect themselves from the marauding horde:

4. It seems rather pointless now, given i’ll probably get killed by either the invaders or the natives in the next few years, but i plan to publish The Better Maker and also a bundle of stories, a play, and aphorisms in the next few months. i didn’t want to do it on Amazon but Lulu is frigging expensive for print copies and, as i was passing the Oxfam bookshop and saw a “welcome refugees” sign on a marketing piece playing on their window, i reflected that it is virtually impossible to avoid feeding the Beast. i’m not going to stop buying books at Oxfam, much as i mislike the idea of my coin going to ship in more invaders; just using money i’m participating in a rotten system. i could go full Varg and live on a farm in the middle of nowhere, but i’m not blond enough for that, alas, or rather too broke. So i’ll probably publish them on Amazon and i gleefully expect to sell tens of thousands of copies per month, and buy my own island somewhere.



1. i ran out of money about ten days ago, however here’s a life lesson for you young fascist bucks from Old Dog Elberry: even when there’s nothing left in the bank, even when your wallet is empty, there is still one fund left, one last source to turn to in your distress. Is it the Nazi gold you buried in the backyard? Is it your signed photo of the Führer? No – it is the jam jar where you keep coins for the washing machine.

i found 25 € in said jar, and now have about 70 cents left (i should get paid either tomorrow or Tuesday). Most of my unnecessary expenditure is on food and alcohol – i probably spend about 300 € a month just on things like smoked salmon, whisky, gin, fine-ass cheese, nice wine. However, i was interested to note that i can survive and even have quite a fine repast on 2 to 3 Euros a day: Edeka have a good Nero d’Avola for 2.70 €, canned stews for 1 €, and a bag of pasta is 1 €: i merely had to train myself to eat only once a day, at home, and i could get by on about 2 € a day. i even managed to lose a bit of weight and my belly no longer wobbles with its accustomed obscenity.

i ran out of gin a week ago and have since been making strange and frankly vile cocktails from the many ingredients lying about my flat. i had to think carefully, how to mix the various alcohols so i could last till payday, and behold i am now enjoying the last cocktail of my lean days.

2. i’ve been enjoying telling everyone how poor i am, and also exercising restraint and control. i typically organise my life so i don’t really need to make decisions of moment, or to exercise self-restraint: if i don’t have much money i just don’t go into shops, because i know i may see some exquisite waistcoat at half-price and can either buy it and then have no money for food or public transport, or i can not buy it and think dreamily about the waistcoat of glory and What Could Have Been for the rest of my life.

Not possible with food, so the last ten days have been an exercise in daily care and thought. A magician does not live idly or without attention. His life is controlled; like a submarine in deep oceans, he maintains his integrity against the terrific pressure of both the demonic and the material. The deeper he goes into power, the more exigent his tolerances.

For the last ten days i’ve lived in a daily web of concern and attention; it is personally inconvenient and spiritually useful. During this time an important prayer was answered, and i have felt myself inch closer to understanding the gods. i also had a new student – a very decent Jewish Psychologist with whom i’ve enjoyed some good conversations about religion, Christianity, mysticism, Nazis, and the nature of god; this clarified my own sense of religion, my sympathy for, and distance from, Christianity & Judaism.

3. i hope to soon publish a new volume of my writings: a play, my last five short stories, and a few thousand words of recently-written aphorisms and racist remarks. It will probably come to about 30-35,000 words and have a suitable title like Why I Am Your Führer; the aphorisms were all written by hand or on typewriter, so i’ve been typing them into MS Word, and then decided to go through what notebooks i’ve accumulated in the last 8 years (i also have a load in a friend’s garage in England) and see if there was anything to add therefrom.

It was a strange experience, to spend the whole of today re-reading my own journals. i tend to write down unusual dreams and occult occurrences, most of which i had forgotten, some of which make more sense now. i came across the name of a girl, let’s say “Veronique Rabenwald”, written without explanation, and then remembered – at the time, i suspected it was a girl i fell in love with while i was doing my Master’s. i saw her on the campus quite often, a tall German girl who knew one of my acquaintances; i talked to her only once or twice, recognising immediately that she was quite happy with her Greek boyfriend, that i wasn’t her type, that we had really nothing in common except her beauty and my sense thereof. i wasn’t even sure of her name, which was sufficiently un-English that i only had a vague idea of it and spent some time, back in my unemployed days, Altavistaing and FriendsReuniting until i decided she was probably Veronique R. Back at university, perhaps because i knew i wouldn’t even try to get to know her, i allowed myself to regard her with my full appreciation, and she always responded with the most superb grin, totally transforming her face from an impassive Teutonic gaze to a childlike pleasure and warmth. It’s odd to think that i don’t think she knew my name but would always, when she saw me, smile with this spontaneous delight, because i think of my own utterly simple perception and appreciation, my vision of her. She was i guess about 5′ 10″ to 6′, with a graceful, powerful walk, and looked a bit like Irene Jacob.

4. She was the third girl i fell in love with, and the first where it was merely joyous contemplation and dream. Because i never really got to know her, wasn’t even sure of her name, i never managed to fuck things up by e.g. carving runes on my face as a declaration of love or offering to kill people for her. For a long time after i left, she stayed in my mind – not as “someone i could be happy with”, but more as a sign of how beauty could be – and how we could respond to beauty, without complication. Even with my last relationship, with Juniper, i unconsciously strove to maintain this same simplicity, which i think is the reason we came together and are still good friends today.

Veronique, then, was as important to my development as Castaneda or Tolkien or TS Eliot; in the realm of beauty and desire, more even than Plato.

4. When i came across her name i decided to Google it, and found she married her Greek boyfriend and they have several white children and live actually not too far from me, relatively speaking. There were several photos of her, looking miraculously as she did 16 years ago, even after several childbirths. i saw the same spirit in her, and felt my old delight in her, and a new delight in the evident bliss of her life now; and that her genetic line will continue.

5. This was a little strange, as last week i dreamt repeatedly of another girl i knew at university, a year or two before i met Veronique; let’s call the other girl Iris. My memories of Iris are uncharacteristically vague and conflicting; itself very odd, given my memory’s usual rigour and pedantic attention to detail. As far as i remember, Iris was in a seminar i had in my 2nd year but i don’t think she ever spoke. i don’t know how, but she next appears in my memory of my 3rd year where i think i saw her with my an older undergrad (a minor TV celebrity now) and for some reason she gave me a copy of Paul Simon’s The Capeman and a letter where i found her handwriting identical both to the now-TV celebrity and to the first girl i fell in love with. Incidentally, while going through my journals i came across handwriting samples from two girls who were simultaneous incarnations of the same soul: the handwriting is similar but clearly from two different people.

i recall, in my 3rd year, being struck by Iris’s beauty – vaguely Scarlett Johanssonish, but more androgynous, with striking grey eyes. She had an air i sometimes found among the English upper class, the kind of quiet, friendly confidence and maturity which comes from having a family you can trace back to 1066, and enough money to travel, often with a Patrick Leigh Fermor-esque recklessness and idealism.

All i could think of was Pallas Athena, and indeed at the time i found her strange: her appearance seemed to change depending on the angle and light, and there was a quality of beyondness to her, which along with her unsolicited friendliness left me a bit baffled, and rather pleased.

i hardly thought of her after that, perhaps once every couple of years. i remember Googling her two or three times in the last 16 years, and finding almost nothing – all i could find was that someone of her name had worked in a magazine at some point; then she disappeared.

After these recent dreams, i wondered if she had existed in the first place. The weird vagueness & incoherence of my memories of her suggested something amiss. i even wondered if she had existed but was non-human, since i’ve found they often leave a strange trace in the memory, and don’t seem to be perceived in quite the way we would perceive human beings.

i Googled her again and found, through a bit of fancy Elberry thinking, that she got married and has a different surname – and then i found she has two white children and looks very happy.

6. i’m unsure what to make of these two very similar occurrences. While the answered prayer (which was purely to do with esoterica) and the Jewish student seem to me Odin’s way of clarifying certain religious matters, i have no idea why i have come across these two women again, in such a short space of time. Often, patterns of this kind seem surface manifestations of a deeper working, like the orchestra shifting posture before a new movement, and the working is deep enough to make no sense in our terms.

Its effect on me, now, is complex: i feel half-lost in memories of my youth, when i had hope (i didn’t yet realise that my odd character would render me conventionally unemployable, bringing me to the point where i only have 70 cents left), and at the same time i feel exceedingly glad that Veronique and Iris are happy and have children to continue their genetic line.

i am at present disconnected from the present; for we are normally living in the recent past (the last few seconds or minutes) and our expectations for the near future. i am now living 16-17 years ago, and assume the West will collapse into war in the next few years, and so my 70 cents are of little significance. What is of significance is a distant past, the past which birthed Europe, and a future for these children.

My Bundeswehr group ended last week. Most of the students didn’t really want to be there, or if they originally did their enthusiasm quickly waned after 7 hours a day, Monday to Friday, stuffed in a classroom without air conditioning in summer. Accordingly, i gave them frequent breaks and tried not to be too censorious at their soldier talk. Some amusing moments:

1. Tourette’s, a baker turned mountain infantrist started quoting Der Untergang and i became enthused and had to continue his quotation in my Hitler voice, gesticulating and screaming. Tourette’s then played the Steiner plan scene on his phone while we sat there, nodding approval and smiling. We spent a good couple of hours just talking about the Second World War, about paratroopers in Crete, Barbarossa, Dunkirk, the SS, the Winter War, tank design, and behold it was highly edifying and enjoyable.

2. An Alt-Lite colleague of mine had given me an envelope full of some Pediga-style bullshit stickers, i wasn’t sure what it was and opened it in the classroom and thought, Fuck; i have no intention of going around Munich covertly sticking them to lamp posts as if this will somehow awaken the Teutonic soul, and nor do i want to have these useless retarded things in my bag or even my flat.

Another mountain infantrist, a friendly Peruvian giant, saw the stickers and said: “A little racist, or?” and i replied “Islam isn’t a race.” He then said it was stupid to criticise one religion, said they are all bullshit, and claimed that thousands of women get publicly sexually assaulted every New Year’s Eve in Cologne, and the newspapers only made a fuss out of it because this year the attackers were foreigners. “Yeah it’s terrible how Germans can’t stop themselves raping women every day, in their thousands, and the newspapers cover it up,” i said blandly, and then he said Christianity is just as bad as Islam. i suggested that religion is somewhat like alcohol – it affects people in different ways, good or bad; though i refrained from adding that just as different alcohols make me differently drunk (spirits just make me energetic; wine and beer make me sluggish) so i think it’s fair to say the pattern of good/evil resultant from Christianity is clearly different in kind and probably in degree from Islam.

Amusingly, while the Peruvian Giant and i were discussing Islam, his comrade Tourette’s kept sardonically interjecting with comments like “goat-fuckers” and “they are too stupid to read”. i expected the Peruvian Giant to get angry at Tourette’s remarks but instead he easily ignored them, and they were offered so casually it seemed Tourette’s didn’t expect to cause offense.

3. Throughout the course i felt the bond between the soldiers (as opposed to the admin people, who were to some degree outsiders), especially those in the same unit. It’s a peculiar thing, somewhat like a familial bond but simpler, without the usual entrenched bitterness; nor is it exactly friendship. i felt the attraction of it, and understood why my German acquaintance/friend Der Fechter (who was in mountain infantry) said he often misses being with his comrades – at first i was bemused, since he is rich, educated, and he described them as mostly ignorant and base. But especially with this group, i felt what it would be to belong to a group, to have comrades. Even with my oldest friends, i wouldn’t be surprised if they one day just stopped talking to me – it’s not that i expect it, but it has happened with others who i thought close friends: they couldn’t be bothered writing anymore, and so i realised that even friends you see every day for years, friends you feed, and who feed you, friends who help you, friends you help, can shrug and forget about you as soon as you don’t live in the same city or you become inconvenient to them.

4. Last Monday i returned from my morning break to find two Fever Tree and two 5 cl Gordon’s Gin bottles on my desk, and Tourette’s said, – We thought you would like to have breakfast. It was 1030 and i hadn’t eaten since Sunday evening but thought, Why not, and drank the first then felt pleasantly situated; and i saved the second for the afternoon. There are not many groups who will buy their teacher gin on a Monday morning and encourage him to breakfast thereon.

5. The group took a strong dislike to Frank the Blowhard Yank. i like him but his attitude is wearisome: he struts about with a know-it-all look on his face, and practically every time he opens his mouth it’s to talk about how great his life is (he boasts of how he only has to work 2 hours a day because of his rich wife) and to lay the law down – the last time i went out drinking with him and Toddball, during the 2016 Euro, we were trying to watch a game on a pub screen and he spent the whole time talking about how shit and pointless “soccer” is and how anyone could do it, and how American football is infinitely superior. He apparently did the same thing to my Bundeswehr group, telling them that you can have a 90-minute “soccer” match with only one goal, “what’s that about? See, in American football, there are goals every few minutes. And it takes real skill and intelligence, not like soccer.”

Tourette’s reported: “Frank told us how shit our football is. I told him Americans don’t like our football because they cannot concentrate for more than five minutes without a goal or a hot dog,” and then, with a sly look and a shrug: “I think I pissed him off.”

6. While i was drinking my gin Tourette’s and the Giant were telling the paratrooper a story in German, to much mirth; i caught some of it but missed the sense so they translated: a comrade of theirs had gone to a house party with a civilian woman, she couldn’t finish her milk/cream-based cocktail so “he killed it”, then went to sleep in her guestroom, and being lactose intolerant shat the bed, then told her: “Don’t be embarrassed, it could happen to anyone”, as if it was her fault in the first place.

7. We discussed future plans and money. i told them i refuse to save money because “the War will come soon, the great Race War, you’ll wake up one day and see the cities on fire, and you’ll have to grab a weapon and run out onto the streets to start killing, and then you’ll think Fuck, why did I save all that money? Why didn’t I spend it on gin?

On my last day, i bade them farewell and said “probably won’t see you again”, and Tourette’s said: “the world is a small place, we see us again for sure”, and then the paratrooper smiled and said cheerfully: “see you when the War comes.”

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.

1. i need to rewrite bits & pieces of my nauseating Bildungsroman and so have started reading novels to recover the mindset, after a few years of fascist non-fiction; i just finished Lermontov’s superb A Hero of Our Times and skimmed through my Kindle’s huge library for the next, musing that 20 years ago i wished i could have already read everything, and felt alarmed to reflect that i didn’t know e.g. Thomas Dekker or Flaubert; i now gloatingly gaze upon all the allegedly great books i haven’t read; i am now grateful that i hadn’t read A Tale of Two Cities (my favourite Dickens) until this year.

2. i decided to read Ford Madox Ford’s The Good Soldier, and am enjoying it so far although i recoiled from this passage:

For all good soldiers are sentimentalists – all good soldiers of that type. Their profession, for one thing, is full of the big words, courage, loyalty, honour, constancy. And I have given a wrong impression of Edward Ashburnham if I have made you think that literally never in the course of our nine years of intimacy did he discuss what he would have called “the graver things.” Even before his final outburst to me, at times, very late at night, say, he has blurted out something that gave an insight into the sentimental view of the cosmos that was his. He would say how much the society of a good woman could do towards redeeming you, and he would say that constancy was the finest of the virtues. He said it very stiffly, of course, but still as if the statement admitted of no doubt.

Perhaps the narrator’s idea of a “good soldier” differs from mine but i am for example now teaching a Bundeswehr class, half admin people, half mountain infantry and airborne and one in (i guess) KSK, and just to give an idea, i had them doing a chain-spelling game (each student has to provide a word beginning with the last letter of the previous, e.g. doG, golF, finisH, hoteL) and among the usual vocab they managed to produce: tank, kill, LAW, widow, war, rape, erectile dysfunction, Nazi, idiotic, clown, nigger, racist, thief, faggot. i returned from one of my many tea breaks to find two mountain infantrists playing a youtube video of some guy with Tourette’s shouting and screaming, and i thereafter started referring to one of the students as “Tourette’s”, much to the mirth of the others. They are excellent chaps but like most professional soldiers their humour is basically akin to mine (murder, rape, genocide) and they are more interested in practical details (e.g. differences between French and German parachutes) than in grand words and ideas. i haven’t had a single bad Bundeswehr class or student; the only one who reads (a cold-eyed sardonic killer) remarked that their humour was “special” and i said “well, it’s more or less my humour; i went to an all-boy school where a boy was raped by another boy and we all thought it was funny and jeered at him because nobody liked him anyway.” i later reflected that especially in the military, this kind of humour helps to desensitize one to the inevitable dark side of reality and human nature.

The student i dubbed Tourette’s drew various map symbols on the board for the admin students, explaining how you indicate medium-range, long-range, mortar fire units, etc., and then drew a symbol of a kind of inverted u with two as it were antlers pointing upper left and upper right, and said cheerily “this means rape”. And i: “That’s useful, so the high command can look at the map and say, Engage the enemy with mortar fire; now send in a platoon of rapists.”

Throughout this, two highly hot Bundeswehr babes were sitting there looking mildly amused; i guess they had heard all this talk a gorillion times already.

3. i share this class with an Amercan blowhard called Frank, who is doing an English Lit PhD at the university here and teaches a few hours for money he doesn’t need. His wife is a Gymnasium teacher and makes more money than he or i could ever make; they have two blonde kids and i awoke her ire by commenting seriously “you’re saving the white race, good work” at the McLingua Christmas party. The year before, Frank and i got in a fight when he tried to stop me going home after midnight and i was a bit drunk so naturally we ended up rolling about on the carpet trying to kill each other until my boss intervened. Frank is smart – a Democrat of course like all my American colleagues, but not dumb like most of them, he actually knows something about politics beyond “Trump is like going to gas all the Jews, dude”. He suffers however an unfortunate combination of being almost wholly financially dependent on his wife, and being a belligerent know-it-all. The former makes him a mangina sponger who is openly proud to have bought nothing for himself or others in the last decade; and the latter is displeasing unto elberry.

The Bundeswehr group despise him. i heard him teaching them the Past Progressive (he left the door open in the heat) and it was both simplistic and overly theoretical, and of course delivered in his usual blowhard manner. One of the two hot babes is a bit dim and so the others often explain things to her in German – i allow this, Frank stormed over and told the helpful student “hey, you, yeah you, you don’t take your car to the mechanic then grab the wrench out of his hand and say, I know this better than you, so shut up and let me do my job”.

For all of Frank’s macho American routine he doesn’t understand that the Bundeswehr will naturally cover for their weaker members, and naturally assist their comrades. For him, this is merely an opportunity to pull his Californian cock out and swing it about in their faces.

i give him a pass because he despises Lit Theory and is, in literature, a traditionalist.

4. In The Good Soldier:

No, we never did go back anywhere. Not to Heidelberg, not to Hamelin, not to Verona, not to Mont Majour – not so much as to Carcassonne itself. We talked of it, of course, but I guess Florence got all she wanted out of one look at a place. She had the seeing eye.

I haven’t, unfortunately, so that the world is full of places to which I want to return – towns with the blinding white sun upon them; stone pines against the blue of the sky; corners of gables, all carved and painted with stags and scarlet flowers and crowstepped gables with the little saint at the top; and grey and pink palazzi and walled towns a mile or so back from the sea, on the Mediterranean, between Leghorn and Naples. Not one of them did we see more than once, so that the whole world for me is like spots of colour in an immense canvas. Perhaps if it weren’t so I should have something to catch hold of now.

i’m not sure one can extract the essence from a place, person, or book in one go; but i understand i think the narrator’s sense of having nothing “to catch hold of” (and the very beauty of his fragmentary impression suggests he was the one with the “seeing eye”, and that his wife – who felt once was enough – was in fact oblivious). Harold Bloom somewhere said the mark of a good book is, Can it be re-read? It seems impossible to do more than take a sketch from any first contact; one must assimilate that experience, be altered; and then return. And i think this holds good for most: for people, for books, for music, for films, for places. Frank, like most of my colleagues, strikes me as a man to make a judgement and stick to it, “as if the statement admitted of no doubt”; hence his finger-stabbing manner, his fashionable politics, the icy reception he seems to arouse in his students. Oddly enough, Frank touts himself as a grammar expert but the students told me they understood virtually nothing of his long-winded explanations and mine were easier to grasp; in fact, i don’t really give explanations as such, i find it better to provide examples till they have a general idea, and then conclude with an “explanation” to synthesise it all, e.g. we had a break and as i was about to go for tea the hot girls asked me about the Past Progressive: the cold-eyed killer was eating a banana and a huge mountain infantrist returned to the room, so gesturing grandly i said: “Cold-Eyes is eating the banana, this takes 2 minutes – relatively long; the Mountain comes into the room, naked and smeared with Schnitzel, that takes 2 seconds – relatively short; Cold-Eyes sees the naked Mountain and chokes on his banana and dies (i then mimicked choking to death while pointing at the Mountain in horror), you tell your officer: Cold-Eyes WAS EATING a banana when the naked Mountain CAME into the room. Now Cold-Eyes is dead” and this made sense. After the break i gave more examples before trying to  “explain” – and behold, they understood.

5. Having taught now for nearly 8 years, and being perpetually focken broke, i realise the occasional look of sudden comprehension in a student’s eyes is enough to keep me at an essentially minimum wage job, i mean apart from my inability to do anything else because i’m stupid and old. i like teaching English because i’m not really teaching; i merely guide the students to a closer sense of the language, the language not being my possession or secret – they can read English books or watch English films without me. Frank, as befits his California know-it-all manner, i think sees teaching as the imparting of secret knowledge to the uninitiated. i merely accelerate a process of comprehension; a process my students could undergo alone and unaided. i wish them to have a discerning ear and seeing eye, and so i do not impart information, but rather induce a way of perception.

Oddly, while “teaching” i became aware of Cold-Eyes’ cold eyes upon me; he is the only reader in the group, and wants to do a Psychology degree when he leaves the Bundeswehr. He sees, and i note that there is something unusual in his manner of observation, a kind of immediate focus on a person’s centre of being and degree of falsity or truth. As i was teaching, a blackbird suddenly flew onto the windowsill and looked about the room for a few seconds – it was odd indeed, as birds typically attend me when i am walking in a mental silence (the “internal dialogue” switched off) but here i was about my dirty intellectual business. i made my accustomed runic sign to the bird, which quickly glanced at the students – half of whom (facing the window) were silent and attentive – and then it flew away.


1. As the situation in Europe spirals out of control, the elites resort to progressively more authoritarian measures to suppress the native population. Thus, they will turn a blind eye to gang rape, assault, theft, murder committed by the invaders, while persecuting men like Tommy Robinson or Count Dankula.

At present, the elites are keen on censorship. i am unsure if censorship really works against the Right; my own move to traditionalism began in 2004, when i moved to Leeds and was subject to overweening chavvery on a daily basis; it became clear to me that there was a spiritual malaise at work, and that giving these people even more money or preferential access to universities wouldn’t help. i read no blogs or newspapers or magazines at that point, didn’t watch TV, so censorship would have made absolutely no difference.

My growing sense of the spiritual malaise was at best given shape by Theodore Dalrymple and Roger Scruton, who i discovered in 2007. Even if they’d been shoahed i would have naturally entered my full fascist estate, it just would have taken a bit longer (and neither Dalrymple or Scruton are of the black-clad legion).

i think it is so with many on the Right; their attitudes develop primarily from their experience of, and reflection on, daily phenomena, e.g the malevolence of chavs, modern architecture and modern politicians, the spectacle of a Muslim-occupied town like Blackburn or Birmingham.

2. As Vox Day puts it, SJWs always project. The Left are mostly opportunists and conformists, and because they need to read the Guardian and Salon and watch CNN and The Young Turks to know what to think, they assume this is so for everyone; if Trump did as they had frenziedly predicted, and censored the whole media in his favour, they would sit on their artisan sofas, drinking their artisan mineral water and staring vacantly at The Big Bang Theory, having no idea what to think, what is presently the correct opinion. They would in fact starve to death and be eaten by their cats.

3. i once thought the Leftists would immediately switch loyalties if the Right became fashionable and authoritative; but i think the Right will always be inhospitable terrain for the blue-haired 400-pounders and the cat ladies and shrieking degenerates. The Left has a vision of a totalitarian regime ruling over a cowed, deracinated populace, and of course each Leftist dreams of becoming a grinning bureaucrat in such a regime, wielding despotic power in the name of Humanity and Love and Peace and Islam. It is a vision of simultaneous tyranny and collective self-abnegation; of dominance exercised by those who can always shirk responsibility for their deeds. They will have the Gulag and the secret police and everyone will be an informer; but it will all be for the greater glory of Humanity. And, after all, who wouldn’t like to arrest, torture, and execute anyone he pleases, and then feel he is a warrior for social justice and equality and, frankly, deserves a pat on the back and a nice medal and a Starbucks voucher.

4. Socialism, including the Nazi variety, appeals to the weak and the vengeful. The former know they cannot stand on their own feet, and so want to be supported by the State; the latter want power to destroy others, and the self-righteous thrill of believing themselves to be on the side of Humanity and Love and Peace and Islam.

5. The Germanic peoples are natural conformists, uneasy without ubiquitous regulation and a gigantic State. Most of my students blindly believe what they read in Der Spiegel or the Süddeutsche Zeitung, and the phrase “mainstream media” or “corporate media” is, for the Hun, a glowing commendation. A few months ago i had a blonde MILF student, a lawyer in her 40s, and we chatted about the invasion. She said she had been very enthusiastic about welcoming the “refugees” in 2015, but her husband (ex-Bundeswehr) took one look at the pictures of military-age young men from Iraq and Africa and told her it would end badly for everyone. She refused to believe him, for a while.

When i taught her she’d come to accept that virtually all the invaders are economic migrants who hate Europe and will be unable to do any work here. She was a very nice woman, and so i was a bit startled when she launched into a rant against Turks – she said that when Erdogan won his constitutional referendum the Turks in Munich were driving up and down honking their horns, flying the Turkish flag and cheering. “If they want a dictator they should go back to Turkey,” she said, “They should not be in Germany.”

i was struck by her vehemence, and while of course i agree, and would go further and summarily deport all non-Europeans regardless of their behaviour, her anger was very much at odds with her pleasant, upper-middle-class demeanour and nature. i was also curious to note that she still thinks Angela Merkel is doing a great job and that the invasion isn’t Angie’s fault, it’s the fault of Eastern Europe for not taking six gorillion military-age Third World men to rape their women and transform their cities into Mogadishu.

When the Germans realise that their State doesn’t care about them one bit, that Merkel, the CDU, CSU, SPD, not to mention the Greens and die Linke, want to replace the white Europeans with Somalians and Iraqis; and when the Germans realise their media are corrupt and mendacious, i foresee many instances of such hard, abrupt anger, and then as i am sitting on my balcony drinking gin and smoking and reading Ernst Jünger the Hun will come to me, and say, Elberry, we need a glorious Führer to lead us to conquest against our enemies; and i will say, Okay but i need a gin allowance; and they will say, But you will be the Führer so you can just command gin to be brought to you; and i will say, What kind of gin?; and they will say, Whatever you like; and i will say, Interessant. Sehr interessant.

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