Wednesday, 21 March 2018


 Now then, lovely boy. CHANGE GENDAAAAH!

I has never seen such a display of blatant poofery.

Battery Sergeant Major Williams, It Ain’t Half Hot, Mum.

My London correspondent has been providing me with a veritable river of information from the old homeland, but it is a watercourse blighted with toxins. Much as this newsfeed is appreciated – my friend is a journalist – I find myself turning to YouTube for an antidote and reliving some of the classic English comedy from the 1970s, before the British Left began to ban humour unless it was ticked by the green pen of the new Lord Chancellors, the ones with nose rings and flesh tunnels. In other words, humour is fine now in the UK as long as it is not funny. ‘Funny’ will offend someone, somewhere. Watch this if you doubt me.

This postcard may be utterly untelligible to any but the few English readers of around my generation, but it concerns a particular programme which aired from 1974 to 1981, and I think had at least six series. This will give a flavour.
My father and I loved it. My father had been in the army of occupation, in Austria in 1945 – ‘sweeping up after Adolf’, as he put it - and recognised the portrayal of the Sergeant Major in the series, which is set mostly in Burma, also in 1945.

The premise of the series is that a small squadron of soldiers are part of a concert party to entertain the troops. However, their nemesis, Battery Sergeant Major Williams, is constantly threatening them with posting to the dangerous battle lines in the jungle. Why?

Because he is blatantly homophobic.

And that, gentle reader, is what propels the humour from the very first episode. In the opening credits, he is standing watching the made-up and effeminate soldiers under his command prancing about on stage. You can clearly see him mouth the word ‘poofs!’. The word ‘poof’ makes a regular occurrence in the series, and homosexuals are ridiculed throughout. Imagine the Leftist response now.

There are also Indians – although at least one actor is a blacked-up white man – who bob their heads about and speak in an absurd – and hilarious – Raj accent. That, again, would cause the average SJW – who finds Russell Brand and his crudity hilarious, in a sneering and brainless way – would shit their designer panties.

An initial point. Imagine that the series had never been made, and just today, an aspiring young TV writer pitched it to the BBC or similar. Obviously, the series would be turned down with utter contempt. But I believe something else would happen.

I believe the writer would be reported to the police.

This is the way that the UK is heading, at breakneck speed. It will not end well.

A second observation. If you watch an episode – and non-Brits will need to in order to understand this whole postcard – you will see something quite amazing. While the Sergeant Major endeavours to introduce an element of masculinity into his soldiers – who are often quite brave in the series – today’s army is doing precisely the opposite.

The British army is being progressively weakened by deliberately being infiltrated by an ideology that promotes women, homosexuals, and transgender ill people as potential soldiers.

Meanwhile, a real army is marching steadily into Europe.

To the politicians who promote this perverse and malevolent treason, I say…


Tuesday, 20 March 2018


The Ship of Fools, Hieronymous Bosch
Not currently sailing, I'm afraid.

There is a trend among commenters, and it extends as far upwards as respected dissident writers, YouTube citizen journalists, and big-name Right-wing TV pundits. I have written on it many times, and Old Traumavillians will recognise the drum beat.

There is, or appears to be, an overwhelming belief among dissident Right journalists and commentators that the current disastrous course being steered by the elites is somehow due to their incompetence, reluctance to discuss certain issues, and even a type of insanity.

When, asks the dissident Right, will governments wake up?

The terrifying answer is that they have been wide awake for some time. It is you who sleep.

Do you honestly believe that the elite governmental echelons of the Western countries, such as they now are in terms of loss of sovereignty, are somehow blundering around in the fog, unaware of the consequences of their actions, media commentary, and ultimately legislation? If so, I imagine you also believe that wrestling is real.

The British government spends an ever-increasing amount each year on people whose area of expertise is manipulating the real world until you believe about it that which they are being paid to have you believe. These people, all paid for by tax money in total opposition not to the law but to the spirit of the law, control the perceptions of many, many people. They come from the dark part of culture – although it sells itself as a tonic – comprising PR, advertising, management consultancy – the biggest scam, the greatest non-job in history – and, of course, the good ole reliable media. They are liars and wrigglers. They are dedicated to keeping you in Plato’s cave. They are the enemy. And they are not good people.

I have written this so many times I may have it inscribed on an attractive and sturdy arch above the entrance to Traumaville;

Western government policy is not accidental, nor is it insane. It is quite deliberate and it is what Socialist sanity looks like.

Mass immigration, transgenderism, university safe spaces, affirmative action, anti-Trumpism, control of language, homosexuality, militant feminism, ‘racism’, Islam, Islamophobia, celebrity culture, television, Antifa, anti-white propaganda, anti-male propaganda, hate-speech laws, the Malicious Communications Act and its cousin shariah. The list is growing. Had you noticed?

These are all jigsaw-puzzle pieces on a surface whose picture will not please when those pieces are all in place. The picture will be of a great and dark ship, flying a flag far more sinister than the Jolly Roger. In the midst of a desperate storm, all hands are frantically on deck, trying to strike a course. But the course they have been told to steer is towards the rocks, not away from them.

And there are only so many lifeboats.

Sunday, 18 March 2018


He's not the Antichrist, he's a very naughty boy

The new groups are not concerned

With what there is to be learned.

They got Burton suits.

Huh, you think it’s funny?

Turning rebellion into money.

The Clash, White Man in Hammersmith Palais

A strange thing happened in the glorious English summer of 1977. Punk rock had just arrived and was almost unanimously vilified by the music press. They turned up the collective nose at The Damned, The Clash, Sex Pistols, Buzzcocks and all the other wonderful spotty oiks that changed music forever in my country of birth but, hopefully, not death. This was not music, said the scribblers of the New Musical Express, Melody Maker, and Sounds.. But, hark…

As disaffected young people in grim brutalist tower blocks and desolate new towns began to embrace the frenzied new music, as punk bands began to climb the charts and feature in the tabloids, the music press – pompous and arrogant then as I imagine it still is now – began to wheel around like a slow old narrowboat. No point in still championing Yes if the kids are listening to Slaughter and the Dogs.

This is how counter-culture works. The agreeably short manifesto for youth in relation to culture is spoken by Marlon Brand’s character Johnny, in response to his parents, in the 1953 movie The Wild One;

“What are you rebelling against, Johnny?”

“Whaddya got?”

Paul Joseph Watson, and doubtless others, have made this point before me. Once young people, Generation Z as they have come to be called, realise the Left is now the establishment, across to the other side of the dancefloor they will go, where the punk bands are playing and not Genesis.

Simple, really. Tell a child not do something because it is naughty and the child will surely demur. Although that is signally unfair. I happen to believe that the modern Left, from Western governments through the media, from the legal system to academia, from the BBC to The Guardian, from Lily Allen right down to Justin the Antifa Cunt™, are actually the children in this scenario, the malevolent Peter Pans who refuse to grow up. The ones who will come after will not want a world where whites are hated and spurned, where intelligent commentators who make controversial points are banned, where Islam is imported like an oil slick on a beautiful beach, where governments can imprison those who have what one German politician called ‘wrong opinion’. The children of the current progressives will, one, day spit on their parents’ shadows like a Roma gypsy issuing a curse.

The result of this might well be a dialectical swing to the Right – whatever that might be now – and a ‘grassroots’ movement – I apologise for that clumsy word – which might yet reclaim the West from the cultural self-harmers with their razor blades and bare arms.

And so perhaps punk’s time has come again. Perhaps it might turn out to be as foolish a notion as ‘cool’ which will swing the current generation of morons with perfect teeth around to face a northerly wind. This is a tendency profoundly to be wished for.

The great battle is not, or not merely, between Antifa thugs and PEGIDA, it is not government against free speech, it is not the media versus white culture. All of those things are components in the coming civil wars, conflagrations which may well link arms and plunge Europe into its second dark age. There is also a metaphysical battle in progress, a war which is more epistemological than logical.

It is the battle between subjectivity and objectivity. Tomorrow, if you will join me again, I will explain why the Left are wrong in the same way that 2 + 2 ═ 5 is wrong.

It’s not so much white riot, I wanna riot, as beat on the brat with a baseball bat.

Friday, 16 March 2018


Thanks, Oxford University.
You've made me look a right Kant

You got a new and dangerous condition, boy.

He said, you know you’re gonna lose your own volition, boy.

Scritti Politti, Philosophy Now

Sous rature (under erasure)

A term used by Jacques Derrida with reference to language

I have to admit to a certain excited restlessness when the snowflakes turn their fog-eyed attention to philosophy. I settle back an inch or so in my chair and steeple my index fingers under my nose. Yes, I say to the young people, you were saying?

I have two dogs, one is an Alaskan Malamute. When I suggest a walk in the morning – around 7am, before the Costa Rican day begins to heat up, she growls, low in her throat. It is not a threat, but the pure anticipation of pleasure. That is what I am feeling now, after reading that the Oxford University Collegiate system is demanding that at least 40% of the syllabus in philosophy be written by women.

The reason for my arch smile of pleasure? Philosophy is the subject in which I have my PhD. Philosophy is my intellectual background. Philosophy is my fucking manor.

Let us establish a few ground rules. Philosophy never got a bridge built. It never bathed a baby. It never invented a vaccine. But, if the people attempting those things had read philosophy, they would perform their tasks better than otherwise. Philosophy is like taking your mind to the gymnasium. One problem, however, for the current generation.

Philosophy, love of wisdom as it from its Grecian root, is hard.

It is not like reading Harry Potter and His Wanky Mates, or Stephen King’s latest piece of shit, or a book accompanying a BBC series you liked. It demands attention, re-reading, and an innate ability to understand ideas in the abstract. It does not lend itself to social justice warriors and their wankery.

You never forget the first time you understand the process that leads to Descartes’ cogito, the first time you see the reciprocity between transcendent subject and world in Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason (I was on a bus in south London on a rare day of grimy heat when the pfennig dropped) or the first time you understand Berkeley’s idealism and can laugh at Dr. Johnson’s response. These are intellectual joys that are simply unavailable in the tawdry pound store that passes for modern culture. These students won’t have the benefit of looking over the shoulder of genius simply because the white man is coming under attack, not least from other white men and, far more, women.

Of course there are women philosophers. Hannah Arendt, Heidegger’s mistress but a thinker in her own right. Iris Murdoch, who introduced Jean-Paul Sartre to the UK, or vice versa. Mary Warnock. The wonderful Gillian Rose, who taught me at Sussex and died terribly early. You could even make a case for Lou Salomé, Nietzsche’s muse who Freud wrote a glowing obituary about.

But there ain’t a lot more, ladies.

So where is your 40% going to come from? You think Susan Sontag and Germain Greer are going to help you to think? Oh, you poor kid. Camille Paglia, yes. Sexual Personae should be on every curriculum. But I will tell you what will happen.

The white male philosophers will gradually drop from the syllabus like the dead papaya branches that occasionally fall from the tree and alarm my cats. In 50 years’ time you will go to ‘uni’ and only be able to read a book of ‘philosophy’ written by a fat African woman and concentrating mainly on the fascinating subject of slavery.

I have said this many times. Barbaria here we come. Stupid is the new intelligent. That chilling phrase comes back again to haunt us all. Every educated person is a future enemy…

Of the state, that is.

Sorry, gals. In terms of philosophy, the greatest subject, in my view, you are like black swimmers. There just ain’t that many of you.

Take my advice. Don’t go to university. Destroy your television and read at home, philosophy books you have bought from a second-hand store.

Now, if you will excuse me, I have a book by Jacqui Derrida to finish.

Thursday, 15 March 2018


They don't look like the enemy. But they are.

As I have said many a time, I have good reason to believe a police officer is, from time to time, one of the few readers of my small efforts here. Good luck you. I hope you understand the long words. You must be tired. I sometimes wonder how the police sleep at night.

Their latest triumph of callousness and the protection of brand Islam is the rapidly unfolding Telford scandal.

The details are unimportant. As before, I cannot recommend too highly PeterMcLoughlin’s Easy Meat.

In many ways, the book will disgust you, but you have to read that which makes you sick. Personally, I wonder about the police and social services told by their superiors to spin, to deny, to lie, to create a ‘narrative’ – that godawful word – that protects brand Islam. For that is surely what they are doing. The Right-wing press likes to portray the police as thistle-munching asses. I am not so sure. I think they know exactly what they are doing and I believe that many police officers are mentally ill, sick inside with a moral cancer that needs to be cut away from any decent society.

I will let you toddle off and read about Telford for yourselves, but note this and note it well. The police are using young rape victims as collateral damage to protect the religion the deep state is telling them is sacrosanct. Heroes like Tommy Robinson, who fight against this deceptive horror, are constantly harried by coppers who look, in videos, as though they are trying to hold a cold coin between the cheeks of their fat arses.

Elsewhere, journalists are being barred from Britain. Sellner, Pettybone, Southern, Geller, Spencer. Verboten! How long before Britain goes full Turkey and just starts locking them up?

If there is a police officer reading this, I hope you have children. And I profoundly hope those children are fucked in half by a fat Pakistani man. Then we may see you sailing under your true colours.

Until then, look in the mirror, and tell me truly what you see there.

Wednesday, 14 March 2018


I thought it was Mark E. Smith at first

Ticking away,

The moments that make up a dull day.

Pink Floyd, Time

We are too late for the Gods,

And too early for Being.

Martin Heidegger

Stephen Hawking has passed away. He is now in the past, or at least his being or consciousness is. Hawking is famous for his book A Brief History of Time.

The book is rubbish, junk science at best. I have read it twice. I wouldn’t bother with it yourselves. The Narnia books are more instructive.

If you do pick up a copy – and you see them a lot in charity shops or thrift stores – look at the index. Do you see Bergson, Heidegger, Husserl, Saint Augustine? No. You don’t.

Time is not something that science has any dominion over. You would be better off reading Ouspensky. Time is not something you can pop on a microscope slide. Super-string theory. Fuck off.

As Saint Augustine wrote, time is something I understand perfectly well, until someone asks me to explain it.

Sorry you’re dead, pal. But it was about time.

Tuesday, 13 March 2018


Home again, home again, jiggety-jig!

I think we all know where this is going. Like a predictable comedian or a bad 1970s horror movie, there is an inevitability about the course of the next few years that you do not need to be a genius pundit to see coming.

The Western world, after taking a couple of steps forward, is taking many steps back. Stupid is the new intelligent. Subjectivity is the new objectivity. Me is the new us.

The quotation from one of Hitler’s aides de camps’ secretaries that I noted in a previous episode keeps coming back to haunt me;

Every educated person is a future enemy.

Let it sink in. Let it sink in because it is what your government believes, it is what Mark Zuckerberg believes, it is what George Soros believes, and it is what your children’s teacher believes.

Educate yourselves, please. And more than anything educate your kids, if you have them. I walk past the school in this little Costa Rican town every day – the school is twinned with one in South Korea, whereas the UK is becoming North Korea – and I hear joyous little kiddies singing national songs, or yelling out spelling tests, or playing music. I could fucking weep.

Barbaria. That is your next stop. You may well have to get out in the next decade, wherever you are. Orwell’s 1984 is no longer a novel, it is the telephone directory. Islam is breathing down your neck. How does that make you feel? Even you, the runtish little transgender police officer reading this. You don’t believe in what you are told, ordered, to believe. But you need the fucking money, no?

There is a warm and pleasing ripple of resistance, particularly in Europe. But can it ever be enough? The state is very, very powerful. And when Socialism takes over, the night is never far behind.

There is a charming Venezuelan waitress at a restaurant where I play a weekly residency. I told her I was thinking of making a flying visit to her country. She told me not even to think about it. People there are taking dogs off the street and cooking them and eating them.

You think the UK can’t go there?

Welcome to Barbaria.