Two Variables, Four Seasons

• For thousands of years men have compared the civilisational cycle to the procession of the four seasons, believing that each example follows the same basic structure, whilst differing in terms of its precise details. Previously we have explored the descent of political authority through the castes, and with it a corresponding abandonment of the higher functions of life - first individuation; then co-ordinated motion; finally effective management of the ‘organic economy’. This regression of human capabilities leads to an eventual crisis, through which the cycle begins anew.

• Over time the civilisation appears to age, at first appearing youthful and vigorous before eventually becoming tired and geriatric. It also displays recognisably male or female characteristics at one time or another. These features become particularly striking when one considers the broad four-part structure of the seasonal cycle itself, because a system with two variables may exhibit four distinct states.

• When it comes to human affairs and to complex social organisation, the transfer of political authority between men, women, the young and the old are sources of perennial fascination. We shall explore the cyclical phenomenon as it relates to these domains of age and sex, over which much ink has been spilled throughout history, and which today inform the last great social passtime: complaining about each other’s finances and sexual tactics on the internet. The general idea remains the same - once political authority has expressed itself in all four possible states, the cycle returns to its point of origin. It follows that neither variable can be fully understood without the other - we are going intersectional.

Cyclical Genesis

• Implicit in the cyclical account is the idea that the social structure emerges out of nature fully formed, a perspective which completely inverts our contemporary thinking. The modern mind is dominated by quantity and incremental effort. Things are built from the bottom up. Contained within the final phase of the cycle, estranged from nature, and living amongst the ruins of a prior age, it is only natural that the geriatric modern mind should fixate on the atomic realm in this way. In the cyclical account, each organism arrives with its own unique suite of possibilities. These are refined down over time into a single expression of being. It is in the ‘carving away’ of conflicting possibilities that individuality, and perhaps even excellence, is manifested, like a statue emerging from a block of marble. The changes that we observe occur as the organism displays different aspects of itself, all of which were latent at the outset.

• How can something come into the world fully formed? Because it emerges simultaneously out of the world, something which is itself complete and eternal. Consider the embryo. It contains a blueprint for the entire organism. As the embryo develops it undertakes a process of division and differentiation. The modern mind is alerted by the increasing quantity of cells, but in qualitative terms nothing new is added. Instead, as the cells divide different aspects of the code are suppressed, depending on the context in which the individual units find themselves. Cells are refined into tissues; tissues into organs; organs into organ-isms. As potentiality is discarded, the particular intensity of the organism is revealed.

• The path of the social organism resembles that of the individual. Discharging possibilities, it passes through youthful phases and geriatric phases; Neocratic ages and Gerontocratic ages, as well as male phases and female phases; Androcratic ages and Gynocratic ages. Authority is transferred between the young and the old. Power is transferred between men and women. We observe ‘four seasons’ as the configurations play out.

Spring - Youthful / Female

‘Neocratic Gynocracy’

• Sexual selection is the prerogative of the individual female. On another plane the same principle operates as natural selection. All young men, familiar with the trauma of rejection, will recognise the signature. The youthful / female domain is an unforgiving place from which inferior specimens are systematically excluded. In time, the more astute males come to realise that this prerogative represents the most creative aspect of the female race, which appears here at its most spontaneous and decisive.

• A pre-moral season, defined by the ruthless cruelty of selection, Spring is venerated by primitivists, who wish to see humans preserved in archaic stasis, subsisting as permanent subjects of nature. Inevitably, though, the nascent group is either absorbed, filtered out, or endowed with a supernatural spark, becoming a people. What activates this transformation? The conscious pursuit of a unique destiny - individuation.

• The avatar of spring is not content to sit around selecting against the weak and soaking up the veneration of fearful subjects. She selects for something, and that something is necessarily for itself. Spring concludes with the creation of the spear. Now someone must throw it.

Summer - Youthful / Male

‘Neocratic Androcracy’

• Summer is an amoral season defined by the cruelty of abandonment. Once again this cruelty is a necessary prerequisite for spontaneous, creative action - in this instance the archetypal form of the male race - absolute and singular pursuit of the objective. The spear will never fly true whilst laden with trivial pathos. Those who cannot keep up are left behind, for they would only impair the complete articulation of the organism.

• Summer is venerated by vitalists, who yearn to see men anointed as nature’s sovereigns. No longer passive subjects, but now an active force of their own, the youths of summer approach the supernatural through an eruption of heroism, violence and beauty. Female selection happily accommodates itself to this new level, further increasing the angle of attack.

• The avatar of summer bestows a sense of destiny onto his newly minted people. An absence of external restraints, either natural or artificial, promotes inner perfection and mastery of the environment. Abandonment leads to adventure. Adventure leads to conquest. Over time, an increasing share of vital energy is diverted towards the management of what has been claimed. The new systems and institutions absorb young talent, which is increasingly funnelled into well worn paths of tradition. Having overcome their natural limits, men learn to domesticate themselves. The spear has reached its apex, and for a moment it is weightless.

Autumn - Geriatric / Male

‘Gerontocratic Androcracy’

• Autumn is venerated by conservatives who seek to position humanity as a bulwark against decay. Thus begins a noble but doomed attempt to freeze the spear at the apex of its flight. Nature is defined as a threat rather than a partner - a force which degrades the social organism rather than honing it. Fear causes hesitation. Instincts are no longer trusted. Systems of control are developed alongside a formal morality. As the male domain shifts its orientation from youthful to geriatric, the principle of duty replaces that of abandonment. The wildness of youth is systematically contained or extinguished.

• The classic pro-civilisational virtues are discovered - low time preference, impulse control, complex scheduling, precision timing; and not least strict sexual morality, which is engineered in such a way as to facilitate a paradoxical reproductive strategy. In such a massive, all encompassing system, the quantity of men becomes a critical factor; something which necessarily tends towards the dilution of quality. In order to prevent rapid decline, the stronger half of the social organism must outbreed the weaker. Initially, the upper orders possess the discipline to impose harsh conditions on themselves, preserving vigour. They also display the courage to eradicate non-functional elements below. But this is both practically and morally difficult in such an abundant environment. In captivity, the tough practise of selection and abandonment weighs heavily on the conscience, but the fact of the matter is that the longer this artificial simulation of nature is upheld, the longer the civilisation will last.

• Eventually older women are recruited into the political system and begin monitoring the young, patrolling institutions and regulating social conventions. As political equality draws near, duty is reframed to reflect the infusion of geriatric female nature. What was once an ascetic pursuit of higher principles becomes a therapeutic duty of care to all. No matter how well conceived they are, the institutions and conventions cannot survive this erosion of discipline. Selection and abandonment are formally renounced. The spear turns towards the ground and begins its descent.

Winter - Geriatric / Female

‘Gerontocratic Gynocracy’

• Winter is venerated by leftists who seek to abolish superiority, in both its natural and artificial forms. Insofar as nature creates superiority, nature is wrong. Insofar as men attempt to preserve or refine this superiority, men are evil. The final season is a parade of nature’s martyrs and the victims of civilisation. In spite of the febrile moralistic atmosphere, winter is perhaps best described as a post-moral season, because the moment that a claimed injustice is rectified, the settlement turns to ashes. Every concession is immediately attacked - ‘deconstructing systems of oppression’ is not a coherent ideology, but rather a disposition, derived from the female tendency towards relativistic thinking and the geriatric’s insatiable appetite for care. Humanity is no longer a bulwark against decay, but rather an active participant in the process.

• Much as the geriatric male lacks the strength to abandon the world, and thus imposes duty, so too the geriatric female lacks the charm to select, and thus demands inclusion. Burdened like a draught animal, the young man serves the dying, rather than forging his own path. He might bray from time to time, but he always returns to the trough. With no champions to anoint, the young woman stands for every victim. She regresses into a stunted hermaphrodite, having exchanged her supernatural qualities for the most commonplace and servile male functions. The ubiquitous ‘therapy’ culture accompanies this pillaging of the youth, both as a practical necessity and a hidden catalyst. Everything tends towards the expansion of sickness and deformity, latent potentialities which the healthy social organism had kept at bay for generations.

• In the end, anything goes, as long as it is corrosive to higher life. The weaker half outbreeds the stronger, and it becomes increasingly difficult to ensure the minimum viable supply of eugenic specimens. All of this is sold as liberation, and in a sense the claim is true. The principle of equality demands global homogenisation, and so the restrictive patriarchal systems of control are in fact dismantled, but the potency of spring and summer has long since evaporated. The new freedoms appear hollow and unsatisfying, because the most important amongst them is missing - the freedom to pursue a unique destiny. This final collapse of differentiation represents the exhaustion of all latent possibilities. Brutal as it is, though no more brutal than any other season, winter is necessary. The sheer totality of the destruction is what enables something new and complete to arise. Until spring returns, the spear lies broken on the ground.

Civilisational Time

• No matter which phase the civilisation finds itself in, elements of all four seasons will be present at once: the eugenic, selective breeding practices of spring, the heroic destiny of summer, the transcendent disciplines of autumn, and a chaotic, destructive impulse derived from winter, which subjects the organism to a trial from within, forcing a permanent confrontation with its own darkness. As the cycle progresses, various elements are amplified or attenuated, and all potentialities discharged. The peak of the cycle, when differentiation is most intense, will be found somewhere between summer and autumn. The trough, when homogeneity is at its maximum, lies somewhere between winter and spring.

• When it comes to civilisational time, the clock face is an appropriate metaphor. The hour hand represents the grand cycle, which progresses inexorably towards midnight. At first this appears to be an insurmountable problem, but those who find themselves ‘against time’ can take inspiration from the wayward hands of the second and the minute, which may, at any given moment, inhabit totally different quadrants of the clock face. There are cycles within cycles and seasons within seasons. By fully embracing this perspective, one can adopt a stance which is ‘above time’.

• We observe that biological age and sex do not prevent a person from manifesting inverted principles. The winter we are living through is the best example of this fact. Most young people today are old women, from a spiritual perspective. Everyone is so boring and lifeless, particularly within the middle strata of society, from which the bureaucracy is operated. Moral prefects. Normie NPC’s. Hypochondriacs. Habitual complainers. These premature geriatrics only become animated when attempting to constrain the vitality of others, as we saw during the Covid hysteria. The seasonal cycle conditions the majority and aligns it with the present location of the hour hand. This is how we can detect and analyse the process.

Freedom Within the Cycle

• At the same time there exist wonderful, rare individuals who operate on their own schedules. I’m sure everyone here has met an exception or two. Certain ladies remain spiritually young to their deathbeds, genuinely loving the company of young men and refusing to become desolate crones. Never losing the spirit of harsh selection, these gems get tanked up on lady petrol and casually drop glorious wrongspeak whilst mogging everyone with their aristocratic manners. And some old men do abandon the world. There have always been monks, those who stay fit and strong, artists, rogue scholars, legendary lotharios etc. Men who refuse to surrender their vitality and who reach across time to inspire the youth in future cycles.

• These unique characters have discovered something amazing. Individuals and small groups can access residual possibilities which have been functionally exhausted higher up, because they cannot be exploited at scale. A large agricultural conglomerate may find it economically unviable to farm your small vegetable patch, but you could live very well upon it, and avoid having to buy their GM processed crap. The same is true with inner vitality. The dying social organism has no use for this precious resource, locked as it is within the hearts of an energetic minority.

• In the past the state would delegate sovereignty to vigorous youths and reap the benefits of their adventures, recognising the rare quality of unmediated élan. Just look at Sir Francis Drake. Legend has it that he liberated so much treasure from the Spanish fleets that his ship’s ballast was replaced with gold. The contrast couldn’t be more striking. Today’s anti-Drakes earn their keep by throwing the gold overboard and dragging as much ballast out of the water as possible. Having enervated itself in the pursuit of homogenisation, the state doesn’t know what to do with such vivid characters. It concludes that the life force is a problem to be aggregated and destroyed, as is befitting the theme of winter. Critically, though, it lacks the strength to impose this programme without the participation of its targets.

The Trial

• The state is little more than a series of gigantic mechanised operations which invite the masses to surrender themselves. Social media is a prime example, paid employment and so on; also the American diet, in its pharmaceutical, informational and ‘nutritional’ variants. By voluntarily pouring yourself into these systems you make your inner vitality accessible at scale. The most potent qualities are harvested, homogenised and fed into the machine. How many delusional gig workers are there toiling away in the vitality mines, freelancing for the beast? You may feel like a Hyperborean aristocrat, with your generic hot takes. In reality you are a Pakistani Uber driver of the soul.

• The contest over residual potentialities is what determines whether one is sovereign or not. This is the decisive factor. In the absence of a harsh environment, be it natural or artificial; or the initiatory paths of a more vital, prior age, the energetic individual finds himself disoriented and undernourished. He tends towards the mistaken belief that the status quo must be abolished before the trial can begin; that external circumstances have to change before he can pursue his own destiny. In reality the trial has already begun, and in accepting a false dilemma wherein the options are either total submission or an all consuming confrontation within the existing systems of control, he has already failed. Surrendering your vitality to a higher level does not make you an actor on that level. It makes you a dupe. This is the central illusion of contemporary political life. With all the shrewdness of an old crone, what the modern state does brilliantly is provoke its enemies into spazzing out, sending them down pre-arranged dead ends; wasting their time and energy.

• What does success look like in practise? It looks like a flagrant demonstration of creativity and vigour. The trial is the same as that undertaken by the civilisation. One must embody the themes of the first three seasons and overcome those of the fourth. Ruthlessly carve away inner mediocrity. Pursue the singular objective with a happy and carefree mania. Summon the courage to turn your back on weaponised infirmity. Develop your own disciplines, which will allow you to transcend the suffocating conventions of the modern world. Equality and homogenisation require every man to be the same. The doctrine is global and unvarying. It must erase all possibility of deviation from the baseline. In contrast, a life of sovereignty demands that the aspirant find a distinctive path. It follows that the principles listed above serve only as permission to take the first step, and as an affirmation of what was known intuitively all along - that the residual potentialities of higher life are yours to enjoy if you learn how to use them, and to glory in the freedom that they bring.

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Video Credits

1. Cyd Charisse w/ Fred Astaire (1953) The Band Wagon [Girl Hunt Ballet]

2. Cheetah - Fastest Running Animal

3. Cell division in echinoderm embryo

4. Haz Ejercicios Con El Coco

5. Red Deer Rut: The Most Beautiful Fight In Nature

6. Alpha Wolf Summons the Pack

7. The Ascent of Man, BBC

8. BBC Prom 13 - Verdi Requiem - Dies Irae e Tuba Mirum

9. Apollo 4, S-IC/S-II Staging, lower camera

10. View Of Earth Through ISS Cupola

11. ISS Timelapse - Europe by Night

12. Divine - I’m So Beautiful

13. Chasing Ice

14. Iceberg crashing in Diskobay, Greenland

15. Cathédrale de Strasbourg : Horloge astronomique

16. Photographer captures intense battle between 2 HUGE ferocious bears

• These days my routines are far closer to those of the the performance princesses, but it wasn’t always this way. I’m all about meditation, stretches; a bit of calisthenics to warm up the chassis, and yet something is missing in all this health optimisation - character, a bit of mad dog, some actual vigour and vitality. I’ve seen enough of this auto-enslavement “no days off” tripe. Compared to some of the nutters I’ve known, these podcast bros are complete pussies. Surely they must be harbouring all kinds of covert degeneracies? The alternative is grim - we’re talking literal flesh droids operated by Jeff Bezos and The Mossad.

• Allow me to introduce you to the Frenchest Frenchman I ever knew. “I wayke up, I smok a fat one, I slap ze kiki, and I am reddy for work”. This guy broke every rule of morning routine. Lying in bed with a large cannabis cigarette and then doing a wank. Testosterone situation maximised. And yes his life was an objective catastrophe in many crucial areas, but he served an important function in this regard. On my hero’s journey he was like the Obi-Wan Kenobi, but instead of being a legendary sword master he was a piss artist and compulsive gambler, fired from his previous job as a waiter for spitting in a female customer’s face. Is this based? Advanced pick up artist technique? Or is it just French? Whatever the case, he taught me an important lesson - you can genuinely detonate your own life. That was his Dharma, his role in the great chain of being, and through it he displayed a raw vitality worth more than 10,000 generic performance princesses, all clucking together like a gay hareem. This mad Frenchman once smashed up a betting shop because “the machine stole his money” - exactly the sort of radical action that people like us admire in the great men of history - uncompromising, unflinching, unhesitant. In an early example of two-tier policing it was in fact he who was led out in handcuffs, rather than the now destroyed fruit machine, which had robbed him of his hard earned fiat currency. A complete nightmare 75% of the time, absolute gold for the remaining quarter, I vividly remember him storming up unannounced and delivering a full on Sparta kick to a temporary structure that I was dismantling with great care. A length of 2 by 1 flew out and cracked me across the nose hard enough to leave a nearby woman visibly shaken. As I worked through my trauma and looked around for something to stem the flow of blood, he gave the scene a good coat of looking at and then sauntered off, leaving me with his professional opinion: “Zis wall is not safe bro”. You just don’t get that kind of insight from ‘Diary of a CEO’.

• How about starting things off with a breakfast beer? This brings a real edge to the day, a real intensity; because you’re never stopping at just one - you’re definitely having an argument with a stranger, potentially a near death experience up a scaffold tower. Another guy I once knew took this sort of thinking to its logical conclusion - an alcoholic Punjabi called Shinda who acquired what I believe to be the greatest nickname in history: Shindla’s Pissed. I don’t have the inside track on his actual morning routine but I can guess that it was very similar to his evening routine, something I deduced from the ‘protocols’ that he followed diligently throughout the working day. Get on the brakes in the van and all of a sudden there’s vodka bottles under the pedals. On site he would periodically announce that it was time to “go and move” said van. Returning from these jaunts with a bottle of increasingly translucent Coca Cola he’d stagger around all hostile and demented; walking into furniture, scaring the clients - a sort of ‘modal migrant’ and vanguard for the Boriswave. It’s amazing to think that you could get away with this shit 10-15 years ago, before construction sites were turned into soft play areas by the same effeminate bureaucrats who were at this moment busy bio-forming the rest of the country into a 4chan gore thread. For me the great mystery is how he never smelt of booze. Perhaps he was just retarded.

• As we’ve said, a morning routine just doesn’t cut it anymore. You’ve got to have an evening routine as well. Something to de-stress and send you off to the land of nod, all fresh for another day making the line go up and defending our democracy. Digital detox? Journaling? Skincare? I used to work with a true English patriot who said fuck all that. Over a period of several years he refined the perfect protocol: a bag of ‘ASBO’ containing equal parts cocaine, MDMA and ketamine - what you might today call ‘Narcoslop’. Evening routine: Rack up a line. Clean up the blood. Go in the garden. Smoke a large cannabis cigarette. Jack off on the lawn from a standing position ‘equestriarii style’ whilst browsing pornography on an obsolete smartphone. When I found about this I instantly grasped the full meaning of ‘touching grass’. Bed at 2am. Alarm goes off at 6. We’re talking blue light, hyper-graphic brainrot, adulterated stimulants delivered by an Albanian on a small motorbike, roughly 25-50% of the sleep that a normal human requires. Keep this up for a decade or two and you can save hundreds of thousands of pounds in pension contributions - the ultimate life hack for the demoralised Angloid. I have no idea how the neighbours felt about it. But who cares about them - the lion does not concern himself with the opinion of sheep.

Conclusion

• Lindsay Graham died of a botched anal circumcision. The mainstream media is keeping this information from you so I have secreted it here in order to speak truth to power.

The British Government has just spent a week in full damage control mode attempting to distance itself from the consequences of its own political formula. The fates were unimpressed by the usual smug and dishonest language games.

• Everyone who saw that video reconsidered their walk home. Everyone thought about the moment when they’re most alone.

• Perhaps some of the true believers have made their peace with the outside possibility of a quick death. Maybe they get caught up in a terror attack and lose their life, knowing that afterwards they will be remembered as a martyr for peace who ‘wouldn’t have wanted his death to divide us’. There will be candlelit vigils and really important news articles.

• But no one wants to be pinned down, stabbed in the eyes and carved up alive. For the modern domestic it is an absolute priority to minimise one’s exposure to that kind of thing.

• I want to see inside the minds of those who have to go in and bat for the government again this morning. The one’s who spent the whole of last week sweating through the usual routine. I want to be the complete opposite of whatever that is.

• I want to see inside the mind of O’Brien - a man clearly disfigured by some hidden dimension of his own conscience. I think he is like a fighting dog - kept in a small cage and tormented with sticks, then wound up every morning and sent out to savage the public. Perhaps he feels some secret kinship with these attackers. Perhaps he is disturbed by the spiritual harmony that his collaboration demands.

• Whatever the case, conventional political doctrines and conventional moralities have no answers to this crisis. The fish rots from the head down. The government can’t save you. The police can’t help you. It’s you and the truth. The strange, suffocating pressures of the modern condition lull everyone into a passive ennui, and then something like this comes along and the temptation is to react with sudden, ill-conceived and unpractised intensity. But there is no sense in embodying the modes of a failed state. One must live in a completely different way.

• For us…in my view one must not harmonise with the ugliness of the circumstances, with the ugliness of the governance and its practitioners. I regret being affected by this event - for almost two years I have been immune to the news - but that is a measure of its brutality. In the external domain, where the law belongs to an occupation government: wisdom, decorum and legal observance - the principles of a proactive, self-interested diplomatic style. On the internal domain, where the law is one’s own: total unrestricted spiritual warfare.

• “Small matters must be taken seriously, but one should take important matters lightly”

A reporter crouches in the rubble of a 1970’s housing development. He is wearing exquisite brown loafers. Shells and bullets whistle overhead. All around men are fighting in the smoke and the dust. Ducking each concussive blast, our reporter updates his audience - war has once again erupted in this famously volatile part of the world. Describing the political and strategic nuances of the region in perfect diction, our man pauses occasionally to sweep back luxurious chestnut hair, or to reach over and return fire with a handgun. As he does so, a sovereign ring glints against the pistol grip.

He is returning fire not because he has taken sides, or on account of any personal animosity, but rather because this is an extremely tight spot, and he’s going to have to shoot his way out. Our man is not miles behind the frontline in full body armour and a UN helmet, reading an autocue, he’s in the heart of the action. And he wears no “PRESS” identification either. Everyone recognises the crazy Anglo in a white oxford shirt and a comically undersized flak vest - a goodluck garment won in a card game which possesses all the stopping power of a Premier League footballer’s shinpads.

We’re going to arm the journalists. We’re going to get over all this passive neutral bullshit and arm the journalists. We’re going to send the third sons of the minor nobility into combat zones and we’re not going to search their luggage when they return. This is the news.

The News Today

• I know someone who works in the news. One of the things he told me is that they’ve all been advised, in the strongest possible terms, not to watch the news, because of the effect that watching the news has on your mental health. Apparently the situation is catastrophic in his department.

• Spend every day sifting through reels of the most corrupt and brutal events imaginable. Your job is to edit all of this; recast it into something that satisfies the owner and also the government, who exercise a significant degree of editorial control. Then you go home and watch all the fibs you told on a 50” flat screen. Concentrated misery and enforced dishonesty - life in the truth factory is not so different from life in any other mainstream cultural or professional environment. Some take to it better than others, but overwhelmingly the human spirit withers in this climate.

• All this got me thinking, what would ‘good’ news actually look like? Not the analgesic cuddly-kitten-good-news endeavours which pop up from time to time, but rather something befitting a competitive, future oriented state.

Dictatorship

• Midwits tend to believe that the news in a ‘dictatorship’ would necessarily transmit a series comedically obvious lies - proper whoppers held together through brute force alone. This is how our governments portray international rivals through domestic propaganda.

• Sorry, it’s not propaganda, it’s ‘unbiased journalism’ - free from all misinformation, disinformation and malinformation. It looks a little weird, what with the hot lights and the studio makeup; the gaudy plastic set resembling a canteen on a cross channel ferry. Don’t let the fake smiles and the fake composure erode your political reliability citizen, everything is under control. Did we mention that the world is about to end in six different ways and it’s all your fault?

• It is precisely this arrangement which serves to protect, as T777 recently said - “Supposedly elected officials who die in office in their 80’s or 90’s with single digit approval ratings, and can’t travel without dozens of armed security because they’re universally hated”. Democracy stands firm.

• Hence the dictatorship. A six month Roman affair. Unlimited powers.

Lead Story / Framing

• In my dictatorship the journalists tell the truth. That is to say that they describe events accurately. However, editorial guidelines stipulate a clear preference for certain kinds of stories, whilst also demanding a particular framing.

• Framing is critical to the creation of ‘good’ news, because the framing tells us how to feel about the story. Consider the existing frame. There are essentially two stories: ‘man upholds herd morality’ / ‘man fails to uphold herd morality’. This frame imposes a set of cultural conventions based around shame, passivity and anxiety. One is supposed to freeze, comply, and attack anyone else who doesn’t. This is why everyone is depressed.

• In my dictatorship there are only two stories: ‘man overcomes obstacle’ / ‘man heroically fails to overcome obstacle’. This frame impose a set of cultural conventions based around action, ambition and self-realisation. One is supposed to jump up and do something. We can iron the details out later.

Minor Stories / Celebrity Gossip

• The minor stories select themselves. Near daily attempts at the land speed record in rocket powered supersonic cars. Submarines attacked by giant squids in the Mariana Trench. Space missions. Daredevils attempting the impossible. Scientific breakthroughs. Absurdly ambitious public spectacles.

• One may think that celebrity gossip is a triviality which can be dispensed with, but the fact of the matter is that people have an eternal appetite for digging around in the business of their ‘superiors’ - a drive which is biological in origin. It’s better that the masses are presented with a stage managed public image of excellence and decorum rather than raking over the fetid realities of some crazy/hot actress and her private indiscretions. The entire mass media industry is designed to create illusions. Any good movie will demonstrate how easy it is to provoke a desired emotional response. The base vulgarity of the present media environment is a choice.

• With this in mind we must treat celebrities like wild animals. Select the most eugenic specimens. Insulate them from the public. Keep them off social media and ensure that nothing genuinely candid occurs. Surround them with an air of grace and mystery, an almost predatory disposition born of aesthetic supremacy. It doesn’t matter if its all bollocks.

General Presentation

• Single anchor. 35 year old pussy magnet. Once killed a man in Constantinople. Cut to the other desks - markets, sports, culture. Everyone is absurdly hot. Statuesque. Cinematic lighting and expensive modernist furniture. Leni Riefenstahl eat your heart out.

• We’re always going live. We’re going live, chronically underprepared. The velocity of this news is so incredible that we’re barely hanging on. It’s chaos, but we’re going to survive on our wits and rise to the occasion. The dead eyed stare-down-the-lens autocue convention is a relic of the past. Remember all those insincere stuffy old morons? I want people from other countries watching our news, not because it is ‘unbiased’, but because it is unmissable. It makes you feel good. It makes you feel exhilarated.

• This news is entertaining, because all news is an entertainment product. Not entertaining in the way it is now - ‘some huge catastrophe is just over the horizon and we must all be terrified’. Entertaining as in ‘monumental events are occurring at a breathless pace, new opportunities and challenges are constantly arising’.

• This news is propaganda, because all news is propaganda. It is supposed to make you feel something, and it is supposed to stimulate action. It should make you feel exhilarated and inspire you to act in a way that would be worthy of appearing on the show. Today’s news is always bad. It’s a show for wretched, malicious cretins who want to cripple all ambition and glory. This is why everyone is depressed. What does good news look like? Same events, different story. Different approach. Different frame. You don’t actually have to change the whole world, but you do have to change the perspective.

Those placards had stuck in the courier’s mind all morning. Some kind of green agenda - maybe just 20 of them - something trivial and nondescript about energy efficiency. Certainly not the sort of thing which had historically brought people out into the streets. The mass-produced panels were already beginning to warp in the morning sun. He’d seen them as he approached Westminster Bridge on the outbound leg of his first drop, lent up against the railings of the Supreme Court, conveniently located between the coach park on Tothill Street and Parliament Square. What struck him as odd was that the placards were neatly packed away behind row after row of police barricades.

The vehicle was well past its best. Every morning the courier was presented with a new arrangement of warning lights on the dash. When he put it in third, the gearbox made a tremendous clang, and it sounded like The Undertaker was about to enter the arena. The radio was completely demented. It would turn on of its own accord - furiously cycling through the frequencies before settling on some wanker talk radio host hyperventilating about the current thing.

It started playing up on the return leg, a couple of hours later. As he was crossing the bridge from the south side, the courier was engaged in a button mashing war with the off switch, but the radio wouldn’t take no for an answer. Lent over the centre console, huffing on warm plastic fumes, and with Jeremy Vine echoing around the cab, he began to drift in his lane, almost pushing a rickshaw into the concrete barriers which had been installed a couple of years before. At the lights, under the shadow of parliament, a man of indeterminate origin assailed him in a language he didn’t understand. Syrian? Albanian? Afghan? The courier couldn’t be sure. And in any case it was hard to take the guy seriously, sitting as he was on a pink fluffy rickshaw blasting out distinctly homosexual 80’s music. Several groups of gypsy scammers looked on with tired eyes before returning to their three cup tricks.

Protests had always been common in that part of town. The big ones were a pain in the arse, because they blocked off large parts of the city and that’s no good when you’ve got drops to make.

Once he’d slipped through the outer police cordon during one of the student protests, emerging from a back street to find the place completely deserted. He felt an apocalyptic thrill as an unseen cacophony gathered on the other side of the government buildings.

Suddenly the mass was upon the square, swarming around the statues and the trees, chased by the police. Shouting. Throwing missiles. Full of energy. The rhythm and the flow was captivating. Squads of riot police made baton charges - knocking a few protestors to the ground, dragging them away. On the fringes of these skirmishes, agile young bodies bounced up and down, unable to hold still even for a moment. They darted in and out to tangle with the armoured officers, retrieving the hot-faced captives, drawing them back into the belly of the mass; assisting them as they recomposed their clothing. In a moment the crowd had surrounded the van and begun to shake it from side to side, bouncing it on the suspension. He remembered the animalistic, contorted faces on the other side of the window; the sub-linguistic growling; the sweaty palm prints they left on the glass. They wanted the government to give them free university education. No doubt a fair few of them were now ensconced in government positions.

One of the riot police had punched the wing mirror off the van with his gauntlet.

The courier watched the rickshaw wobble off to the north end of the bridge. Up ahead the police barricades had been deployed, but as far as he could see, the square was empty. The ever-changing-semi-permanent-Brexit-whatever-protest, which had occupied a traffic island on Whitehall for years now was having a day off. Perhaps they were going on loan to the energy efficiency thing. At least he wouldn’t have to listen to that smugnorant bellend in the top hat for once. How did they afford to be out there day after day?

Turning left into the square, the courier was confronted with a bizarre spectacle. The entire area had been cordoned off with a maze of barricades. Confused groups of tourists were being held at the various entrances by dozens of police officers in high-viz uniforms. On the green, a small number of middle aged climate protestors, brandishing the warped placards from the morning, were outnumbered and surrounded by an unbroken ring of police officers - most of them rotund four-foot tall Pakistani women with immaculate nails. Orbiting this cluster were several cameramen with bored looking assistants scrolling on their phones. The courier breathed a sigh of relief. The protest had been interdicted before any traffic disruption could occur, and the media were on hand to record this glorious police action. His deliveries would continue unimpeded.

But as the courier pulled alongside parliament, the police formation made a terrible unforced error, inexplicably manoeuvring into the road with the protestors. The protestors, who couldn’t believe their luck, then sat down, blocking two lanes, and started wailing about the end of the world. At this point the cameramen took the initiative, and positioned themselves in the road - tripods and all - in order to record the catastrophe for all posterity. Just a few moments earlier the situation had seemed completely under control. Now it had turned into a disaster - the police outnumbered the protestors by a factor of three or four to one, and yet they had executed their doctrine so inexpertly that the protestors were openly breaking the law! Whilst surrounded by a ring of police officers!

Fortunately at this point the cordon of rotund Pakistani women was reinforced by some downcast looking native bruisers, who approached the road blocking geriatrics with handcuffs drawn. The courier was relived to see that justice was incoming, and that the momentary slip up, which had allowed the protestors into the road in the first place, was about to be rectified.

But then the most extraordinary thing happened. These tough native bruisers began locking the handcuffs onto the wailing geriatrics, but paused mid-arrest. The police officers looked sheepishly at the floor, no doubt humiliated that such a successful police action had collapsed in an instant, and that defeat had been comprehensively snatched from the jaws of victory. It was understandable that they might lose confidence for ten to fifteen seconds and remain frozen in place, whilst the cameramen came in to get close up shots of the protest and the arrests.

Thankfully, after a delay of no more than five minutes, the entire thing was over. The courier pulled away from the scene as the media were leaving. No doubt the law breaking trouble makers would be acquainted with the full force of the law, and all sorts of important insights would be revealed at the police debrief. The sun was shining. The cab smelled of warm plastic. Life was good. Swerving around a pink rickshaw pedalled by a generic Bomalian, the courier slammed it into third, and was greeted with a reassuring clang. As he drove down Victoria the radio burst into life - spontaneously selecting Radio 4 - Women’s Hour, and he listened to a segment about how their weren’t enough black ballerinas.

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Morgoth suggested that I offer an opinion on the “Yookay” phenomenon and I was happy to oblige. Regular readers will be aware of my interest in the process of ‘involution’ - a theory of the spiritual decline of civili…

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A man has two selves, one particular, the other universal.

The particular self expresses a unique inner nature. It experiences a singular way of being.

The universal self places this discrete entity within the totality of existence. It experience a differentiated unity - a multitude of possible ways, at once in conflict and concordance.

The particular s…

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People like consensus because they are weak. That is the long and the short of it. But I will elaborate:

• Consensus affords the individual a tiny slice of power. They are part of the decision making process. This is exciting and feels important.

• With this tiny slice of power comes the prospect of a tiny slice of glory, should things turn out well. The indi…

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“To a cruel war I sent him, from whence he returned, his brows bound with oak” - Volumnia, from ‘Coriolanus’

Withdrawal and return - the reproductive act follows this cycle. It spirals upwards - an increasingly overwhelming and committed oscillation, intensifying unt…

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There is much discussion in the West about the state of policing. The police are accused, simultaneously, of being ‘institutionally racist’ against minorities and of operating a ‘two-tier’ system which is systematically biased against the majority, European descended, population.

Typically, critiques of police work contain elements of practical, value fr…

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On the 25th February, 2024, Aaron Bushnell set himself on fire outside the Israeli embassy in Washington. The 25 year old serviceman, by all accounts a radical leftist, repeatedly shouted “Free Palestine” as he was consumed by the flames. After several days of attention, Bushnell's sacrifice, which he had decided to live stream on Twitch, was lost in th…

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Three Young Horses

I saw three young horses grazing in the dappled sunlight beneath an ancient copse. Behind them, framed by the lower branches of the trees, were the rolling hills of the English countryside - vivid in the noonday sun. What did I recognise in these young horses? I saw creatures of vigour and spirit. Domesticated, for sure - contained wit…

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Kayfabe is a term derived from the world of professional wrestling. It describes the illusion of performative conflict, whereby the audience responds to staged events as if they were real. Whilst most find it laughable to imagine that one would surrender to wrestling kayfabe, given the bombastic absurdity of the performances, precisely the same techniqu…

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Some time ago a friend told me a story about a girl who had attended a BLM meeting during the lockdown. Upon arrival, the girl discovered that she was the only white person at the event, and thus diligently set about listening to what the more melanically gifted attendees had to say. The meeting dragged on. After some time an uncomfortable realisation c…

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