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1. i’m planning to visit my Alt-Lite colleague the Sour Elf tomorrow, to watch/listen to Milleniyule with Woes & The Golden One for optimal glory. i had the idea of going as Woes: growing my tramp beard, putting on a few kilos of fried Mars Bar fat, and wearing a bathrobe and drinking Coke and chain-smoking; she being blonde could attend the Temple of Iron to more closely resemble The Golden One,

however that may be too much to expect so we will probably just sit on her sofa and i will drink (being a sour Germand, she is abstinent) while she talks earnestly about tolerance and democracy and other highly abhorrent concepts.

2. Yesterday i bumped into an Irish colleague, let’s call her Mary since all Irish women are called Mary, she is short like a gnome and low energy, perpetually sighing and grumbling, a bad teacher and IRA sympathiser. She and her belligerently incoherent Irish husband visited Toddball for that American feast day in November and, in Toddball’s words, “they fucking stole everything, they brought tupperware boxes with them and all the leftovers, which I planned to give my kids, my fucking kids, the next day, ended up in those fucking Irish tupperware boxes.” i inquired, had the Irish brought anything to the American feast, and: “they brought potatoes. No man, don’t fucking laugh: potato fucking salad and some fucking potato tiramisu.”

So anyway i was in McLingua, and Mary was telling me about how her entire family are in the IRA, then she said how glad she was Roy Moore lost Alabama and how Trump had made America into the Third Reich, and she was meanwhile spitefully eating a 7 Euro salad and told me she had specifically requested a salad with separate dressing, and behold the salad arrived and it was drowned in dressing so she complained and the server duly made her another salad and gave the original salad to another customer for free. In her quaint Irish accent: “I said, Hey, why did you give him the fucking salad? Why don’t I get it for free? I should get it for free, not this fucking guy!”

i left but later wished i’d asked, Would it have been better if the server had thrown the original salad in the trash, so no one got anything for free?

i dare say it would have been better, for her.

3. On Wednesday i bumped into a quite pretty Satanist girl in the teacher room, 19 and never been baptized, teaches German and dyes her hair blue & purple. i first got talking to her when i noted a Leviathan/Satanic Cross on her jacket and asked, – Is that a Satanic cross?

We meet quite rarely; i have thought about asking her for an absinthe outside of work but am too lazy & fat & old so content myself with occasional chats when our paths cross at McLingua. On Wednesday she told me how she sometimes fantasizes about killing people when she’s walking through Munich. i’ve never thought about killing random people but then i’ve never been a Satanist or dyed my hair.

i recently came across a /pol thread, “are normies just NPCs?” Briefly, PCs are player characters, meaning in the game world a real human being is controlling their actions; NPC means non-player character, a character controlled by the computer, by a script. Some highlights of the thread:

 

i mentioned this thread to Satanist Girl and she vehemently agreed; i said that everyone has a script but perhaps normies are just much less flexible, much more terrified of altering their opinions; she said that normies aren’t even aware they have a script; i said that if you are aware of your script you can edit it, you can perceive your own character and at least try to change yourself.

People come to seem NPC when they become too predictable, for example if, over several years, every single communication features the word “Jew” or “Zionist” or “Israel” one starts to feel adrift in Baldur’s Gate, interacting over & over again with a computer script.

4. i got home and was watching an occult channel on Youtube, where the presenter spoke of our scripted reality, especially in media & politics and said one of the benignly startling things about the God Emperor is his tendency to go wildly off script, to misspell, to attack the mainstream script, to confuse & alarm normies.

On one level there are more or less visible forces are work – nations, ethnic groups, religions, ideologies. Beyond this, there is a scripted versus an unscripted reality. Our ubiquitous media has promoted the extent of the former to an unprecedented degree. Bearing an alternative script, however crudely, repetitively, & tediously, at least requires a degree of courage & obstinacy. The mainstream script – Drumpf is Hitler, globalism good, Muslims wonderful, Christianity bad, white race guilty – has tremendous force; and through the media it has become akin to a virus. One requires a degree of stubborn recalcitrance and even frowardness to reject the dominant script.

On a metaphysical level beyond politics, the structure of our conscious reality cannot be scripted: within the terms of human reality, human devisings cannot long exercise total determination, any more than a child can teach itself to talk. For the last generation or so we have inhabited a largely scripted reality, in which people talk like characters from Friends and The Big Bang Theory, mindlessly repeat what they hear on corporate media, and in general walk around market squares saying things like “howdy stranger, interested in a quest?” and “honest gold for honest work” and “an adventurer, eh?”

i look forward to increasing deviations from the “script”; the elites are in general all fully scripted and so aren’t really capable of engaging with a PC like Trump, a fact he exploits in his seeming craziness. It’s not even a question here of evil vs good: it’s the NPCs vs the PCs, the scripted vs the unscripted.

5. i feel it would be a mistake for the Alt-Right to become overly organised; it should remain largely decentralized, utterly unscripted – for one does not need a script to speak honestly. Replacing an utterly malign with a mostly benign script is not enough; and one can have group loyalty without mindlessly repeating the approved propaganda (even if said propaganda happens to be true).

At the moment there is a bit of a to-do in the Alt-Right with e.g. Varg (who is very much a party of one, or rather of himself and his wife & kids) denouncing the whole movement as a bunch of degenerates and Jews and childless women. My own feeling is that the very “diversity” of both Alt-Right & Alt-Lite is part of its power: on a social level, it’s ridiculous to claim that e.g. Milo Y (a gay Jew with a black boyfriend) is a Nazi; and then you have Alt-Righters like Millennial Woes (bisexual, had an Indian girlfriend); when Contrapoints (presumably a homosexual transvestite and i think some sort of Marxist) made this video attacking The Golden One:

the blonde Swedish beast responded with this masterpiece:

It is hard to fit such men into a script. Even Varg seems to me just, well, Varg. They deviate from the script because it does not apply, because they are human beings who i think reject not merely the mainstream script, but the idea of living within a script as a NPC. And that has its own power, regardless of politics, regardless even of morality – one could say it is beyond good and evil.

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1. i’ve been doing a lot of writing recently, on computer; typos abound, sometimes letter substitutions, sometimes totally different words, e.g. “want” instead of “watch”.

This never happens with handwriting, nor so frequently when i write on one of my manual typewriters, perhaps because there is no delete key, perhaps because it feels (and is) more directly physical.

How differently we experience our own thought when we make so many errors, when error is so easily corrected.

2. People often suppose that we have the thought, fully-formed, and then express it with language. Instead, a kind of presence builds, vaguely, and we begin to speak or write; and the utterance creates the thought. It is not a matter of midwifing the thought, but rather of creating it with language.

3. i get most of my “news” from Youtube now: for a fuller sense of the person who creates the thought. i always found corporate media tedious – as with school, it felt wooden and mechanical. There was very little humanity to it – and by humanity i mean anything authentic (for good or ill). My father tried to force me to read the dreary Times every day and i leafed through it hoping for a good war or cannibal outbreak, but alas it was always tedious grey-haired London faggots writing about the junior undersecretary for trade’s latest tax incentive. Fuck that shit, thought i, i shall play Dune 2 and read David Gemmell.

The authentic will win out over time, which is one reason Social Justice Warriors try to co-opt and pervert non-ideological works such as Ghostbusters or Lord of the Flies or Thor or Star Trek/Wars: they want to destroy the original as much as possible, to put it in the “memory hole” and overwrite it with their Politically Correct Feminist, egalitarian Marxshit. It’s a sign of our degenerate times that Star Trek for example was always a progressive, globalist show – but by today’s standards it is appallingly misogynistic and Capitalist Imperialist and racist and sexist and homophobic and xenophobic and Islamophobic and Patriarchicacalifragilisticexpialidocioustistic and so must be overwritten.

The Left wish to consign the past to the memory hole because it’s easier to say “we never had real Communism” if people aren’t aware that every time it’s been attempted the results, for some odd reason, are always horrific; and because the original Star Trek (and TNG) while frequently silly & leftist, have a levity & nuance & zany weirdness

not to be found in today’s shrieking Left – and thus must be overwritten. Kirk would shit on these modern menstruals with his whacky antics and huge phallus, therefore he must be forgotten.

4. Youtube allows something like the spontaneity and authenticity of one-to-one conversation. If, for example, i read that blacks & whites don’t integrate in America, that may or may not be true; however, when Toddball told me he had black friends as a child in Chicago but as soon as they entered “middle school” (or something similarly American) his black friends automatically self-segregated and would only hang out with other negroes, i can judge this to be probably true – i have his facial expressions, his body language, his voice, and my knowledge of him and my read of his character.

5. Bryan Appleyard, if i recall correctly, wrote (in Understanding the Present) that the modern worldview is of the universe without a human viewer, a universe in which human beings are merely objects, data. The so-called scientific objectivity has leaked out into our wider culture, so newspapers have their house style and one of my more intelligent university tutors had a paper rejected as being “not academic style” – the aim is to remove the individual, the particular perspective, and attain a denatured objectivity.

i reach for as full a context as possible, to understand just who is speaking. When i discovered blogs, in 2005, i was stirred more by the authentic strange character of these strange people writing whatever nonsense or sense: Bryan Appleyard, KurpThe Grumpy Old Bookman, Ensio Kataja, Longsword, Brit, Richard MadeleySteven Moore, than by their particular content. Now most of the above have died of drink i find myself more interested in Youtube. Here is an old video by Millennial Woes who seems to me an evidently decent human being, and to have not mere facility with language, but a meditative, unscripted ease & fluency; and he values the individual and the group:

6. While language clearly can and is often used to deceive or for malign ends, the fuller the context the harder this is. The corporate media makes for a flat, ahistorical perspective; i would say, to use Nassim Taleb’s terms, one should have skin in the game, be involved and both perceive and present as full and unmitigated a context as possible.

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

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

But he didn’t.

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

It is the American Way.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1. 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.

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. and the rest were blinded.

i haven’t paid any attention to an election before in my life, probably not in my existence. i gave up faith in politicians when Nu Labour won in 97 and showed themselves a thousand times worse than the corrupt, grey Tories.

When i began reading “literature” aged 20, i was only interested in fiction, poetry, philosophy – the inner structure of the human mind; and felt history, politics, facts, were secondary at best. The bare bones & logic of things were enough, more than enough. In my job, i have come to find interest in “business”, and i became interested in history a few years ago, when i began reading WW2 era histories for my next novel. i now see the entirety of human endeavour as fractal, and so politics and war reflect on, are reflected by, philosophy and poetry.

2. Ten years ago i felt disconsolately out of step with this world, born a generation too late. i am now anticipating a wave of nationalist, conservative movements in Europe, and a profound metapolitical shift. i suppose the last would have been in 1989, though i was too young to notice; before that, it was 1945 – at that time, the metaphysical nature of our world changed, and for those who grew up before the First World War, it was like waking up on a different planet. It is difficult to convey just how unsettling it was, as if you had gone through a portal to an alternate reality: because the world of your making no longer existed. Entire cities were gone, as was the culture of Wilhelmine Germany and Imperial Austria.

Even long-term memory became difficult – this could be why, as WG Sebald wrote, many survivors of the Allies’ bombing raids, e .g. in Dresden, seemed to remember nothing when interviewed after the war. The unsettling sense of being in a different reality could be partly evaded by heading into the most backward rural areas, but even so, it was strange to remember the life before 1945 as if, perhaps, it had never happened, or was a distant faded photograph, in someone else’s album. Unsurprising, then, that some more or less accepted death, having outlived their world.

3. i see this happening now with certain Americans. Toddball, for example, a Bernie bro who gets his political opinions from overheard conversations, Facebook comment threads, youtube comedy clips, etc. He’s not exactly stupid, just ignorant, uneducated, uninterested in reading or sustained thought, so all his opinions are highly superficial and derived, second-hand, from mainstream media; e.g. he thought North Carolina was blocking the so-called bathroom bill because “them dumb-ass rednecks think trannies gonna molest their children”; whereas they were justifiably worried that perverts & paedos – who far outnumber trannies – would “identify” as women in order to go into the girls’ facilities).

He was naturally confident Hillary would win, while i was widely regarded as nuts for predicting a Trump victory. On the Glorious Morning (Wednesday 9 Nov) he smashed the McLingua kettle in the grotty Arbeitsamt (Job Centre) building, and threw it over my head at the wall of the teacher room, this being, i suppose, his idea of political commentary. i’m the only teacher who uses the kettle, the others all drinking coffee or beer at work.

He then wrote on FB: “Anyone who thinks what happened today is a good thing, UNFRIEND ME NOW” – so i did.

i found this quite amusing, and typically Left-wing. Perhaps it’s different in America, but all my life i have fought what Tolkien calls the long defeat, and so learnt to shift my attention to the metapolitical, hoping to preserve something of this culture before it is utterly destroyed. i haven’t been made angry by politics and the actions of the powers that be in a long time – not even hearing that the Iraqi who raped a 10-year-old boy was freed (or rather, had his conviction overturned) because, the good judges surmise, he probably didn’t know the boy wasn’t giving consent to a sexual assault. i merely thought, – Well, that’s what i would expect.

Toddball is a petty criminal, a thief, drug dealer, who naturally wants a Government who will tax anyone richer than him, and make sure he can get lots of free things, while working for cash in hand which he doesn’t declare. His father, a retired teacher, apparently taught English Literature at school on texts he couldn’t be bothered reading, and made sure he was popular by giving everyone high grades – a strategy Toddball has followed in McLingua. That is his background: a low-level corruption, crime, and a generous public sector salary. Naturally, he regards Donald Trump as the Antichrist.

4. For Toddball, as for all of those in mainstream media, the ongoing metapolitical shift is terrifying and strange; it has begun on a metaphysical level, and so will not be denied even by the usual vote rigging and corruption and violence. His anger is of course normal for the Left; he and a New York Left-wing FB friend of mine were both gloating about violence at a Trump rally a few months ago, where George Soros’ paid minions turned up to shut down a political gathering; they meanwhile accused Trump of being a fascist who will shut down free speech and freedom of assembly. Most amusing.

In part it is a reality shock, for they have long been on the winning side – more globalisation, more homogeneity, destruction of native cultures, more crime, and – the ultimate goal of the Left – the annihilation of Western civilisation (the general goal of both Bush and Obama). They are unaccustomed to losing, and take it badly.

The worse the crimes of the Left, the high treason of Angela Merkel, the greater the swing to the Right. We will see on 4 December, when Austria have their little elections, and the Italians. i will make sure to have a lot of gin to hand, to celebrate or console myself – the former, i think.

5. i have given much thought to Trump. i have consulted the gods (who predicted Clinton would burn herself in rage, and Trump would hold the reins) on his nature. i see him as a dreamer, odd though it may sound. We will have to see, but for now i think the crazed reaction of the mainstream media

and the political elite, not to mention George Soros, tell you what you need – he is genuinely feared & hated by the powers that be; and with cause. i would tentatively say he is a patriot because he is an egomaniac – he is American, hence sees America as a great country, and hence is unhappy to see it despised over the world, its blue collar jobs gone to China, its elite casting aspersions and curses on the people who made the country that made Donald Trump.

i think he is the figure who will begin the next metapolitical shift. i think he has the intelligence, the cunning, the strength of will and egotism, and i think he can’t be bought off, and he has been planning this a long time.

For those who say he’s crazy and stupid, look at his interviews from the 1970s/80s – a totally different persona. Look at his victory speech – as soon as he won, he dropped the madman ruse, because he no longer needed it to drive a hammer edge through the media. He is a master manipulator of image. And, i suspect, there is no real dirt on him – if there was, i am sure the Clintons would have dug it up by now. His vices are ordinary.

i don’t think he is a “good” man, but good men tend to live quiet retiring lives despairing of the world, walking around their flats in torn Adidas trousers, drinking beer and moaning. i think he is a surprisingly ordinary man, in terms of his interests, his pleasures; he enjoys & needs attention, and applause; and he doesn’t just want to get elected – he wants to be remembered as one of the great presidents, for a long time to come.

6. As for the future, i have long foreseen an awakening of the West, of tradition. But, as the progressives say, you can’t turn the clock back. i think there will be, simultaneous with the Ascension of the God Emperor, a new interest in European tradition, in the nation, in the identity of a people. If nothing else, the refugees military age Muslim men from Syria Afghanistan, Pakistan, North Africa, Somalia, etc., will force the question.

i disagree with the Liberal Right who say we just need to return to secular democracy with free speech, and if we can talk about everything openly everything will be fine. The problem is we had this, and it failed – it failed because the Left don’t care about free speech and democracy, they see it as a convenient weakness to exploit, to achieve their totalitarian utopia where the white race and Western civilisation have been exterminated.

i disagree with the radical traditionalists who want a return to the Middle Ages – and for me, “the Middle Ages” would be in many ways preferable to the present. i disagree because you can, of course, reintroduce strains of culture from the past, but only in a symbiosis with the present.

Unless guided by the gods, this new metapolitical world will be, i guess, bloody and appalling, even if it eventually saves Europe from turning into Somalia. But i feel sure the gods are at work here. On the night of Brexit, i assumed we would lose, that the elites would rig the vote, but i had strangely blissful dreams all night (usually i just dream about trying to get to work on time, or being homeless), strong with the present of Wotan – a presence i haven’t so keenly felt since 2008; and i woke in a mood of rare joy, thinking, “oh well, now i’ll open the internet and find we lost” – and found we had won. And though i knew the elites would try to block this, i also knew they would fail.

When the metaphysical change really extends out into the culture of the West, there will be many strange transformations; many who just change their mind, suddenly valuing European traditions and their long heritage. For those fearing this year is 1929 again, with the collapse of the old order, and the birth of new extremism – well, yes and no; no because there are new energies not merely in human culture but in the world, including the animals.

It’s a wider game now, being played for strange stakes. i understand almost nothing of this, except that i observe certain people alive now, some after a long time, and i feel that the bishops and knights and rooks are being brought into position.

1. After 5 years in Munich, i find i have almost nothing in common with my colleagues. Those i befriended in 2011/2, like Toddball, now seem juvenile and thuggish to me, feckless and criminal and untrustworthy; which makes me wonder if i was also so, in 2011, or if i merely found them amusing then and have now lost my taste for the criminal American element.

i bumped into a young British English teacher by chance as he was explaining cricket in the teacher room to a German teacher; we struck up a conversation and then met for a drink. His name is Gamgee and he teaches Physics at an international school, also does McLingua to supplement his income. He admitted “I just don’t like Americans, there’s always something wrong with them” – an sentiment i have come to share, though it is partly generational, for among my colleagues the older Americans, or the gays, tend to be okay, funny, interesting; but those my age or below are:

i) Female: bland, nondescript, impervious to irony, ambitious, grinning, Left-wing, aggressive;

ii) Male: clad in gangster rap t-shirts, boast of their criminality (drug dealing, theft, assault), shady, duplicitous, sneering, superficial, full of “yo homey, whassup my man?”, uneducated, wilfully ignorant, Left-wing, don’t even try to learn German.

2. i wouldn’t ordinarily have much contact with the Americans, but that when i teach the Arbeitsamt classes we have a designated derelict building in a shithole ghetto, and a teacher room, and since i don’t want to spend my break talking to my students i usually retreat to the so-called teacher room. There, the Americans dominate. California Jesus is one of the main Arbeitsamt teachers, because he can’t do anything else – most company groups stare in amazement at this baseball-hat-wearing “yo whassup homey” surfer dude bro, and then ask for a real teacher, but Arbeitsamt are just happy to be entertained.

Every single altercation i’ve had with colleagues has been in this one teacher room, in the Arbeitsamt ghetto. Typically, i’m talking to a colleague like Toddball or one of the okay Americans (i.e. over 50) and then a Female or California Jesus, eavesdropping, rebukes me, e.g.:

Toddball: El-bow, what you bin doin, nigga?

Elberry: Nothing much. Had this cool student at X, he –

California Jesus: Oh man! What you always be talking sheeit about them companies, man, no one wants to hear that punk ass shit!

or

Older American: Yeah, man, so like fucking last week I had this fucking hot student, early 30s, it’s a fucking group but only she fucking turned up, and she was fucking talking about her fucking boyfriend, heh heh heh, she was fucking undoing her top fucking button cos it was so fucking hot in those meeting rooms, heh heh heh.

Elberry: Oh yeah? Was the door closed?

California Jesus [sitting on his usual seat on the windowsill]: What the fuck, “was the door closed”, what kind of creepy-ass shit is that, man? Fuck, nigga!

This is a man who has slept with several of his students, i think some post-dating his girlfriend getting pregnant with their first child (second on the way), but an interesting hostility is developing between us, i think because he is a pure ignoramus, proud even of his ignorance, and although i never talk about anything fancy (books, politics, history, etc.) with my colleagues, they sense that i’m not of their kind, and they despise me therefore. i try to say as little as possible – even laughing at jokes has earned me rebukes, weird though it sounds. i gather that if i am to be allowed in the teacher room i must sit silently in the corner and not talk until talked to, and then only with Yessir and Nossir and Sorry sir.

i encountered a similar hostility in office work, where left-school-at-14 types would snarl “think you’re better than us?” if i so much as yawned. i never talked about my background but, alas, my face and voice and speech betray my ancestry and place. In our modern egalitarian days, this will excite hostility; i am reminded of a scene from Alan Furst’s The Polish Officer, where De Milja, a Polish aristocrat and intelligent officer, has to survive in the world of NKVD and Gestapo:

A uniformed NKVD guard looked through his documents, reading with a slow index finger on each word, then handed them back silently. He got out of Rovno on a dawn train to Brzesc, near the east bank of the river that formed the dividing line between German and Russian occupation forces. On this train, two men in overcoats; one of them stared at him, and foolishly, he stared back. Then realised what he’d done and looked away. At the very last instant. He could see from the posture of the man – his age, his build – that he was somebody, likely civilian NKVD, and was about to make a point of it.

De Milja’s heart hammered in his chest, he felt prickly sweat break out under his arms, he did not even dare a glance to see if the man had accepted his ‘surrender’: breaking off eye contact. Could not put a hand on the VIS, just tried to shrink down into the seat without a single sign of bravado. He was strong. And unafraid. And the way he carried himself, people knew that, and it would bury him in a hurry if he didn’t learn some other way to be in public.

The two men got off the train one station before Brzesc. From the platform, his enemy squinted at him through the window. De Milja stared at his shoes, a proud man subdued. The Russian didn’t buy it; with a certain casual violence he turned to get back on the train and, de Milja was sure, haul him off. But his partner stopped him and grabbed the shoulder of his coat, pulling him, with a joke and a laugh, along the platform – they had more important things to do. From the corner of his eye, de Milja could see the Russian as he glanced back one last time. He was red in the face. The man, de Milja knew beyond a doubt, had intended to kill him.

i have once or twice snapped back at the Americans but there’s no point – nothing to gain, they would only the more viciously despise me, and since i am now in the Arbeitsamt centre twice a week, it’s better to just keep my mouth shut and at best voice platitudes about the weather. Out of curiosity, i mentally logged the topics California Jesus deems acceptable, and they are as follows:

i) Beer

ii) Oktoberfest

iii) Going to beer gardens

iv) Going to the Isar

v) Basketball

vi) Baseball

vii) Things he’s stolen

viii) Bitches he’s fucked

ix) Horror and action films

This assertive mediocrity is typical of modernity – an anti-egalitarian, anti-intellectual impulse, the resentment of the slime and sludge as the first amphibians crawl onto land and taste the air.

3. Last week i taught an editor of some big-ass German newspaper, was surprised to find him (i think) younger than me, but then i’m now 40 and so most successful people are young enough to be my children, and regard me with pity. He was nice and intelligent, though oddly (given his section) ignorant of the Alt-Right, so i educated him on Hillary’s denunciation. An amusing moment:

Elberry: i’m from a shithole called Huddersfield, about 30 miles from Manchester.

Journalist: Do you know Bradford?

Elberry: Unfortunately, yes, i went to school there for 8 years. [i then named the school].

Journalist: I taught German there!

Elberry: Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat?

Turns out he was in Bradford, doing some kind of course at the so-called university, and worked as a teaching assistant at my school, 15 or so years ago. We even know some of the same teachers, which is kind of bizarre.

4. i was brooding on the parallels between my Elberry life and the early 20th C life to which i am closest (there are apparently two others, more or less overlapping, which i don’t remember and feel little for, even as i can see the similarities). He was, and became increasingly, a traditionalist. As Elberry, i perceive that my Elberry life was designed to insulate me as much as possible from modernity, and allow an umbilical cord to Western tradition – i remained inert until i was 20, bored rigid by school, and largely ignored/despised by my family; thus, when i began to read age 20, i was almost a tabula rasa, and then i awoke.

My school was an old grammar, from the 16th C i think, a huge stone building full of deranged paedophiles and sadists (the teachers); and Hitler Youth rugger buggers, Muslims, rapists, and sadists (the boys). i was always stupid and bottom of my class, a reaction to the boredom and structure and also my own physical exhaustion & malnutrition, as i had to spend about 4 – 5 hours a day getting there & back by public transport, and usually subsisted on a chocolate bar for lunch, no breakfast, because my mother told me we were too poor to afford lunch tickets (at the same time, my father had 6 cars); i guess i was eating about 600-800 calories a day for most of my teenage years. i quite enjoyed some of the classes till we got to age 13 and they began on the GCSE curriculum – at that point, every class became tedious, the teachers uninterested, each lesson geared towards the exams. i was also bottom of my class at A-Level, my brain only waking up a few months before the final exams – fortuitously, since it meant i suddenly went from getting Cs and Ds, to straight As, and even that “awakening” was just a faint stirring, enough to master the trivia of school.

Although, in the 80s, corporal punishment was illegal, many of the magnificent old chaps still ruled by violent means, and brooked no insubordination. i was pushed around and got a clipped ear once or twice, nothing serious, and the best thing was the atmosphere – in many ways, it was the school of To Serve Them All My Days. There was a subterranean lineage and tradition, so even if i learnt virtually nothing, i was at least not contaminated by modernity.

After escaping, i first studied a science degree at a grim Northern shithole, but dropped out and pursued my real interest – English Lit, at Durham. It’s only now that i appreciate how protected Durham was against the barbarism of the Left, of Feminism and egalitarianism, for actually no one took Literary Theory seriously, even those who taught it. i lived for 2 years in a 18th C building just under the millenia-old Cathedral, had (some) tutors who read virtually nothing later than TS Eliot, and could read and speak Latin as they would English. i really had no idea how degenerate and debased the modern world had become, and when i left i was essentially a late 19th Century man; and hence, unemployable.

5. Naturally, i have continued in this vein. In the eyes of the world, a rampant failure; in the eyes of my colleagues, a freak and book-reading, like, fucking punk-ass Brit, man. All well and good. There is however a secret lineage, surviving across lives because it has no earthly descent and reckoning: it is without fruit, but nonetheless propagates, and flourishes. Those in this descent will most likely not attend school, or learn nothing there – Varg Vikernes says it best:

1. i’ve survived summer, the most perilous time of year for an elberry. Spring and autumn are always the seasons of change for me, after the hard stasis of summer & winter. At the moment i feel like the last rat on a sinking ship, as the whole of Western Europe will collapse into Balkans-style civil war in the next ten years or so; and a surprising number of my colleagues are quitting:

1.1 The Cop: he was knocked off his bike, and then got a complaint from a hotel where he’d taught a McLingua crash course for a large engineering company. His version runs that everything was disorganised, no one knew where equipment was, and in true Cop fashion he let them know this was unacceptable. i dare say he got in people’s faces, and i can’t imagine him going beyond the limits of standard venomous German grumbling, but he has an aura of violence which amplifies matters somewhat; in this, similar to Morgana who could say things which, on paper, would sound merely aggressive and nasty, but with her evil goblin/Borderline look, talking with her was somewhat akin to being stuffed in a bag with a dozen rabid raccoons, and then being thrown into the sea, and eaten by a shark.

The Cop had always nurtured the illusion that, because he can be a good teacher (i.e. when students cooperate fully), and is reliable, McLingua valued and respected him. After his bike accident none of the management or sales team even asked if he was okay (he had “bone bruising” and could hardly walk, but continued working for McLingua). And then they chided him for getting in the face of the incompetent hotel staff. He had, apparently, garnered a reputation as a Nazi, amusing given he is a Zionist and i’m far more to the so-called Right, but then i don’t look the part.

The Cop has a rich wife and doesn’t need money, so quit. It’s quite a shock, strange as it sounds, for he was a decade-long-staple of the McLingua teachers, one of the few who persisted while young pampered millennials came & went. It’s like David Bowie dying all over again.

1.2 Big Ben – an American, think i wrote about him earlier but can’t find the post (perhaps deleted). He’s probably mid-30s, well over 6 foot, fat, alcoholic, from some rich man town outside Detroit, left his family when he was a teen and worked construction, went to university and studied History, speaks now a faintly-American English accent, vaguely 19th Century to my ears; he said he spent some time in his late teens locked in a room watching Anthony Hopkins films, and absorbed the voice. A deeply strange individual, he speaks excellent German, doesn’t read but speaks literate English (unlike most of my colleagues), is a fan of shows like True Detective and The Thick of It. i always found him fascinating to talk to, but at the same time couldn’t trust or get a sense for whoever he really was – perhaps much as the lesser man has always responded to me, which suggests Big Ben is actually the Übermensch, by god.

A month ago he told me he had to give up alcohol after a hernia, and also feels generally weakened by “German meat” – he said he visited his family in America and “after eating American chicken, I felt power in my body again”. He does, at times, radiate a slightly serial killer vibe. And now he will move back to America, to eat meat, after a decade of McLingua.

Curiously, he is a very good teacher; between classes he groans lugubriously about the job – much the same problems i have – but his students universally admired him, and i walked in on one of his classes and was faced with a totally different persona. As he said, when last we met, – I never applied myself to this job. I couldn’t accept this as a career, so I never learnt anything about how to teach languages, or teach anything. This was always temporary. But then it went on too long to be temporary.

– What are you going to do back in America? i asked.

– Anything except this. I have to get my car fixed up, then I want to drive around. There are wastelands, like Mad Max territory but without the cannibals and warlords, there’s just nothing there. I’d like to drive around these places, eating meat and feeling strong again. Germany took my balls away. I have to regrow them.

1.3 Hillary – a hipster from, of all places, Texas, probably early 30s, utterly deracinated (as California Jesus noted “she don’t be speaking or dressing like no American”), a weird hybrid accent, weird lesbian haircut, lived a few years in Helsinki without learning any Finnish (“only the whores go to Helsinki”), has worked mostly in IT & Marketing. She worked at McLingua for about two months before getting a real job in Marketing. Our first conversation as follows, about a week after Brexit:

Hillary: Oh yeah, you’re, like, a Brit, that’s fantastic. So will Brexit affect you here?

elberry: Probably, but i voted for it so i can hardly complain.

Hillary: What? Like, you voted in Brexit, or you voted to leave?

elberry: i voted to Leave, by god.

Hillary: Oh. And you regret it now?

elberry: What? No, i’m absolutely delighted.

After this, all our interactions were marked by a sneering hostility on her part, and shrugs on mine. Like many women she is a natural scold and know-it-all who enjoys policing others, witness the following conversation in the teacher room:

elberry: That Bundeswehr class was pretty cool.

Toddball: A lot of beards.

elberry: But real beards, not hipster beards.

Toddball: Yeah, them niggaz weren’t hipsters.

elberry: You should only be allowed a beard if you’ve been trained to kill. It makes me sick to see hipsters with beards, when they’re just vegan Che Guevara-loving losers who couldn’t kill a squirrel with an Uzi pen.

Hillary [listening the whole time with a tense female look]: Whoah! There’s a lot of stereotyping going on here!

elberry: Yeah, there is. [elberry leaves without another word]

i was puzzled by her “do you regret it” question, then realised she’d been reading BBC and Guardian articles claiming that people voted to Leave as if on a whim and then immediately regretted it, before anything had actually happened (these articles came out within a few days, and so far nothing at all has happened politically). She probably also believes the stories that Britain is suddenly suffering a Brexit-earthquake-driven tsunami of racist massacres, and the only solution is to reverse the referendum and restrict future voting rights to Guardian-reading millennials who live in London, because they know best.

Nasty piece of work, really.

1.4 Two other teachers are leaving soon, both nice, neither remarkable or blogworthy. They will probably die in a ditch.

2. i’ve now been in Germany just over 7 years. Astonishing – that i speak still virtually no German (by my standards), can’t read anything serious without intense effort. i thought about relocating to Eastern Europe, as Germany will soonish collapse into civil war. i can predict that one of the safest places on the planet will be Slovakia, for the simple reason that the Viking lives there, and while he often says things like “God has plans for me, He does not want me gallivanting about having fun” he also has an odd habit of always living in the safest places on the planet, which are also the only places someone like him could survive. If he ever leaves Slovakia, you can be sure the Major Shit is going to go down there within the next few years.

But i feel rooted here, especially in Bavaria. There seems, as best i can discern, a kind of presence here, protecting the natural human culture – it could be that the culture has always been a bit different to “Germany”, so it resists in some sense the crass tide of modernity. i note many Leftist assholes come here for work, and live in quiet villages and towns, and then decry the CSU for trying to protect the state from millions of 3rd World rapists. The Leftists appreciate the safety and order, and don’t understand these exist because of the Catholicism, the conservatism, the traditions they hate and would destroy. Sorry, pal, but that’s the way it is – if you want to live in a cool hipster city where the police don’t do anything, and you’re surrounded by sand peoples, that’s fine, but you’ve also got to accept you’re going to get raped on average four times a week, and your dog will be stolen and made into a kebab, and your daughter will eat it, before she gets raped by a 42-year-old Algerian who will escape prison because he says he’s a 12-year-old Syrian called Mohammed, all praise the prophet.

3. i have wanted to leave this job for the last 4 years but there’s nothing else i could do, save cleaning and bar work, neither of which appeal. And an office job would drive me crazy now. So i try to make the best of it; i enjoy most of my classes, it is merely that i feel how little of my mind and knowledge is engaged – so today, i managed to talk about metallurgy with a steel Sales Engineer, and as is my wont talked about WW2 in terms of raw material supplies, and then with some regret turned back to the shitty McLingua books, with a heartfelt, – Well, i suppose we’d better get started on this chapter.

As Europe – thanks to people like Hillary – is now inexorably plunging into the great Race War, this all seems rather besides the point, but i take a certain pleasure in the fact that the Sales Engineer was a very genteel North African in his 50s, and the other student a kind of dim but sweet Turkish woman, and i hope that they survive the coming slaughter, that if the Titanic is going down, there are enough lifeboats for the good eggs. Not likely, of course, but if anything human survives the coming War i’ll count that a victory.

1. i’m mainly teaching Arbeitsamt these days, as the whole of Bavaria (including my usual company groups) go to Lake Garda from June to September, to wish they could be Italian, and to complain about the Italians. Only the unemployed are compelled, by iron bonds of bureaucracy; only they abide in wretched durance, under my rule. There’s a big-titted blonde MILF in one class, Karen by name, nice, but desperate for cock and attention. She apparently told a mid-60s black American colleague of mine, Maya, that the whole group were worried that i was depressed and might kill myself.

me: eh? What? Is she going to complain to McLingua about that?

Maya: Well, uhh, no she was just, she said she was just, uhh, worried about you. She said you are seriously depressed and uhh stuff like that.

me: i’m actually quite cheerful.

Maya: Well I think she just wants to cause trouble and talk, and she probably, uhh, doesn’t understand your sense of humour. I told her that’s just elberry.

i realised that my life – teaching, hours of unpaid travel, and then home to drink and read and watch TV shows like True Detective, would strike most Germands as depressing and even horrific. Karen has repeatedly said that i need to marry a rich German woman, and seemed taken aback by my Burzum-esque laughter.

Odd, that a life of reading and gin could seem marks of depression, when in fact i generally enjoy my existence, as long as i don’t expect “recognition” for my writings, or money, or success, or any sense of being useful. But then Germands are a peculiar lot, generally quite bright (compared to the average Muslim) but almost totally ignorant of any culture outside the pap of German TV, dubbed American blockbusters, and – for the few who read – crime thrillers and sappy romances. On the rare occasions i have a student who enjoys reading poetry or real novels, it’s almost always a Russian or East European. For Germands, as for the English, reading is mere entertainment; you would never read a novel twice, because the whole point is to kill time, and the prose, the characterisation, the technical proficiency, are irrelevant – and so, like the Viking – who watched Boorman’s classic Excalibur and then grumbled into his beard, – It was impossible to enjoy because I already knew the story – the Germands are incapable of enjoying Rilke or Thomas Mann or Kafka.

2. It does sometimes strike me odd, that i am 40 and considerably more in debt than when i came to the Reich 7 years ago (almost to this day), and have failed to really learn any German since my job forbids any tongue save English, and after teaching i have little heart for social interactions with anyone, and those few tend to be base colleagues.

And yet i have my pleasures.

i’ve started drinking more gin, though perhaps when the colder weather comes i will take again to whisky. It’s a fairly cheap and uncomplicated pleasure – i will die of liver failure but given the whole of Western Europe will be under Sharia law in the next generation, this is a trivial consideration. My two childered colleagues, California Jesus and Toddball, seem to hate their lives, and spend all their free time placating their angry German wives and their angry German children. A bottle of decent gin, by contrast, is a simple and fortifying pleasure, and by the grace of God cheaper than a bottle of decent whisky, thus winning the war on both fronts.

3. Reading remains a great pleasure in these pre-Shariac days (don’t expect much in the way of libraries after the Muslims become more than 25% of the population). Here are some excerpts, of the last few weeks:

3.1 Evelyn Waugh’s Sword of Honour trilogy. Very English, leading on to Larkin – depressed, satirical, mostly hopeless. i’ve yet to finish the third but so far almost all the characters are somewhere between selfish trivial fools and monstrous psychopaths. i wonder, at times, what life was like Evelyn Waugh if he really saw his fellow men so; i expect he drank rather a lot of gin. Here’s a splendid account of the father of the protagonist (Guy Crouchback):

He was an innocent, affable old man who had somehow preserved his good humour – much more than that, a mysterious and tranquil joy – throughout a life which to all outward observation had been overloaded with misfortune. He had like many another been born in full sunlight and lived to see night fall. England was full of such Jobs who had been disappointed in their prospects. Mr Crouchback had lost his home. Partly in his father’s hands, partly in his own, without extravagance or speculation, his inheritance had melted away. He had rather early lost his beloved wife and been left to a long widowhood. He had an ancient name which was now little regarded and threatened with extinction. Only God and Guy knew the massive and singular quality of Mr Crouchback’s family pride. He kept it to himself. That passion, which is often so thorny a growth, bore nothing save roses for Mr Crouchback. He was quite without class consciousness because he saw the whole intricate social structure of his country divided neatly into two unequal and unmistakable parts. On one side stood the Crouchbacks and certain inconspicuous, anciently allied families; on the other side stood the rest of mankind, Box-Bender, the butcher, the Duke of Omnium (whose onetime wealth derived from monastic spoils), Lloyd George, Neville Chamberlain – all of a piece together. Mr Crouchback acknowledged no monarch since James II. It was not an entirely sane conspectus but it engendered in his gentle breast two rare qualities, tolerance and humility. For nothing much, he assumed, could reasonably be expected from the commonality; it was remarkable how well some of them did behave on occasions; while, for himself, any virtue he had came from afar without his deserving, and every small fault was grossly culpable in a man of his tradition.

Akin to Proust’s Baron de Charlus, but finer and without Proust’s ubiquitous perversions. There is also an excellent Victorian slaughterer, Ben Ritchie-Hook, who somehow survives the 19th C to slay Germans, which all self-respecting Leftists would encourage:

“I’ve had fun in Africa too,” said Ritchie-Hook. “After one of my periodical disagreements with the powers that be, I got seconded to the African Rifles. Good fellows if you keep at them with a stick but devilish scared of rhinos.”

3.2 Andrei Znamenski’s Red Shambhala, where i learn of an apposite ancient legend regarding our Muslim guests, a final battle between the so-called Mlecca and the (Buddhist) faithful:

Besides the millions of wild and mad elephants and thousands of warriors and horses that Rudra Chakrin would gather for his final battle, the legend mentioned the variety of weapons to be used against the “people of Mecca.” There were not only chariots, spears and other conventional hardware of ancient combat, but also sophisticated wheel-shaped machines of mass destruction. There would also be a special flying wind machine for use against mountain forts. According to the Shambhala prophecy, this prototype of a modern-day napalm bomber would spill burning oil on the enemies. Moreover, the protectors of the faith would use a harpoon machine, an analogy of a modern-day machine gun, designed to simultaneously shoot many arrows that would easily pierce the bodies of armoured elephants.

4. i’ve been watching the youtube channel Thulean Perspective for a while with joy; ’tis the work of a Norwegian in France, by the name of Varg Vikernes; i have been long fortified by his unrelentingly pagan and European beard, and delighted by his soft, lullaby voice.

It was clear that this is a man you could trust as your babysitter, a man who could record audiobooks for children’s bedtime stories. A kind of Werner Herzog figure, with hints of extreme manliness but basically a big Germanic teddy bear. He talks in one video of his experience in Norwegian prison, and i assumed it was perhaps 6 months for so-called hate speech, or just for being white or perhaps shoplifting or some hysterical Feminist accused him of rape because he held a door open for her.

Then i Googled him.

He’s motherfucking Burzum.

He stabbed Mayhem guitarist Øystein Aarseth to death, burnt several churches down, and got 21 years in prison.

By God, i would still let him babysit my non-existent children, and if he were not to be available, i would play his audiobooks of The Wind in the Willows and Winnie the Pooh, to lull my non-existent brood to sleep, and dreams of Narnia.

1. i find myself broker than usual. My tastes are relatively inexpensive, especially now i’ve greatly reduced my alcohol consumption, but i also work less & less, a natural consequence, it seems, of refusing to teach kids, crash courses, weekends, late evenings, Arbeitsamt. When i do reasonably well with work, and save a bit of gro, something bad invariably happens to wipe out my savings, such as, in 2012, losing about 1300 € in one weekend after nearly dying of asthma. Having had several such experiences, i no longer try to save more than a few hundred euros, and even that is now impossible, since i get less & less work each year.

i feel that one’s deep and largely inexpressible understanding of life derives from such experiences, which is why most people can’t understand my choices – because i tend to have very different experiences.

2. At the moment i feel as if my life is in slow-motion collapse about me. Perhaps it is age, or perhaps a result of six months largely without the “internal dialogue”, but my character is changing, in ways which bring me further & further from my colleagues, my job, my earthly existence. A few weeks ago my Arbeitsamt class started shouting at me in German, because they couldn’t understand the Present Progressive; i am generally quite a patient teacher, so tried to simplify it, but 4 or 5 out of 14 students were shouting things like “that is stupid!” and “I will never understand this bullshit!” in German, and since it was 10 minutes to the end i just packed my bag, said “fine, then” and left, and told McLingua i won’t teach this group again (one of the many reasons i’m broker than usual now).

As i was leaving the building one of the students ran after me to apologise, and say it wasn’t meant personally against me. i told her “i know. i don’t take it personally. But i can’t teach people who don’t cooperate.” And indeed, i felt a total lack of anger or even irritation, just a forceful resolve to leave. i have done similar things since, for example staring coldly at Toddball when he leered “look at this fucking creepy guy creeping in” as i came into the building earlier this week; i would once have forced a half-assed smile of “ho ho ho, yes, let’s all laugh at me, that’s what i’m here for, ho ho ho”. i don’t feel any recognisable emotion, but realise my actions would strike most observers as aggressive and confrontational.

Because i don’t feel any emotion in these situations, it’s hard to control my actions – i don’t feel i’m doing anything untoward, and only later do i reflect that i am acting like The Cop or Molloy, both of whom have walked out of uncooperative classes, and neither of whom respond well to mockery.

The McLingua scheduler has tried to find me more classes (at the moment i have about 2 hours’ work a day, and 2 hours’ unpaid traveling) but it always clashes with one of the few classes i have. It’s got to the point where we exchange a well-worn “not again” look when i compare her appointments with my almost totally empty calendar, and find i can’t take the classes. It seems to strike even her as curious, as if the teaching gods don’t want me to have work.

3. i feel as if the stitching of my teaching life is being slowly but methodically unpicked, and the seams of the last 6 years are coming naturally apart. i find i can’t even properly panic about my impending financial doom, indeed i even bought some 75 € shoes (reduced from 300 €!) and have booked a flight to Finland to conspire with the Man in Black as foretold in days long past – not a prudent decision given i am making less than i need to live, but it feels like the right thing to do, and so there it is. With my new propensity for confrontation i wonder if, as in Manchester in 2009, i will do something which makes my life here untenable – then, it was a sudden spasm of rage, and i found myself telling one of my fat stupid manageresses off, with some vigour, and an odd German accent, jabbing my finger at her fat stupid face and then stalking majestically out, thinking later, Fuck, i’m going to get fired.

4. i was moved to donate some of the money i don’t have to my favourite youtube channel, Vee – an amusing Romanian who looks like some kind of beast man from Game of Thrones; then i decided to set up my own Patreon account in the sudden wild hope that i would suddenly go from my usual dozen-or-so readers to thousands, hundreds of thousands, and some of them would feel inexplicably moved to give me gro. i’m by no means desperate for money – i can just use my UK credit card to stay afloat, and get even more in debt, and if need be i could agree to teach kids, late evenings, Saturdays. i’m not keen on being paid for this blog but on reflection it could motivate me to write more often – i have ideas for posts quite often but usually can’t be bothered, since almost no one reads this blog, my 7-year-old PC is on its last legs, and anyway i see my writings as the literary equivalent of stick figure doodles and vile graffiti carved on an old school desk out of boredom & hate.

Anyway, i will no doubt continue to blog here, and also when the fit takes me on my more obviously satirical blog, however my proposal is that if i can raise a tenner a month i’ll try to post here at least once a month; if i get 50 dollars, i’ll try and post once a fortnight; and in the unlikely event of getting 100 dollars a month, i’ll try and post every week. It sounds funny talking about such ridiculously high sums, given i have about a dozen readers and i think most or even all of them are broke, or have children (which automatically makes one permanently broke). i think some of them are even more broke than me, which takes a lot of work. i do have a lot of ideas for blog posts – film reviews, book reviews, anecdotes from work, hate-filled Tory rants, but because my PC is so laboriously slow, and i’m lazy, i can’t be bothered writing most of them, and so they are forgotten. As far as i can tell Patreon is anonymous, unlike Paypal – so when i sent Vee some gro via Paypal i got his real name & address, but via Patreon just his homepage and stage name. i’m presuming it works both ways, so both patron and base-born serf are anonymous.

Anyway, i don’t expect a single contribution since i have almost no readers and they are all broke, but just in case, my patreon is here.

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