Friday, 23 February 2018


Here, that foreman just asked me what gender I self-identify as

The rise of the robots I am not a journalist, I comment on journalism. That much should be clear. Journalists would like people like me to fuck right off out of it, of course, because we have the impertinence to publish our samizdat with even having been to journalism school, those Marxist dark Satanic mills. Every now and then, however, amateur chancers like myself trip over some relatively obviously fact that the MSM don’t, or won’t, follow up on. Yup, it’s cognitive dissonance time.

Politicians from Stockholm to Berlin to London are insisting that immigration – which always means Muslim immigration – is necessary for the economy. Theoretically – a very, very dangerous word – this is true. Improvements in medical care married with the falling birth rate across Europe – mainly because women are being taught to be bitches and no sensible man wants to marry or even fuck them - means an increasingly ageing society, or set of societies. Therefore, unskilled young labour needs to be imported.

Two problems.

Firstly, the unskilled labour the ex-Marxists of the EU are importing really are unskilled. Do you know the percentage of the Mohammedans Merkel has shipped into Germany who have jobs? Look it up. I was in Paris just over two years ago, and was unfortunate enough to see a Muslim enclave. These people are fucking animals. They’re not going to be packing tampons into boxes or driving buses any time soon. It didn’t look like they could do anything, except eat and shit.

Secondly, have you noticed how the Western media, particularly the tech arseholes, are crowing about AI and the rise of automated workers? See a problem yet?

If all Achmed can do is drive a taxi, and you are working on driverless cars, what is Achmed going to do as his next career move once the driverless cars take over? Hm? Neuro-surgery? Librarian? Managing Paris St. Germain? Europe is importing utterly useless, hateful, stupid leeches purportedly to do the ‘the work the people here don’t want to do’, at the same time as they are perfecting the technology to make them utterly unnecessary. Same thing with the Hispanics in the USA.


Gracias Walter Speaking of taxi drivers, I took a ride with one yesterday evening. We got to my destination, and I only had a 10,000 colónes note – a bit under 18 bucks or 13 quid. Sorry, Russian chums. Don’t know it in Roubles – and he had no change. I thought there might be coins in the house, but no dice. Bad metaphor, as he probably wouldn’t have taken dice. Anyway, he gave me his card and told me I could call him today and pay him then. I will, and I’ll tip him handsomely too. There are many things to love about Costa Rica.

Go Tommy Tommy Robinson is leaving Rebel Media – I don’t know if there has been a difference of opinion – and is going it alone. His videos are tough, challenging, and brutally honest. The police hate him, the government hate him, and Muslims hate him and want him dead. Ditto the police and the government, as a matter of fact. Tommy is totally untutored in the snake-like media skills that count as modern journalism. He is a real person, unlike the self-righteous shits who call themselves British journalists. Give him your full support. In the not-too-distant future, you will see him as a visionary.

Do your sums Angela Merkel, that extraordinary, childless, Marxist woman who is clinging on to the leadership of Germany, has said that funding for EU countries will be linked to their willingness to take in ‘refugees’, aka Muslim invaders. Again, I may be being stupid here, but are there no economists in the various countries covered by this edict from a dying country? Here is my suggestion. Take the figure that your country currently receives from the EU. Ask the EU to tell you the reduction you will receive – a punitive tax, essentially – if you go full Hungary and don’t take in any Musselmen, then approximate the cost of Muslim immigration. Welfare, riots and the concomitant policing costs, court time, adjustments to prisons and schools, healthcare and the strain placed on it, public sector time spent processing both immigration and the endless demands Muslims make in any country they blight. Subtract one figure from the other. I will bet you, as my father used to say, a pound to a pinch of shit you are better off without Islam. But, as I say, I am no economist. Just saying, like.

The black and white morals show Black comedians are little more than nigger minstrels. The bulging eyes, the step ‘n’ fetchit walk, the exaggerated baby talk. Chris Rock who, like the nigger minstrels in the NFL who kneel down when the national anthem is played, the anthem of the country that ensured they are not scratching a rash on their inner thighs on a collapsing rubbish tip in Wakanda, made his money from the country he hates, has stated that he wants more white kids to be shot by da police, just to keep up the quotas. Don’t work that way, my nigger. White people are just better human beings than black people. That is why they don’t get shot as much. Or would you like me to write that in ebonics?

Careful with that paintbrush, Adolf Still route-marching through the extraordinary Rise and Fall of the Third Reich, by William Shirer, I hope my Norwegian chum, who was good enough to contact me the other day, managed to get a copy. I wonder if it is relevant that Hitler was a failed artist. Has anyone looked at the history of, say, US school shooters and seen if they were wretched scribblers? Did Stalin produce dacha daubs? Did Mao Xidong plan a gallery exhibition only to find that his paintings of the Great Wall of China looked like big old dog turds? We should be told, I feel. I have a good friend in London whose artwork should be in every gallery in London. It’s too good though, and he is a white man. No fucking chance. Personally, my matchstick men don’t even look convincing, so there is not much chance of me taking over the world.

See you anon.

Thursday, 22 February 2018


What Britain could have had, and what it has got

Tell me lies, tell me sweet little lies Ploughing diligently on as I am with William Shirer’s Rise and Fall of the Third Reich, I can’t help but notice what a bunch of wankers the Western leaders were in 1939. Amateur night. All Hitler and Ribbentrop had to do was turn up with their buttons polished and say, no, it’s alright, you can trust us. Suddenly Austria, Czechoslovakia, Poland, Denmark, Norway and any other dimwit in the way was, as the nibs say, proper fucked.

The other revelation is just how fervent anti-Hitler feeling was among the army. This is interesting on two fronts, so to speak. Firstly, if the beer-hall bomb or any of the other attempts at killing Hitler had worked, WW2 might have been a short affair. It was clearly Hitler who was the insane engine of the whole conflict. Nowadays, you could kill Merkel – which wouldn’t be a bad start – and there would be another dozen Merkels ready to take her place. This was not the case with Taylor, before politics became Taylorised. Look it up.

Secondly, the amount of lying Hitler did was staggering. As I say above, the other Western leaders were clearly people who shouldn’t have been allowed to use scissors. He must have thought he was dealing with children. A bit like Islam now. Again, the German leader of today is also lying to the Germans – easily led people, according to Shirer – but this time German defeat is absolutely assured. Good. As I have said many times, we can do without Germany.

A visit to the fish farm It is Thursday, which finds me out at the animal shelter run by the local dog and cat charity. Now, it was an easy day, as three dogs got adopted last weekend, Lila, Amy and Elvis. I am going to miss Elvis and his silly ears. This is one of the attendant problems of working at the shelter. You love the dogs, and you desperately want them to be adopted. Then they get adopted, and you miss them terribly.

Anyway, our driver for the day was a Polish gentleman and, after we were done at the shelter, he drove me and the other volunteer out to a small fish farm. He has property with a fountain, and needed some small, glittery fish – they looked like sardines to me, but I don’t know much about fish except how to eat them – and he got them. The three small ponds at the farm were attended by some affable Ticos who expertly cast weighted dragnets into the water and hauled in the necessary chaps. The rest they threw back, which I imagine is the fish equivalent of alien abduction. ‘Hey, guys! You will never guess what happened to me!’ I am however surprised that herons are not in attendance at this fish farm. I have seen two types of heron here, a grey who lives in the rain forest, and beautiful white herons who live in the rice fields here. Curious.

Reach out, I’ll be there What is all this ‘reach out’ shit? I spoke to some arsehole recently at a local restaurant. I had contacted his gormless assistant enquiring about playing there. After a week with no reply, I called back. This idiot got angry and said I was calling her too much. It was the second time I had ever called her – perhaps he’s fucking her, who knows? – and he also said that, if she wanted to hire me, she would ‘reach out’ to me. I see this pathetic phrase throughout the Yankee press and correspondence. I know that north Americans are congenitally stupid, but stop fucking with my language.

Rivers of blubber Diane Abbott, the corpulent black cretin who I am praying will become Home Secretary, has said she was ‘frightened’ by Enoch Powell’s famous speech from 50 years ago. She was 15 when Powell delivered the speech, and she is younger than that now, but she claims that it affected her. Fucking hell. Powell’s speech is called the ‘Rivers of blood’ speech because journalists are morons. Powell, who took his House of Commons notes in Ancient Greek, was quoting Virgil’s Aeneid, as follows;

‘As I look ahead, I am filled with foreboding; like the Roman, I seem to see "the River Tiber foaming with much blood."’

Abbott would not know this, as she is a stupid woman who is only where she is because of her skin colour and the fact that she once fucked Jeremy Corbyn. Or twice. Who knows? What we do know is that he paraded her around as his girlfriend because she was black. I used to know boys at college who did that. ‘Look at me! I’ve got a black girlfriend.’ I have had black girlfriends but, if you closed your eyes while they were talking, they sounded white. I liked that.

Abbott is a genuine idiot, and Britain needs her as Home Secretary more than any other. I am not trying to be funny.

Enoch Powell, in bold contrast, is the best Prime Minister Great Britain never had.

Wednesday, 21 February 2018


Anne Marie Waters. The UK's last hope?

You don’t pay with money, you pay with time. That is the message you should be getting from the modern world, such as it is. If you don’t get that, you don’t and won’t get much. In particular, the internet is going to tax you, intellectually speaking, until the pips squeak. But you won’t have lost much in the way of cash, as they have made it cheap for you to watch crap on YouTube. But check your pockets for time. Hmm. Running low, isn’t it?

I once asked my late father whether time went, or seemed to go, quicker as you got older. He spoke without missing a beat. Quicker. And so it is. I shall be 57 in a couple of weeks. To quote Charles Bukowski, the days run away like horses over the hills.

And so what do you spend your time doing? How much time do you spend washing dishes, or ironing, or cleaning the floor? Not much in my case, as I am a slob cum laude, but you take my point. And, of course, we can spend far less time in menial household tasks than someone living a century ago, because there are labour-saving devices. I know. I used to work in a job where I would see people order £1,000 dishwashers. £1,000? Do you know how many times I could fly to Cuba and back for that? And did it make them any happier? I worked for an awful lot of rich and unhappy people in my time. I know someone worth a fortune who is borderline manic-depressive. But I digress or, rather, we haven’t got round to today’s point. And every day has, or should have, a point.

I rather pride myself on having written about Jordan Peterson before the world’s media wheeled around, to paraphrase Kingsley Amis, like a slow flotilla of ships, and started to put him in the spotlight. A few short weeks later, it seems he is putting himself in the spotlight.

Watching his most recent lectures, and these are free and non-monetised, he is starting to look a little like a stand-up comic. I don’t think I mind this, as it is a way to connect with a generation who don’t understand intellectual, or artistic, communication. I first got wind of this many years ago, when I saw my favourite Shakespeare play, Macbeth, produced as a graphic novel. Graphic novels, for those not in the know, are big, thick comics with shiny covers which eventually get made into films. Children, and adults who are still children, tend to read them.

But Peterson is increasingly playing to the gallery. I haven’t got round to reading his book, because I am still mired in Shirer’s book on the Third Reich, but he makes so many videos that you tend to get the gist. I certainly don’t blame him, and he makes excellent points.

YouTube is already the target of the elites and their alternative media hit squads. Communicating to a worldwide audience without using the client gimp squad of the press is anathema to totalitarians, which is what modern politicians are, almost without exception.

Peterson is speaking truth to power, the original ideal of the fourth estate, as the press is known in Britain. That will not do for the elites. To paraphrase John Lennon, all they don’t want is the truth.

So, if Peterson adopts the persona of the entertainer, this is all to the good. He is intellectually tough, and a much-needed fillip to the sclerotic nonsense that passes for news now. Good luck to him.

A politician who is about as far from playing to the gallery as it is possible to get is Anne Marie Waters. Waters was in the frame for the leadership of UKIP after Farage exited stage left, but the internal workings of that party soon closed her down. Apart from relegating this party to eternal Lib Dem status, it was a cowardly and pathetic act. Waters talks of Islam and Muslim immigration, often and coherently, and that just won’t do for the modern political party in the UK. There is only one rule when it comes to Islam, and that is to flatter and appease.

The ‘debate’, as the media and chattering classes call confronting reality – and the ‘debate’ produces the ‘narrative’ – will soon turn into a chilling reality, and it would be as well to listen to the likes of Anne Marie Waters, not that there are many like her in England, before it is way, way too late.

Waters is by far the most relevant politician currently operating in the UK, which is the precise reason she will be shut out of the political process. The British elites are determined to foment civil war by importing Islam, and someone like Waters is simply a fly in the ointment. As I consistently say, wait until the football lads get hold of this. Once the season is over, and before the World Cup starts, there might be a bit of a knees-up.

Finally, a video of Tommy Robinson having his breakfast disturbed in a Cambridge café can be found here

It is worth watching, as it shows the utter vacuity of the modern millennial SJW. The witless little cunt swearing in front of children has no argument, just plenty of bile and self-righteous anger. For those of you have noted that anti-racism is exactly like religion, you will be pleased to hear her shout at Robinson, on learning that he left the EDL four years prior to this moment of hilarity, ‘have you recanted’.

Amen, sister.

Tuesday, 20 February 2018


Hodge. The black cat it's okay to like

A very fine cat indeed

Strolling out of the rain forest and into town yesterday evening, I heard a familiar voice behind me. It was Sonny, one of my cats. He often follows me around, including excursions, but always stops before the main road. Many times I have returned after a couple of hours and found him in exactly the same spot I left him. He often accompanies myself and the two dogs on walks, along with his daughter, Missy.

Sonny really is a wonderful cat. He puts up with the dogs using him as a tug-toy, talks a lot, and watching him and Missy tearing around is a joy. Dr. Johnson, one of the most famous of English writers and compiler of the first dictionary, had a cat called Hodge. Hodge’s statue can be seen at the top of the page, sitting on, one assumes, the very dictionary. The statue can be found in Gough Square, just off Fleet Street in London and close to a pub called The Cheshire Cheese, where Johnson often drank, as did Lord Byron, Charles Dickens, and the present writer. Dr. Johnson described Hodge as ‘a very fine cat indeed’, and I should like to extend the same compliment to Sonny.

A cat less fine

On the subject of cats, I should be very embarrassed to be black at the moment, were I of that hue. The ridiculous bush-fire of nonsense and anti-culture surrounding the release of the film Black Panther is a perfect indicator of how pathetic the modern West has become. In case you have been buried alive for the last month and have only just effected your escape, this comic-book adaptation – aren’t all movies that now? – has got both blacks and liberal whites in estrus.

Film reviewers are lining up to screech at the first one who gives the film a review suggesting it is not the greatest film ever made. White liberals are stating on social media that they don’t wish to go and see the film for a while because, as one weepy bint puts it, she didn’t want to ‘suck the black joy’ out of the cinema with her white privilege. Blacks seem to have convinced themselves that ‘Wakanda’ – the Utopian country in which the movie is set – is a real place.

Wakanda is perfect. Full of noble blacks, technological perfection, grandiose buildings, peace and tranquility. It is being more or less tattooed on white foreheads everywhere that this is what Africa would look like if the evil white man hadn’t showed up, twirling his waxed moustaches and herding blacks into cages for transportation.

I don’t know how many times this needs to be said. These cultural sops will not help a single black person. If blacks cannot see that they are being gamed by whites, they deserve everything they get, and if they can’t organise the societies in which they are the majority, they deserve worse.

Wakanda does not exist. Detroit does.

The emperor and the student

If you are a reader, and particularly if you favour the classics, you will no doubt be familiar with the Everyman series of books. Petite volumes neatly cloth-bound, these little gems can be found in many a second-hand bookshop in The Charing Cross Road in London and, I dare say, elsewhere. I have a limited library here in Costa Rica, but one of the books I took with me from blighted Blighty was the Everyman edition of the Meditations, by the 2nd-century Roman Emperor known to the world as Marcus Aurelius. Consisting of autobiography, gnomic musings, and Stoic philosophy, this little work by possibly the most benign ruler of classical Rome is on a par with Seneca and Epictetus, as well as being probably the only work ever to be quoted in a famous Hollywood movie.

Watching a young rookie detective through the plexiglass screen of his psychiatric hospital cell, and trying to prompt her to think about who the killer she seeks might be, Hannibal Lecter says;

‘Read Marcus Aurelius, Clarice. Ask of each individual thing; What is it? What is its nature?’

Leafing through the volume once more, I noticed something for the first time. The inside cover is signed by a previous owner;

Dorothy Eyre Evans, Girton College, 1939.

Written in ink, and in a flowing script which reflects an age in which people could actually write by hand, the little inscription drove me to my computer. And there she was! Dorothy Eyre Evans, née Smith, attended Girton College, Cambridge, and made a bequest to the same. Bequests often included libraries and, if Dorothy included her books, she missed one, because I’ve got it.

 She died in Camden Town, one of my favourite areas of London, just 12 years ago at the age of 87.

The sense of reality, of world and history and time and actual people, hit me so hard I almost fell off my stool onto Sonny. The oddest thing of all is that Ms. Evans signed the book in 1939, the most cataclysmic year of the century. I had just arrived at 1939 in Shirer’s Rise and Fall of the Third Reich, and I would give much to know her war experiences.

Nowadays, sadly, Girton College undoubtedly pays more attention to gender pronouns than it does to the teaching of Marcus Aurelius.

Interference in foreign elections

There has been a general election here in Costa Rica and, with no clear majoritarian, a second round must be fought in April. One of the front-runners is an Evangelical Christian and, my, has he ruffled the feathers of the Yanks who use Costa Rica as a cross between a giant playground and a fancy restaurant.

On the local Facebook newsgroup, which is expressly non-political unless you are a Trump-hating, Democrat, virtue-signalling political ignoramus, someone has suggested that some sort of holocaust awaits the expat gay community if this cove gets the nod from the electorate.

His reasoning seems to be that the ‘LGBT community’ – something as fictional as Wakanda – spends a lot of money down here, so their voices should be heard. Basically, because gays like sushi, they should have the vote.

Costa Rica is absolutely firm about foreign interference in its elections, and rightly so with clowns like this running around town. It can’t be said often enough; if you don’t like the way the country you have chosen to be a guest in is run, go home.

Monday, 19 February 2018


That would be me

I have noticed that, even though my readership creeps slowly upwards, hardly anyone comments on my pieces. Now, here is the range of possible reasons.

  • Blogger, or BlogSpot, has made it increasingly difficult to comment on sites such as mine. It certainly looks like a complex process, and I have heard that this is the case.
  • You are a cowardly bunch of wankers, and you don't want your boss to find you reading naughty material. I can't believe this of you.
  • There is nothing more to say, because I have said it all.
  • Commenting on one of my pieces is beneath you.
  • None of this exists.
  • You suspect that, should you publish a critical comment, I will come for you in the night.
I always despised people who write anonymously on the internet. I never did, and it has cost me family, friends, and jobs. I walked into a record store once in Brixton in 1991. A horrible, violent rap song was playing. I will never forget the lyric.

'Yeah, I robbed the store.
I wasn't wearing no mask.'

That's me.

My email address is


It's a Mr. Hitler for you, sir

As I have had cause to mention before, Old Traumavillians will sometimes be forced to stifle a yawn when my latest postcard rolls from the presses. It is true that I beat the same drum, but without the repetitive beating of drums, one has no rhythm.

I do carp about the media, it’s true. It is pernicious, whole-heartedly Left wing, and utterly opposed to informing the public in any meaningful way. In the USA, the media is effectively the opposition party, now that Republicans and Democrats are dressed as Tweedledee and Tweedledum. Even the two main parties in the UK have more blue water between them than the wing-tipped clowns and spray-starched bitches who run north America.

And, of course, now that the MSM has been forced to migrate to the virtual world, they have carpet-bagged their crap with them. Incidentally, it seems to be the consensus among the tech-oriented writers that I follow that standard media outlets in the West don’t really understand the internet. This is all to the good, as the more real people who wake up to the garbage they are being fed, and move online for their information, the more the MSM will fall behind. This is already happening, it seems.

Yesterday evening I played a regular gig at a nice restaurant a few minutes out of town. It was a solo gig, and fun was had. The sunset is spectacular, and there are a couple of dogs who the manager allows to roam the grounds looking for tidbits, and with whom I have become great chums. The gig itself was a total success. My version of Ring of Fire even impressed a man who had once been in a Johnny Cash tribute band. High praise indeed.

During breaks, and at the end of the set, I sometimes sit with tables of diners. I am careful to read them, and make sure that they have invited me into their circle. This is a social skill, incidentally, I find north Americans lack to a shocking degree. Perhaps that is just because I am English. We shall chalk it up to cultural difference. Last week, some Swedish ladies had arrived just as I was finishing my set, and were disappointed to see that the gig was over. Therefore, I went to their table, guitar in hand, and played them a mini-set of Beatles songs. Hey Jude, I Will, And I Love Her, Let it Be. A good time was had by all.

Last night, however, it was a young German couple who invited me to chat and drink with them. They were from Bavaria, and I sensed that this might be an interesting encounter. Bavaria, along with the V4 countries and Austria, represents a pocket of resistance to the forced Islamisation of Europe. And this charming pair – and they were – certainly had views on the dangers facing Europe. I told them, during the course of a conversation about German literature and philosophy, that I was reading William Shirer’s The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich. The girl knew of the book. I was worried, I said, having read halfway through the book, that a psychotic like Hitler – and he was psychotic – could get so close to running that continent. And I was also concerned that totalitarianism and fascism seemed to be making an ungodly return to Europa.

It was naughty of me, I know. But agents provocateurs are by their very nature naughty. If I am at all worried – and as long as I am not actually in Europe, I couldn’t really care less – it is because retarded members of a savage death cult are being shipped in by the tens of thousands by quasi-autistic elites hell-bent on destroying white culture. But I teased out of our Teutonic love-birds that their concerns lay elsewhere.

They were worried about AfD, Geert Wilders, Viktor Orban, Austria and all the other sane, concerned patriots I consider to be Europe’s last and only chance. This is the fasciam they fear. I didn’t mention Islam, and neither did they. Conversation here is like poker; you never show your hand.

It was a pleasant conversation in the main, except that the girl didn’t like Thomas Mann, but I gave her a pass. I asked them what their line of work was.

We work for Sky, they said.

Or rather, we did.

We’ve just been fired.

Sunday, 18 February 2018


Yes, but those are just numbers.
Do you know who else used numbers?
That's right. Hitler.

I got the result of the Brexit vote wrong but my prediction of the aftermath of what was then merely a potential ‘leave’ vote seems to me now to be much as West Indian cricketers used to say to umpire Richard Bird when they approved of a decision he had made; spot on, Dickie.

I said then and, by Jove, I say now, that it would never be allowed to happen.

One of the greatest by-products of the twin political surprises of the past couple of years, the election of Trump and the Brexit vote, has been the revelation that a so-called ‘deep state’ exists both in the US and in the UK. These political engines are represented by the agents of an amorphous body dedicated to their own machinations, workings which are absolutely opposed to democratic process, and thus deeply contemptuous of real people.

The EU is far too useful to the elites for them to allow it to slip away because of something as paltry as a democratic mandate. Too many UK politicians view the EU as their pension pot. We will see utter bastards such as Nick Clegg – a man there is absolutely no excuse for – given some non-job there presently, where he can spout tax-funded crap about nothing at all, and keep the fires of his ego stoked with the coal of empty praise.

As an added attraction, the EU is hyper-bureaucratic, and this is much to the liking of the UK’s neo-Socialists. Endless laws, directives, prohibitions, regulations, guidelines, think-tanks, focus groups and, of course, tiers of lawyers, are very good for soft totalitarians, as they mean only one thing; the necessity of ever-increasing taxation. Complexity is the neo-Socialist way. I am currently working on a piece about the parallels between modern government and private- and public-sector management. The same playbook is used for both, and the aim is identical; make working efficiently as difficult as possible for capable and intelligent people.

And then, of course, there is the EU as the delivery system for Islam. This murderous, retarded death-cult is essential for the European plan, reducing as it will the average IQ of EU countries – the V4 excepted – and providing the nihilistic program of anarcho-tyranny the elites so desire.

All in all, the EU is one of the worst things ever to happen to the West. And I am not at all against a united Europe. On the contrary, someone has to tame an increasingly sclerotic and retarded US, the Communist menace of China, the irritating mosquitoes of Islam, and the pulsing mass of imminent warfare that is India and Pakistan.

Russia is our best bet, and we could learn a thing or two from the Russian bear. An alliance between a strong, de-communised EU and an economically resurgent Russia could rule the world. At the rate things are going at the time of writing, there won’t be much of a world to rule.

Keep one thing in your mind, focus on it, and never let it be far from your thoughts. Your elected leaders despise you.