A reader asked if i’d make this blog into a book. i’d vaguely thought of collecting some of the posts – probably 10% or so – but never got round to it, as i’ve been slaving at Vocations and The Better Maker for the last 3 years in agony & anguish of my bowels, and general tedium & self-loathing. My hope is to self-publish Vocations this summer, TBM later this year, but then i hoped to publish both last year, and the year before, so who knows. If i can get one of these wretched projects out of the way, i might edit some of this blog into a book of some sort, though the very idea seems preposterous since the media are so different and i always liked the transience of blogging. However, i decided to conduct a poll. So (you may need to whitelist the blog to access this poll):


1. Am overloaded with studentry at present, and hope to prepare Vocations for self-publication this summer, so bloggings are necessarily scant & deplorable. i started the Horus Heresy series (inspired by the Golden One) and find them both extremely good & relevant to our present socio-political situation. i’m on book 5 now (Fulgrim) and want to write in detail about books 1 – 4 but also, as is my way, want to re-read them all and make notes, which i won’t do in the next 10 years since there are another gorillion books in the series and obviously i want to read them all and acquire all the available Warhammer 40k accessories and become a Space Marine and slay the xenos filth in the God Emperor’s name before even contemplating a response, so it may take a while, indeed will probably never happen. i have, at least, ordered my own Mechanicum tools so i can stamp all paperwork with one of two imprimantur:


depending on my mood & occasion.

2. The HH books are so far surprisingly Miltonic, gnostic. They are 100% genre, by which i mean the prose is good, the characterisation too, but if you don’t like grandeur, manliness, decapitations, genocide, Trump, mid-to-late 60s Dylan, Hart Crane, Helmuth James Graf von Moltke, Manhunter, Thomas Bernhard, elberry, dogs, tweed, tea, whisky, gin, you will simply pooh-pooh “trash” as you adjust your bowtie and sip your Evian; in which case, this:

The world-ship was accelerating away, gaining speed with every passing moment. The controls for the propulsion system captured by the Death Guard of the Second Company had been locked open by the adepts of the Mechanicum. Barbarus’s Sting kept a respectful distance, drifting after the bottle-world, framing its descent towards the sun. Great loops of crackling electromagnetic energy shimmered around the pearlescent cylinder as it cut into the sun’s invisible chromosphere, destroying the solar panels at the aft. They crisped and burned, folding in on themselves like insect wings touched by candle flames. The world-ship fell faster and faster, dipping into the raging superheated plasma of the photospheric layer. Hull metal peeled away in curls a kilometre long, revealing ribs of metal that melted and ran. Finally, the alien vessel sank through a glowing coronal prominence and disappeared forever into the stellar furnace.

“Gone,” murmured Brother Mokry, “ashes and dust, as are all the enemies of the Death Guard. A fitting end for such xenos hubris.” (The Flight of the Eisenstein, James Swallow)

will elicit merely a cultivated urban sneer, because you are a cunt. But on the other hand, the books are too strong for the delicate cosmopolitan:

“I seldom encounter others in this part of the archive. The subject matter is a little lurid for most of the serious scholars.”

Loken moved around the table and scanned the papers spread before Sindermann – tightly curled, unintelligible script, sepia woodcuts depicting snarling monsters and men swathed in flames. His eyes flicked to Sindermann, who chewed his bottom lip nervously at Loken’s scrutiny.

“I must confess to having taken a liking to the old texts,” explained Sindermann. “Like the Chronicles of Ursh I loaned you, it’s bold, bloody stuff. Naive and overly hyperbolic, but stirring nonetheless.”  (False Gods, Graham McNeill)

3. The books begin with the largely triumphant Astartes, superhuman soldiers of the God Emperor (“they had been born immortal only to die in war”). They are logical positivists, told that “the galaxy is too sterile for melodrama”:

But we have witnessed the cosmos now, my friends. We have passed amongst it. We have learned and understood the fabric of reality. We have seen the stars from behind, and found they have no clockwork, mechanisms, no golden chariots carrying them abroad. We have realised there is no need for god, or any gods, and by extension no use any longer for daemons or devils or spirits. (Horus Rising, Dan Abnett)

In the absence of an extra-material reality, conquest and glory are all, coloured by a curiously adolescent hero-worship/friendship:

He tried to picture the manner of his own death. Fabled, imaginary combats flashed through his mind. He imagined himself at the Emperor’s side, fighting some great, last stand against an unknown foe. Primarch Horus would be there, of course. He had to be. It wouldn’t be the same without him. Loken would battle, and die, and perhaps even Horus would die, to save the Emperor at the last.

Glory. Glory, like he’d never known. Such an hour would become so ingrained in the minds of men that it would be the cornerstone of all that came after. A great battle, upon which human culture would be based. (Horus Rising)

The Astartes – genetically-engineered soldiers; and their Primarch Übermensch leaders – are physically superior to all men, and yet in their way utterly human, baffled by their human emotions and their superhuman capabilities; so the Primarch Rogal Dorn to the mere Astartes Loken:

Dorn looked down at Loken. “You’re not used to the likes of me, Loken?” “No, lord.”

“I like that about you. Ezekyle and Tarik, men like them have been so long in the company of your lord, they think nothing of it. You, however, understand that a primarch is not like a man, or even an Astartes. I’m not talking about strength. I’m talking about the weight of responsibility.” “Yes, lord.”

Dorn sighed. “The Emperor has no like, Loken. There are no gods in this hollow universe to keep him company. So he made us, demigods, to stand beside him. I have never quite come to terms with my status. Does that surprise you? I see what I am capable of, and what is expected of me, and I shudder. The mere fact of me frightens me sometimes. Do you think your lord Horus ever feels that way?”

“I do not, lord,” Loken said. “Self-confidence is one of his keenest qualities.”  (Horus Rising)

4. It is, so far, surprisingly depressing as in true Biblical tradition pride goeth before a fall and the vessels (the Primarchs) are shattered, the very best becoming the very worst. i find something slightly painful about the plausible corruption of the good characters, as hitherto innocuous traits (e.g. the desire for perfection) become the instrument of their damnation. The determined atheism of the Astartes in some way renders them defenceless before very real demonic intrusion (much as the modern man is incapable of understanding the forces at work in his world).

The books are, as is often the way with my reading, highly topical: via Q i’ve been contemplating the corruption of e.g. the FBI, CIA, DoJ, Senate & Congress, as well of course as the British establishment (going back at least to the traitor paedophile Ted Heath, and most likely to Churchill). In the Horus books, the corruption is initially of “supernatural” origin but then spreads largely through vanity, pride, spite, with certain individuals brought into contact with the primal darkness through occult rituals: the Astartes legions each have a “Lodge”, as it were an order within the order; initially a brotherhood, like a drinking club, the Lodges become the vehicle for evil within the legions, as each soldier identifies primarily with his Lodge brethren, and at the higher levels the Lodges become wholly demonic.

i suspect something of the sort actually happened in the US and UK governments. Once the evil (real, supernatural evil) established a bridgehead into the worldly powers, the possessed created a mechanism to perpetuate their original “inspiration”. As with certain criminal organisations, where one can only join through committing a murder or rape – to ensure there is “dirt”, that one can never return to civilian life – those who have been running the UK & UK governments since at least the early 90s have their macabre rituals, to bind members to their cause. On one level it is mere practical expediency; on another, especially paedophilia opens an energy vortex (due to the spiritual sensitivity of children), imprinting literally demonic energies on the young, and reaching into the depths of the abuser.

5. It’s early days yet with the HH books. i’m wondering if any of the fallen characters can return to the correct path. My own feeling, in our world, is that almost no one is beyond redemption; indeed, those who seem fully incorporated into Evil can often be pried away, and a certain discomfort & unease distinguishes them, in the company of their controllers.

One function of Q-Anon – to signal to those in the Camp of Devils, that there is an out. Those who seem most uncomfortable, most awkward, are those least assimilated by the old evil. They may have committed hideous deeds, but their very discomfort suggests some humanity is intact, somewhere in their largely ruined souls.

Some more highlights from World of Tanks.

1. The maps have been updated; in some ways i prefer the old versions but at times i ended up obliterated as i admired the backgrounds, e.g. the purple heather

2. The art:

3. And a fellow player with a meritorious name

In case you couldn’t make it out:

World of Tanks: a neo-Nazi alt-Right dark disturbing vision Trump racist anti-semitic hate-filled propaganda patriotic Euro-centric, patriarchal rape culture!!!

1. A good comment (by Jack Amok) on a Vox Day blog post about the death of print media:

Something I realized a while back is that advertiser-supported media will always end up as shallow pablum. You can’t monetize depth of connection with advertisers, you can only monetize breadth. Advertisers care how many people like a show, not how much any of them like it. 

i think one future model for journalism (broadly defined): independent creators who offer content for free but receive donations. It’s true that most people won’t pay for something they can get for free, but if e.g. Stefan Molyneux’s channel has 776,000 subscribers and one in ten thousand donate a dollar a month, that’s 77 dollars/month. My guess is that it’s higher than 1/10000 and the average individual contribution is more than a dollar/month, that is, some people contribute a dollar but others a hundred.

In my own case, from my modest Patreon fund (thanks again to my faithful patrons) i send a few grubby coins to The Golden One, Styxhexenhammer666, Morgoth’s Review, and Millennial Woes. As far as i can judge, TGO and Styx aren’t broke, Morgoth has a job (albeit a shit one), but Woes seems to live a literally fugitive, uncertain existence huddled chainsmoking in the dark in his bathrobes, drinking Coke and listening for the police/Antifa at his door.

Of all the blogs/Youtube channels i follow, i chose to limit my munificence thus, partly because diverting my entire Patreon fund to other independent creators seems (in a sense) disrespectful to my patrons; and partly because i like money and like the idea that although what is left just goes into my UK credit card interest repayments, because money is fungible it frees up Euros that i can more wisely spend on e.g. a bottle of gin a month.

2. The old model seemed to run: people bought a newspaper or watched a particular news channel; they maybe had favourite writers/presenters but in general their loyalty was to a commercial body, e.g. The New York Times. i never had any interest in newspapers, because i found the prose workmanlike and there was often an offputting sense of insincerity, of an editor handing a journalist an order, e.g. “write something about how trade tariffs will be good for the melon farmers”. When i started reading Theodore Dalrymple in 2007, i didn’t then read City Journal or The Spectator; i merely read Dalrymple, wherever he published. The “brand” was not important to me; the human mind & character was why i spent probably hundreds of hours at work illicitly reading Dalrymple articles wherever i could find them.

i generally preferred Bryan Appleyard’s blog to his articles, though the latter were usually well worth reading, and sometimes re-reading; when i emailed him once to say how much i’d enjoyed one article, he replied that the editor had cut his jokes out, much as my review of Patrick Leigh Fermor’s The Broken Road was (slightly) edited by The Dabbler. In my case, it made almost no difference and i could immediately see why the Southron polishers cut it as they did, but i still preferred my original; and i imagine Appleyard’s articles were edited more severely than was my review.

3. In a sense, authority is returning to the individual (because of the internet). In 2007 i didn’t need to buy City Journal to read Dalrymple; i first came across the ‘Yard in The Sunday Times (my father’s paper of choice) in my early 20s, and after a few of his articles his name started to slowly impress itself upon my attention, and then in 2006 i was as usual terrifically bored at work and decided to Google him to see if his stuff was online, and thus i found his blog. i would never have bought The Sunday Times just to read one article, but with the internet i could find not merely his articles but his (to me) more interesting blog – the latter now sadly discontinued (it is clear that he has become a Norfolk Nationalist in his white Ford Bronco, and he has acquired firearms and grown a fascist moustache and designed his own uniform, but is keeping things quiet until the day Norfolk declares its independence).

The individual/patronage model can yield fantastical sums, e.g. Jordan Peterson now makes probably about a million Canadian dollars a year just from fan contributions. He has, despite his Kermit voice, a slightly Dostoevskian, ragged, intense charisma, and unlike Stefan Molyneux comes across as a pleasant enough human being. This patronage model is not as stable as having a salaried job in a newspaper but then if one considers Kevin Williamson i’m not sure how stable journalism ever was, as a career.

4. Uncertain, fluctuating income is not to everybody’s taste. However, i’ve lived in this manner since i began working in 2004 and it suits me fine (i would, however, prefer my income range to be significantly higher, so even on a poor month i could pay all my bills). My feeling is that most people require stability and don’t like to take chances: in the new model, probably a much greater proportion of content creators will have higher risk tolerance, or be independently wealthy like Vox Day or Taleb.

If the trend continues, the normies will still have commercial enterprises with a “party line”, offering a largely consistent narrative, but there will be a significantly longer tail of content creators; the latter will mostly be those unable to toe a party line, and so for all their individual bias they will be more authentic, more trustworthy, more intelligent & interesting than the 6 figure pundits. It is the difference between taking a fixed salary from e.g. Carlos Slim or Jeff Bezos, and being paid directly by an audience of fluctuating number. As a New York Times journalist you would lose your job if you observed that e.g. IQ is largely hereditary and since violent criminality is correlated with lower IQ, ethnic groups with lower IQ will be overrepresented in welfare dependency & crime statistics. As a Youtuber or blogger, you might lose some of your audience, but this would be at least partially compensated by new arrivals: in my own case, i’ve had about 20-30 readers for the last decade; understandably only a handful of old readers have stuck with me as i’ve shifted increasingly Right, but i’ve also acquired some new ones.

5. Any domesticated animal can be trained to a degree. Human beings, as the most domesticated of all animals, are enormously susceptible to symbolism, authority, explanations; indeed, they require a narrative to make sense of their lives (you could say, they require a domus for the mind as well as the body). As the official narrative increasingly diverges from reality, i dare say the unaffiliated single voice will acquire a greater audience. The question is, how bad do things have to get before people realise they’ve been lied to their entire lives?


1. Vox Day has decided to destroy Jordan Peterson. i’m mostly interested in VD’s revision of the Ashkenazi-IQ-115 figure, however i’m looking forward to the contemptuous ferocity to come. So far, he and his commenters have found many questionable statements from Peterson, and are accusing him of being insane and almost demonically possessed (because he draws on Jung, who by Christian standards is so). Not being a Christian, i don’t care and VD and his commenters would by the same token regard me as insane and demonically possessed, so my opinion would be of little value to anyone. My immediate thought: Peterson speaks & writes too much. i found his videos interesting and sometimes useful & profound, but he would be better served to write/speak less. He seems to have stepped into the role of public intellectual, who must expound on every topic.

Perhaps it’s a Canadian thing.

2. At McLingua today i went to make fascist tea and ran into Mooing Cow. i vaguely disliked her from the start but the other day Jemima told me Cow had cried at McLingua when the God Emperor won the 2016 election, and i thought, Oh, she’s one of those. As the kettle was boiling we chatted:

elberry: How are you?

Mooing Cow: Oh, tired! I’m sooooo like busy?

elberry: In a good or bad way, or both?

Mooing Cow: Like, both? I like have to totally prepare for my wedding and it’s like just too much?

i asked where she was getting married and she said she & her fiance aren’t going to a church because, like, we’re totally atheist? 

elberry: Is your uh boyfriend’s family religious?

Mooing Cow: Like, they’re like Catholic but when we’re like visiting and we have to go to church I just think, OMG?

elberry: Uh-huh.

Mooing Cow: So like, we are totally okay with not going to any church. I am like totally an atheist. I mean, I like, I just, like, I mean, I’m, well like, I just, I’m so, so totally, like, I’m just –

elberry: You’re modern. You don’t believe in anything. You’re an atheist. Religion is silly, for people like you.

A slight pause as i removed my teabag, staring at her, and realised i’d said this in my Bane voice.

Mooing Cow: Oh yeah, like I’m totally modern! I don’t want to have my wedding in a church or like anything like that?

She then boasted about how disrespectful she is when she is forced to be in a church etc. etc. i listened patiently because i am an extremely nice person.

3. In each culture, at any single point in time, certain values (or lack thereof) are held as the standard, as beyond question; and others as cool. In a better age, this was cool:

But today it is this:

An easy way to determine the standard & cool: people will openly declare they are such & such, without fear of reprisals in the former case; with a delightful little frisson of daring in the latter. In each age, to be opposed to the cool and the standard is to be regarded as some version of Satan, which in today’s world is of course Hitler/Nazis. Because the normies think only an abhorrent human being would not accept the standard account, they often assume that anyone who seems more or less okay could not possibly be opposed to the standard account. And because i am rather a dashing elberry, i find that my repeated fascist utterances are simply ignored, as if being brown and pleasant enough i must be a Leftist atheist paedophile, when in fact i am an elberry of the first order.

4. Peterson’s treatment of the Flood narrative: when a culture ignores primal realities/God, they are destroyed. In my youth i thought that God punishes people when they refuse to grovel before his beard. In my Sturmstache i think this is unnecessary.

That is, what could be seen as punishment is merely the consequence of an exclusively materialist worldview. Our world can only make sense within a frame; that frame must lie outside the world, even if we inevitably conceive of it in worldly terms. Do away with that frame and things acquire an initially frenetic energy, quickly exhausted, and then the collapse –

And freely men confess that this world’s spent, 

When in the planets and the firmament 

They seek so many new; they see that this 

Is crumbled out again to his atomies. 

‘Tis all in pieces, all coherence gone, 

All just supply, and all relation; 

Prince, subject, father, son, are things forgot, 

For every man alone thinks he hath got 

To be a phoenix, and that then can be 

None of that kind, of which he is, but he. 


1. i spontaneously invited a Czech student, Milena, to join me for a drink or ten with Toddball and his Leftie wife and fascist kids in a beer garden near Casa Ball. Milena is i guess early 30s, has a young daughter. i was surprised to find she has read Kafka and Thomas Bernhard and knew of Jean Raspail’s Camp of the Saints; i was a little puzzled as she is an attractive big-titted young woman and typically nobody remotely normal reads anything. However, she said that her crazed mother didn’t allow her to leave the house except for school, and so she was exceedingly sheltered till she fled to Germany. It put me in mind of Thomas Bernhard’s stories of isolation, e.g. Amras, often brothers & sisters immured in some remote Austrian castle or farmhouse (usually ending in suicide).

2. Toddball and co left after a couple of hours and i stayed and chatted with Milena. Like many foreigners she is far more to the Right than the average Hun, and agreed that the present political situation (Muslims) would most likely end in genocide. As we spoke darkly in the evening dark on a beer garden bench, what sounded like bombs detonated a few hundred meters away; i supposed fireworks but the sound was somehow different; however there were no percussive effects or sound of smashing buildings and shrieking Hun so i presumed it was just some German jollity. We were both made nervous and it was getting late so i said i had to return to my half-broken sofa bed to dream of Ragnarok, and as we walked to the u-bahn we saw the fireworks, not sure if they were a hitherto unheard kind or it was to do with the urban environment but they sounded more like light artillery and i said, – Imagine, just 70 years ago there really were bombs falling here.

3. As i took the s-bahn home i thought that perhaps only those who have e.g. spent twenty years in isolation, immured with a mad person, would read Kafka or Bernhard. It’s a little painful for me to accept, as i always liked reading and i’ve loved almost every Bernhard, and even managed Auslöschung in German (though it took a good year) – i naturally think that what changed my life, what i deeply enjoy & indeed need, would be good for anyone; but it seems that literature is, in a sense, only relevant for those with unusually odd childhoods, and then only for those of a thinking disposition.

4. i was thinking that perhaps books are only for the insane and broken (and sexy women), then came across an interview with General Mattis on his library.

Some choice excerpts:

i. I’d like to tell you mine was designed with purpose in mind. In fact, it was to read everything interesting in the world and ignore the boring, which was about the only challenge. 

In my early 20s i had a similar ambition, though i assumed that even boring books could be good, or at least useful; having grown up reading Fantasy books, when i started to read Literature i didn’t see it in terms of interesting/boring, but rather good/less good.

Still today, i find most of my favourite juvenile Fantasy books interesting, and they mostly contain nuggets of value – generally, isolated intriguing characters or situations. The Fantasy books i would find boring today are the ones i struggled through aged 15, and only re-read once or twice.

ii. When I started getting rid of books it was heartbreaking because I had to get rid of thousands because I was tired of hauling them all around. I knew I wouldn’t read them again. I kept my geology books, some of my military books, a lot of my history, especially of the West, the American West.

i’ve been giving away some of my books, to the McLingua library (since almost all my colleagues are functional illiterates, this means i may as well be throwing the books away). i’ve given away my two William Maxwell books, as i enjoyed but won’t re-read them; bilingual German/English short story collections i read a few years ago; and others which i think are good but as with the Maxwell, i don’t like them enough to keep in my 23 square meter flat. In an old friend’s garage in England there are another 800 or so of my books, which were already pared down from a +1000 library in 2009. When i fantasize, it is not about sex or wealth but of having a Thomas Bernhard-style farmhouse where i can safely house all my books, and acquire more by God, and have dobermanns and some manner of whiskyarium, and occasionally order the execution of my Enemies (who are many).

The books i’ve hung onto – whether here in Munich or in my friend’s garage – are mostly poetry, philosophy, essays, fiction in good editions; a lot are late 19th C, early 20th, hardbacks i found in a 2nd-hand bookstore for 3 pounds. There’s no way i would give these away to Oxfam; not because i think i could sell them elsewhere, but because i know charity shops routinely bin anything that won’t quickly sell.

iii. Your personal library may be seven books you deeply value or seven thousand, and it may be beautifully organized and alphabetized or simply arranged by the color of the book’s cover.

With age, i feel i need less & less. The books i love – Dante’s Commedia, Shakespeare’s plays, the poems of TS Eliot, Yeats, Wallace Stevens, Alan Furst’s Dark Star, The Lord of the Rings, Ondaatje’s The English Patient, McCarthy’s Blood Meridian, Sir Gawain & the Green Knight, Paradise Lost, i’ve read so many times that i feel they are part of me now; it would be a great shame not to be able to read them again, but actually i think i could do without the old books now – i read & re-read them so obsessively, often copying lengthy passages out by hand, that i remember much in detail and at least from the novels wouldn’t extract much, save a pleasure dulled by familiarity (poetry has an infolded, incalculable quality so can seem very different even after years of re-reading). After watching The English Patient film last year, i wondered if i would be able to re-read the book or if Ondaatje’s multiculti anti-nationalist worldview would now enrage me beyond limit.

5. In one sense, it’s sad to lose a book i once loved. On the other hand, i just discovered the Warhammer 40k Horus books

via The Golden One, and doubt i would have relished them so intensely a decade ago, when i was yet a wee scamp, a clean-shaven civic nationalist in tweed. So, books come & books go, and i have replaced Ondaatje’s poetic prose & deracinated world with space marines, orbital bombardment, decapitations, and of course the God Emperor.

Not sure how long this will last but since i read various Twitter pages i decided to actually use the account i created some time ago, and have begun to Tweet. i’m probably less sensitive to abuse and idiocy now than i was a decade ago, but still i doubt i’ll continue with it long. Till the moment i delete the whole thing and just create an anonymous account to follow others, here i am.

Toddball invited me for drinks on Friday, indeed he invited everyone at McLingua & everyone he knows in Munich; and since almost all my colleagues are deracinated, Californian hippy types i was surrounded by globalist libtards. Some highlights.

1. Usual s-bahn delays, i text Toddball that i will be late, no reply. Then i get an email: he has dropped his phone in the toilet. That’s the second phone he’s destroyed in 6 months.

i arrive to find him staggering about in American Clothes as is his habit:

He says, “yee-er you fucking Paki faggot Nazi you, you fuckin know what day it is, Nazi nigga?”

“April 20th.”

“Yeee-er,” he leers, rubbing his enormous beer belly and licking his lips. “You know what that shit means, you fucking Nazi nigga?”

“It’s a special day,” i say, reminiscing fondly, smiling to myself. “A special man was born.”

“Yeeee-eeer…heh heh heh, 4-20 nigga! Whoo! Yeee-er!”

“Indeed. It’s Hitler’s birthday,” i agree.

“Whaddafuck nigga?”

“Hitler. Adolf Hitler. The Führer -”

“Whaddafuck nigga? It’s fucking 4-20 nigga!!!”

“Yes. It’s Hitler’s birthday.”

“4-20 nigga!!!”

“Yes, Hitler.”

“Blaze it nigga!”

“Yes, it’s Hitler’s birthday.”

After prolonged discussion of this kind, i became aware that April 20th is a day in which drug users take drugs, and Toddball became aware that many years ago a man called Adolf Hitler ruled a country called Germany and was born on 20 April.

He makes me a big sandwich and slaps it down, “eat that shit, you fucking Nazi!” It is a great sandwich. Toddball leers: “That shit be the best fucking sandwich of your fucking life, nukkah!” Me: “Easily.”

2. We go to an Irish pub. There is a bartender from Kurpville, and a Millwall/Fulham game on the screen. Mercifully, most of Toddball’s invitees don’t turn up, just Doug the Greaser and Mary and her wall-eyed Irish husband (who apparently beats her now they’re married).

2.1 Mary’s husband starts incoherently on about Brexit, about all the focken idiots who voted for it and now it’s focken everythin up for everyone. i am slightly drunk so remark, – i voted for it, as did my entire family. My father has a Chemistry PhD and a medical degree. i have two de –

A volley of Irish gibberish, basically imagine Father Ted condensed to 4 seconds of sure and fock and fock and fock, and then he claims people like me were all lied to by the Government.

i shrug, having regained my equanimity. Never argue with normalfags. He rambles incoherently in Irish about the economy and i smile sourly to myself, thinking, – Another dead soul.

He is a traitor to his own country (Ireland); the Government and the entire elite are on his side, but he has to think of himself as a brave rebel; i simply nod and murmur vaguely. He’s amiable enough though apparently he stole drugs from Toddball on a previous drug-party in Casa Toddball, but then there is no honour among thieves.

3. A brief foray into US politics. Doug the Greaser says his sister is crazy; she believes Illuminati rule the world and Donald Trump is fighting them. Much laughter.

Ho ho ho ho ho.

i smile and coldly say, “she’s correct.”

Ho ho ho.

i tell Doug, “tell your sister to check out Q”; and he, woefully: “oh she knows all that shit, she’s always on about Q.”

i am surprised. Since everyone i know in real life is some version of Leftist/Centrist normalfag degenerate, my significant mental/spiritual experience is entirely online. Q for me has been akin to a private vision of reality. None of my colleagues could possibly understand – they are either too stupid or too dense; i sent a link to the Sour Elf and she replied sourly (in German) “that is too chaotic for me.” These people cannot be bothered to read, let alone cogitate; they want one authoritative news source to tell them what to think.

i discuss Q briefly. Doug believes it’s all crazy, a LARP; i say that Q often posts keywords e.g. “tip top” and Trump then says or tweets it: “at the least, Trump is reading Q”. Doug gives me a shrewd look and suggests slyly: “or Fox News is telling Trump what to say.”

i am baffled. Fox News? Then i think, Perhaps in Libtard land this is the new narrative: drop the Russian collusion scam, now Trump is controlled by Fox News.

4. We chat and to my surprise both Toddball and Doug (“low information voters”) have heard of Jordan Peterson, via meathead stoner Joe Rogan. A year or more ago i got to know the Sour Elf when she mentioned “a Canadian professor” and i guessed “Jordan Peterson”. At that point only the initiated would even know the name. He’s now on Bill Maher.

i like Peterson and find him both useful & interesting. He is a total cuck on racial questions but then what can you expect; he is as the Communists would say, a gatekeeper. The Leftists are in one sense correct: anyone to the right of a hardcore Communist is a potential gatekeeper because truth is inherently attractive and so any glimmers of reality will draw those not utterly unredeemable and dysfunctional. Even a Communist who says that free speech might be occasionally okay is a gatekeeper to the Alt-Right. Within the Matrix, any element which points however slightly in the right direction is a subversive, freedom-bearing agent.

5. Two 40s English guys appear to play darts. Toddball wants to fight them. One of them is a Millwall fan; i suggest we cede the board (we’d been playing for an hour already). They have their own personal darts and play with cool professionalism. i am shit at darts, Toddball is quite good, these guys are so good even Toddball says “fuck nigga, I’m glad I didn’t challenge these fuckers to a game.” They have the unshowy competence i think of as an English virtue – now disappearing as to be English is basically to be Pakistani or Somalian or a shrieking Guardian reader; but this is how it was once, perhaps will be once more:

After each amazing sequence of shots they just nod with mild satisfaction and let the other play. i chat with them for a bit – one is from Leeds, the other has a friend who lives in a village outside Huddersfield – and i think these are the types now being destroyed, the proles, the white race. But there is a hope –

Continuation of my notes on the Magdeburg Trip and Moustache Conference:

1. Only been to one conference before, a Rune Guild do in 2008 where i lunched with the Dandy Highwayman and chatted with the pleasant Ian Read.

to whom i mentioned the notorious Man in Black and Read chortled: “Yeah, MiB, he doesn’t look human really, I asked him, I said, oi MiB, you got any Sami blood, ‘cos you look like a space alien or something, you don’t look human.”

2008’s conference was a surprisingly life-changing affair. As if to mark the caesura in my life, someone jumped in front of my train home and i got back to Manchester at 0300, after hours sitting and sighing and groaning and cursing those self-indulgent enough to end their misery in such a fashion. i took a taxi home, enraged at the expense but also sensing this was part of my transition, from the old life to the new – to be inconvenienced, a voluntary death, my routines disrupted, the world halted & reconfigured. Afterwards, a door in my mind opened and it is fair to say i came to Germany because of the subsequent mental experiences, and had the strength to endure my own desolation thereby.

2. Not that i expect anything spiritually comparable in 2018, though violence is indeed possible. i leave the hotel on Saturday morning, Juniper looking mildly worried & highly Germanic as i head bravely out to my sordid demise under Antifa boots. i contemplated taking a brace of rabid dobermann, then decided it wasn’t worth the trouble in the event of arrest so settled on my Murder Pen (a Chinese-built tactical pen, replacement for my beloved Uzi), a belt/whip, sturdy leather bag to block knife thrusts, and a Millwall Brick.

i walk. And walk. Out of Magdeburg’s centre and down a main road. i am now approaching the destination. My plan is to overshoot, look for Commie surveillance, and then double back. The surveillance is far from discreet: a gaggle of odd, nerdish-looking folk with huge cameras, photographing everyone from the other side of the road. Who are these unfortunates? i wonder, pitying their genetic inferiority. Do they have Kallmann Syndrome? Are they vegans? Oh, it’s Antifa.

Are they going to attack? Will they sally forth to – uh, no, just photography. Oh. What would Pavel Sudoplatov think of such frail beings? Hefting my uselessly heavy bag of weaponry i enter the venue for today’s Institut für Staatspolitik event.

3. i register, head in, and immediately see Jared Taylor.

Rather astounded, i think: Elberry my son, you are in the presence of the Hwhite Race, comport yourself accordingly.

i look around. i am the only non-white present. 249 whites and one Elberry, by god. A few possibly-hostile stares but then Germans tend to look at everyone with hostility and i’m from Huddersfield so what can you expect. i look for somewhere to sit, don’t want to be at the front or at the back, find two empty seats and ask a chap (in German) “can I sit here?”, he assents so i sit between him and a white-haired chap in black (who i later see is wearing a Catholic or Lutheran clerical collar and i feel a bit abashed, having accidentally brandished my Thor’s Hammer at him), opposite two women. i get my little notebook and pencil out to take notes.

Martin Lichtmesz is first. To my surprise i can follow most of his German speech; following Trump’s Syria strike, and lacking faith in the God Emperor beloved by all, ML talks extemporaneously on the matter. As he talks, one of the women opposite finds her girly pen doesn’t work so i whip out the Murder Pen and present it for her use; thereafter she makes copious notes with what is basically a weapon with an ink cartridge, her girly pen failing her in her hour of need because she is not a fascist.

She looks vaguely familiar, reminds me a little of the fluffy Wiccans i met in 2008. She actually resembles the primary real-life-model for Polly Church in my hideous Bildungsroman The Better Maker; but, i think, i know her from somewhere else. Is she Hitler’s daughter?

Lichtmesz’s speech is good. i remember little but these are the notes i made, inspired by his words:

3.1 Trump: a blow can be struck. Hope. The Enemy want us to despair, Denethor-style, to collapse on our sofas cursing not merely the usual suspects but also anyone who does more than sit on a sofa cursing the usual suspects. i think, another function of Q-Anon: the so-called Great Awakening, to give us hope: that the good guys are acting, that we are not utterly helpless, not utterly abandoned. The elites want us to despair, to slump on our sofas drinking ourselves to death and cursing anyone who tries to resist as a shill or insufficiently despairing; as Denethor curses Gandalf and wants to burn his own son to death. For the Denethors, the only solution is to drink oneself to death on the sofa and hate anyone who tries to do anything at all for the West, to accuse them of being good-for-nothings, deluded, to hate them more than the real Enemy.

In Bruno Bettelhem’s The Informed Heart, those who mentally surrender become “Muslims”, passive and fatalistic, shambling about the concentration camp and inevitably perishing. In more ways than one, the elites want us to become “Muslim.”

3.2 Lichtmesz says, how debased and revolting would you have to be, to read the Asterix comics and to side with the Romans?

4. Millennial Woes’ speech. The Sour Elf advised me of this conference, herself unable to attend. i am not normally a joiner but couldn’t resist the prospect of a bit of Woes. As ever, he is eloquent, human, charismatic, disheveled. He talks of the Alt-Right, its history, its present. It is, in some ways “an attitude”. He contrasts it to what i call “sad-faced men in tweed”, the Scrutons and Dalrymples, men in their late-middle age lamenting decline without hope. “The arrogance of the young was missing” Woes says. He emphasises the importance of a subculture, of aesthetics: fashwave etc.

When a movement has real force, it feeds into & draws from a subculture of jokes, fashion, music, art. It is, in his word “unashamed”.

The modern man: “starved of a connection to eternity”. i think of my ex-student Heinrich, an intelligent energetic man with absolutely no religious or spiritual component, a man who spends his free time drinking heavily and chasing women half his age, a man who is desperately unhappy but doesn’t know why. When the material is all, it is both frenetic & unsatisfying (Kierkegaard: the demonic is like a spinning top, in constant dizzying movement that goes nowhere).

“Power is not inert” – the allegedly minority groups jockeying for power will never rest at a certain point of influence, they will always crave more power, dominance, hegemony.

The absolute horror the Left feel for the Alt-Right (as opposed to their mere disdain for the paleocons): “They know we are bringing them the plague.”

5. A typically great Woes speech, which i guess he will post on his channel soonish. Then the lunch break, i see Woes chatting with someone at the front so go to bring him the Tributes from Munich: items i “sourced”, as i teach or have taught at the companies which produce them, and so got these Woes-related goodies for free. i abruptly interrupt his chat, brandishing my Tributes, note he is shorter than i expected (i thought he would be almost 7 foot tall but in fact he is about 5′ 9 – 10″ like Hitler), his blue eyes, the look of intelligence and force and undefended awareness (i get the feeling, he does not put mental fences around his thoughts); i pull my tributes out and he is unguardedly pleased but also, i sense, a bit overwhelmed by the new people, by his new prominence, perhaps a little disconcerted at a Sturmstachioed Anglo-Indian suddenly appearing in an Alt-Right conference. i babble inanely like a teenager before a rock star; and then realise i rather rudely interrupted his chat; i pass on greetings from the Sour Elf and The Great Order, and depart before security can drag me away; later i chortle, imagining myself babbling more & more insanely & inanely as his eyes widen with amazement, me finally falling to the ground and clutching his feet and wailing: “i’m your biggest fan!” as he recoils in horror & dread.

Years from now i will boast of this great moment – actually, to my surprise, Woes even shook my hand, so i can now say: “i met Millennial Woes. He…touched me. He gave me my fascism” and non-believers will jeer “you knew Millennial Woes?” and i will snap: “i never said i knew him. i said he touched me!”

5. Lunch, then Roger Devlin. Notes inspired by Devlin:

5.1 He actually says naturgemäs: i’ve never heard anyone except Thomas Bernhard use this excellent word, and am naturally delighted.

5.2 Without limits, nothing can exist. Existence is limitation. Chaos is the penultimate stage in the descent into utter non-being.

6. Jared Taylor. He says hwhite several times. Fokcen awesome. Re: George Casey claiming that the US Army’s victory in Iraq was owing to their diversity: “It’s only hwhite people who are capable of this level of profound stupidity.”

And, which i recall got him a round of applause: “Europe must stay European, forever.”

7. Manuel Ochsenreiter discusses Trump. Ochsenreiter is very anti-American, which is fair enough. For “globalism” could one substitute “Americanisation”? He makes a good point, that a one-legged lesbian dwarf POTUS who starts no foreign wars would be better for Europe than a Politically Incorrect warmonger. Naturally, i have faith in the God Emperor; i am reasonably sure that Trump’s missile strike is a token gesture, as it were to say “we can still project force”; and it could be it merely struck an ISIS stronghold or chemical-weapon-factory.

8. Throughout the Moustache Conference, i wonder why the woman using my Murder Pen looks familiar. She seems in her 30s, short dark hair. Is it merely that she resembles the main model for Polly Church in my novel? She writes with her left hand, as does the woman to her left, as do i, as does Millennial Woes. Statistically improbable. Then – people bring her a book and ask her to sign it with my Murder Pen. Oho, i think, and say “is this your book?” and we fall to talking. Ah, yes, i have seen her before: she is Caroline Sommerfeld, i have seen her on Youtube; indeed, her book i saw (i think) on the Sour Elf’s shelves when we watched the Woes/Golden One stream. She asks how i heard about the conference and i say “the Sour Elf” (whom she knows), and i say i really just came to see Millennial Woes, she says “Martin and I did a stream for Milleniyule and the lighting was very dark so Martin and I are sitting on a bed together in the dark and it looks like some evil dark Right-wing conspiracy.”

She then asks if i’m more AfD or Identitäre Bewegung, i have almost no idea what she’s talking about so say: “i’m just quite racist, to be honest.”

She strikes me as a very nice, decent person – she seems utterly lacking in my type of baleful apocalyptic will-to-destruction. Lichtmesz at some point sits opposite her and we chat briefly, and i feel, “this cove is a fierce type.” Later, i hear he smokes pipes – a significant fact.

i chat with the woman to Sommerfeld’s left, Sophie Liebnitz. She presents me with a book of hers – tote weiße männer lieben and we talk a bit about academia. Everyone is surprisingly friendly and i think, Damn, why did i bring all my weapons when i don’t need to use them on anyone?

i reclaim my Murder Pen from Sommerfeld and head back to the hotel to meet Juniper, who has spent the day walking about Magdeburg being healthy and tolerant and eating soup.

8. Sunday we walk around Magdeburg and find some little nooks of interest:

On Sunday evening we take our separate trains home. She wishes me a good journey. i glumly remind her that returning from the Rune Guild conference i was delayed by 5 hours.

At Bamberg a suicide delays the train an hour.

Arrive in Munich at midnight; the s-bahns to my distant semi-rural/fascist suburb are disrupted by hours (construction), the display signs are all totally wrong so i waste 40 minutes standing on a train platform waiting in vain, because i have not yet learnt to distrust everybody; the station is infested with Sand Peoples of all stripes, no doubt plotting a kebab-related atrocity so i take a taxi home and arrive well after 0100, mildly aggrieved but of course not overly surprised. i drink some whisky and stay awake till 0300, then sleep 6 hours and go to teach my moustachioed blue-collar engineers, and one of them invites me to tour the factory and lets me keep my bright yellow Bob the Builder helmet as a trophy, as a mark of my New Life.

i shall, naturgemäs, wear it for my next conference.

And so i went to Magdeburg for a Moustache Conference. My notes:

1. Friday 13th. Train from Munich to Halle then Magdeburg. i read (Lawrence James: The Rise & Fall of the British Empire, Dan Abnett: Horus Rising, Max Frisch: Homo Faber, Christopher Caldwell: Reflections on the Revolution in Europe), and this article by Ugo Bardi.

After Halle some of the houses are almost English in style and materials, a first for me in Germany; in Bavaria they are typically wooden farmhouses, or concrete blocks with plaster finish, neither really to my taste.

Two seats ahead an oldish chap with a resonant voice is talking to another passenger, i catch “Kreisau” and think of Von Moltke, whose letters i’ve been reading for a few months, then he says “Kreisauer Kreis” and i wonder if i heard aright, then he says “Von Moltke”. It crosses my mind, Perhaps they are also going to the Moustache Conference.

2. My hotel: the Maritim. There were slightly cheaper hotels on offer but they all had far lower reviews so Maritim it is. i am disgruntled to find no kettle or iron (an odd omission for a 4-star hotel), however the rooms are nice enough. i go to pick up Juniper from the train station an hour later. She exclaims, disapprovingly, “Mensch! How much did you pay for this? I would never come to a hotel like this! I would find a very cute cheap little Pension where you can talk to the other guests and there is a cute little Oma who makes veggie soup every day, not this kind of place! This is a place for these stupid men in suits who make a lot of money and drive big expensive cars!”

In the evening, the lift is slightly mystical.

Nautical theme: at night, Juniper is reading some woman’s book in her bed and i gaze at the open window, see her reflection gently shifting from side to side and for a moment i think her bed is swinging as our ship crests a wave, then realise it is the window itself, moving in the breeze.

3. The ‘stache conference is Saturday so we have time to explore the city. i had heard bad things: crime, ugly architecture etc; and on first glance these are confirmed: compared to Munich the women are mostly plain, there are many awful modern slab buildings, and the men look primitive, pig-eyed and scowling – in the first evening i trade cold stares with three young (white) guys who look about to glass me for, i suppose, being in Magdeburg. Despite 7 years in peaceful Munich i immediately revert to my Huddersfield mode, that world where only violence can afford satisfaction and everyone is a likely enemy, every object a potential weapon, every street and every bar a crime scene waiting to happen.

On the plus side, not many Sand Peoples.

Almost no crows. Just lots of pigeons, some sparrows in quieter areas. When i hear a crow call, i look up and wonder, What kind of city is this, to have so few of your kind?

Almost no cops.

Few trees and green areas, but those it has are in some way greener than i’ve seen before: a vivid, almost pulsing green. The trees are often covered in a velvetty, rich lichen or moss. It’s the closest thing i’ve seen to what Stephen Donaldson calls earthpower in his Thomas Covenant books – the sense of a semi-sentient force in the natural world.

The city is generally very clean. The buildings – even the ugly ones – look well-maintained, and it is festooned with often rather grim sculptures, i suspect paid for by the so-called “solidarity tax” West Germany has been paying for the last three decades.

A Dantean cauldron:

Fascist penguins:

We sight abhorrent artefacts from afar. Juniper: “What is this? This looks very horrible!” Me: “It’s probably a Holocaust reminder, don’t forget how bad you white people are, if you don’t want to be raped by Abdul then you’re a Nazi etc.” Juniper: “Or it could be something nice, oder?”

We approach and once again i am proven correct:

The courts are pleasingly grim of signage:

4. It is eerily quiet. “But I ask myself, where is the centre?” Juniper exclaims, looking vexed and highly German. We wander around but can only find largely empty streets, largely empty squares (some massive). It seems that Magdeburg has no centre. i reflect, does a city need a centre? – can it be a city without a centre? Or is it just an assemblage of disconnected elements? Juniper say she finds it confusing and disorienting; i agree: “A city needs a centre. A society needs a centre, a coherent master identity, a central race and purpose.” It needs the Sturmstache.

The modern world has, at best, sham centres. When a city or society has a centre, all the quarters are united in an organic whole. Modern folk, looking at e.g. the Middle Ages, think the rich hated the poor and vice versa, but it was more of a natural hierarchy, with each level to some degree reliant on the others (though of course hatred is a human constant).

The modern ideal is an airport: no centre, no identity, merely a sprawl of overpriced shops and waiting lounges, with security cameras everywhere.

5. There are many nice buildings in Magdburg; but apart from the riverbank there seem no nice areas, no nice places. Everything is isolated, disintegrated. There are old stone churches and pre-war remnants right next to skyscrapers, as if to remind you: everything is meaningless, there is no order, there is no centre.

It is an incoherent city with much of worth, and much to see. i especially enjoyed the Hundertwasser house, which looks like something from a fairy tale, a little incongruous amidst mostly hideous modern slabs:

Juniper and i go to a cafe in the Hundertwasser house and i eat one of the best cakes of my life:

With this view above me:

6. In the evening i thirst for cocktails so we go to ONE Cocktailbar but then i get hungry and decide to just eat a big-ass baguette and drink wine and talk about Hitler. Wine arrives. Baguette does not. After ten minutes an unGermanically friendly German waiter (probably mid-20s) apologises cheerfully, saying it will take a while. i assure him it’s fine. Five minutes later he presents me with a free quiche, as an apology for the late baguette. i am taken aback by one of the first examples of real customer service in Germany, in my lifetime, and thank him profusely.

It is the finest quiche i’ve ever eaten.

Then, fifteen minutes later, the big-ass baguette arrives. Juniper eyes me disapprovingly: “Are you sure you want to eat that horrible big sandwich now, after your nice quiche? Wouldn’t it be better to save it for your brekkie tomorrow?”

“No, i want to eat it now,” i grunt like a caveman, and devour it with enormous pleasure, her radiant disapproval actually enhancing the experience.

i finish my wine, reflecting on the bar and the friendliness of the waiter, and my free quiche. i feel enormously content here, and well-disposed to the waiter – his affable, unguarded good cheer has gladdened me, and i feel he is an uncomplicatedly good man.

The bar looks like a young man’s hipster bar, with cool music (and smoke – if i’d realised you could smoke i would have brought my pipe just to irritate Juniper all the more), and so i guess that most people here would turn on me if they knew why i am in Magdeburg, if they knew that i am, indeed, a lovely fascist. i think of this video by Millennial Woes:


Speaking of whom, i shall continue posting about Magdeburg in a second part, in which i encounter Antifa at close quarters, actually get to use my Murder Pen tactical pen, and brandish a Thor’s Hammer at a Roman Catholic priest. To be continued…


wordpress hit counter